With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure
Yet his dear treasure,
All scatter’d lay, while he his eyes did pour
Upon a flow’r.
“The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight fog, mov’d there so slow,
He did nor stay, nor go;
Condemning thoughts—like sad eclipses—scowl
Upon his soul,
And clouds of crying witnesses without