As I, wing’d with contempt and just disdain,
Now fly the world and what it most doth prize,
And sanctuary seek, free to remain
From wounds of abject times, and envy’s eyes:
To me this world did once seem sweet and fair,
While sense’s light mind’s perspective kept blind;
Now like imagin’d landscapes in the air,
And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find;
Or if aught here is had that praise should have,
It is an obscure life and silent grave.