This, this is all my choice, my cheer—
A mind content, a conscience clear.
Joshua Sylvester.
XLVIII
SONNET.
Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fooled by these rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 5
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?