To doat on rocks, but yielding loves to fly:
Go, bane of my dear quiet and content,
Now practise on some other patient.
Farewell, false Hope, that fann'd my warm desire
Till it had rais'd a wild unruly fire,
Which nor sighs cool, nor tears extinguish can,
10Although my eyes out-flow'd the Ocean:
Forth of my thoughts for ever, Thing of Air,
Begun in error, finish'd in despair.
Farewell, vain World, upon whose restless stage