O weak-built glories! which those tempests feel!
To force you from your firmest bases reel,
What from the strokes of Chance shall you secure,
When rocks of Innocence are so unsure?
When the World's only mirror slaughter'd lies,
Envy's and Treason's bleeding sacrifice;
As if His stock of goodness could become
60No kalendar, but that of martyrdom.
See now, ye cursed mountebanks of State,
Who have eight years for reformations sate;