Or having Wisdom, was not vext in mind?
Then as a bee, which among weeds doth fall,
Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh and gay;
She lights on that! and this! and tasteth all;
But pleased with none, doth rise and soar away!
So, when the Soul finds here no true content,
And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take;
She doth return from whence She first was sent,
And flies to Him, that first her wings did make!