Cœlestiall Providence! How thou dost mocke
The boast of earthly wisdome? On some rocke
When man hath a structure, with such art,
It doth disdaine to tremble at the dart
Of thunder, or to shrinke oppos'd by all
The angry winds, it of it selfe doth fall,
Ev'n in a calme so gentle that no ayre
Breaths loude enough to stirre a Virgins haire!
But misery of judgement: Though past time
Instruct us by th' ill fortune of their crimes,