Classic Poem

VI

Ah, glorious Flower, lovely peice
Of superfine refined Clay,
Thou poyson'st only with a Kiss,
And dartest an auspicious Ray
On him thou meanest to betray.

VII

These are the World, and these are they
That Life does so unpleasant make,
Whom to avoid there is no way
But the wild Desart straight to take,
And there to husband the last stake.

VIII

Fly to the empty Desarts then,
For so you leave the World behind,
There's no World where there are no Men,
And Brutes more civil are, and kind,
Than Man whose Reason Passions blind.

IX

For should you take an Hermitage,
Tho' you might scape from other wrongs,
Yet even there you bear the rage
Of venemous, and slanderous tongues,
Which to the Innocent belongs.

X

Grant me then, Heav'n, a wilderness,
And there an endless Solitude,
Where though Wolves howl, and Serpents hiss,
Though dang'rous, 'tis not half so rude
As the ungovern'd Multitude.

XI

And Solitude in a dark Cave,
Where all things husht, and silent be,
Resembleth so the quiet Grave,
That there I would prepare to flee,
With Death, that hourly waits for me.