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From The Epistle-Dedicatory To "Flores Solitudinis"
by [?]



The whole wench–how complete soe’er–was but
A specious bait; a soft, sly, tempting slut;
A pleasing witch; a living death; a fair,
Thriving disease; a fresh, infectious air;
A precious plague; a fury sweetly drawn;
Wild fire laid up and finely dress’d in lawn.


Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see,
Believe, thou seest mere dreams and vanity,
Not real things, but false, and through the air
Each-where an empty, slipp’ry scene, though fair.
The chirping birds, the fresh woods’ shady boughs,
The leaves’ shrill whispers, when the west wind blows,
The swift, fierce greyhounds coursing on the plains,
The flying hare, distress’d ‘twixt fear and pains,
The bloomy maid decking with flow’rs her head,
The gladsome, easy youth by light love led;
And whatsoe’er here with admiring eyes
Thou seem’st to see, ’tis but a frail disguise
Worn by eternal things, a passive dress
Put on by beings that are passiveless.