THE OCEAN'S LOVE TO CYNTHIA	313
Unfold thy flocks and leave them to the fields,
To feed on hills, or dales, where likes them best,
Of what the summer or the springtime yields;
For love, and time, hath given thee leave to rest.
Thy heart which was their fold, now in decay,
By often storms and winter's many blasts
All torn and rent, becomes misfortune's prey;
False hope, my shepherd's staff, now age hath brast.
My pipe, which love's own hand gave my desire
To sing her praises and my woe upon,
Despair hath often threatened to the fire,
As vain to keep now all the rest are gone.
Thus home I draw, as death's long night draws on}
Yet every foot, old thoughts turn back mine eyes;
Constraint me guides, as old age draws a stone
Against the hill, which over-weighty lies
For feeble arms or wasted strength to move;
My steps are backward, gazing on my loss;
My mind's affection and my soul's sole love,
Not mixt with fancy's chaff or fortune's dross,
To God I leave It, who first gave it me,
And I her gave, and she return'd again,
As it was hers; so let His mercies be
Of my last comforts the essential mean,
But be it so or not, the effects are past;
Her love hath end; my woe must ever last.
A Poem entreating of Sorry*
[Unfinished]
MY days" delights, my springtime joys fordone,
Which in the dawn and rising sun of youth
Had their creation, and were first begun,
Do in the evening and the winter sad
Present my mind, which takes my time's accompt,
The grief remaining of the joy it had.