LIX.

If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss

The second burthen of a former child!

O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the fun,
Show me your image in fome antique book,
Since mind at firft in character was done!

That I might fee what the old world could fay
To this compofed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the fame.

O, fure I am, the wits of former days

To fubjects worse have given admiring praise.

LX.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes haften to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before, In fequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipfes 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth tranffix the flourish set on youth

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praifing thy worth, defpite his cruel hand.