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 Count the night watches to his featherie Dames, T' would be ome olace yet, ome little chearing In this cloe dungeon of innumerous bowes. But ô that haplee virgin our lot iter Where may he wander now, whether betake her From the chill dew, amongt rude burs and thitles? Perhaps ome cold banke is her boulter now Or 'gaint the rugged barke of ome broad Elme Leans her unpillow'd head fraught with ad fears. What if in wild amazement, and affright Or while we peake within the direfull grape Of Savage hunger, or of Savage heat?
 * Eld. bro. Peace brother, be not over exquiite

To cat the fahion of uncertaine evils, For grant they be o, while they ret unknowne What need a man foretall his date of griefe And run to meet what he would mot avoid? Or if they be but fale alarms of Feare How bitter is uch elfe-deluion? I doe not thinke my iter o to eeke Or o unprincipl'd in vertues book And the weet peace that goodnee booms ever As that the ingle want of light, and noie (Not being in danger, as I trut he is not) Could tir the contant mood of her calme thoughts And put them into mi-becomming plight. Vertue could ee to doe what vertue would By her owne radiant light, though Sun and Moon Were in the flat Sea unck, and Widoms elfe Oft eeks to weet retired Solitude Where with her bet nure Contemplation She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings Rh