Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/184

 Thou wilt not mingle in its noyse, Nor court its Joies.

Fond One! why cling thus unto Life, As if its gaudes were meet for thee; Surely its F ollie, Bloodshed, Stryfe, Liked never thee? This World growes madder each newe daie, Vice beares such sway.

Couldst thou in Slavish artes excel, And crawle upon the supple knee— Couldst thou each Woe-worn wretch repel,— This Worldes for Thee. Not in this Spheare Man ownes a Brother: Then seek another.

Couldst thou bewraie thy Birthright soe As flatter Guilt's prosper!tye, And laude Oppressiounes iron blowe— This Worldes for Thee. Sithence to this thou wilt not bend, Life's at an end.