They talk of time, and of times galling yoke,
That like a millstone on mans mind doth press,
Whily works and business redress:
Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke,
Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke.
But might I, fed with sileation,
Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation--
Improbus Labor, which my spirits hath broke--
Id drink of times rich cup, and never surfeit:
Fling in more days thao make the gem
That d white top of Methusalem:
Yea on my weak ake, and never forfeit,
Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky,
The heave burthen of eternity.
Deus Nobis H?c Otia Fecit.
(ò﹏ò)
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