’Tis bitter for the spirit that’s lived in Heaven,
Quickly to be reft of what composed its bliss;
’Tis bitter, that our bliss should wing the levin,
And add a torture to the incisor knife;
And, after earth was shaped to Paradise,
Catching the colour of most loveable eyes,
’Tis sad, that all should darken in a trice,
And but remind us of the joy that flies;
Wants but a motion, and all sights that woo
The bewitched eyesight of the doting world,
Shall catch some stain, and shade to black their hue,
Their pride exposed to gaze, their void unfurled:
Yet who’d exist, and bind nought to his heart?
Strong be that soul that dares to live apart.