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Not a cloud nor breeze, . .
O you most heathen Deities! if ever
My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them,
That hath resolved itself into a dew),
I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Thou vile Phœbus,
Set me a Persian sun-idolater
Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him
With no inquisitorial argument
But thy own fires. Now woe be to me wretch,
That I was in a heretic country born!
Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach,
And burn away the calx of their offences
In that great Purgatory crucible,
Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion!
I am made a copper-Indian of already,
And if no kindly cloud will parasol me,
My very cellular membrane will be changed, . .
I shall be negrofied.
A brook! a brook!
Oh what a sweet cool sound!
'Tis very nectar!
It runs like life thro' every strengthen'd limb!
Nymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer.
O you most heathen Deities! if ever
My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them,
That hath resolved itself into a dew),
I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Thou vile Phœbus,
Set me a Persian sun-idolater
Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him
With no inquisitorial argument
But thy own fires. Now woe be to me wretch,
That I was in a heretic country born!
Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach,
And burn away the calx of their offences
In that great Purgatory crucible,
Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion!
I am made a copper-Indian of already,
And if no kindly cloud will parasol me,
My very cellular membrane will be changed, . .
I shall be negrofied.
A brook! a brook!
Oh what a sweet cool sound!
'Tis very nectar!
It runs like life thro' every strengthen'd limb!
Nymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer.
