LVII. Richard Brathwaite

LET not mishap deprive you of that hope

Which yields some relish to your discontent;

Ayme your affections at Heaven’s glorious scope,

Which showres downe comfort, when all comfort’s spent:

Then rest secure; that Power which you adore

Will make your joyes more full than ere before.

Let not the sunne, now shadowed with a cloud,

Make you suspect the sunne will never shine;

That ill which now seems ill, may once prove good:

Time betters that which was depravde by time.

Thus let my prayers, your teares, concord in one,

To reape heav’n’s comforts, when earth’s comfort’s gone.