Richard Brathwaite (1588?–1673)

LIKE a top which runneth round

And never winneth any ground;

Or th’ dying scion of a vine

That rather breaks than it will twine;

Or th’ sightless mole whose life is spent

Divided from her element;

Or plants removed from Tagus’ shore

Who never bloom nor blossom more;

Or dark Cimmerians who delight

In shady shroud of pitchy night;

Or mopping apes who are possessed

Their cubs are ever prettiest:

So he who makes his own opinion

To be his one and only minion,

Nor will incline in any season

To th’ weight of proof or strength of reason,

But prefers will precipitate

’Fore judgment that’s deliberate;

He ne’er shall lodge within my roof

Till, rectified by due reproof,

He labours to reform this ill

By giving way to others’ will.