41. Quickness

FALSE life! a foil and no more, when

Wilt thou be gone?

Thou foul deception of all men

That would not have the true come on.

Thou art a Moon-like toil; a blinde

Self-posing state;

A dark contest of waves and winde;

A meer tempestuous debate.

Life is a fix’d, discerning light,

A knowing Joy;

No chance, or fit: but ever bright,

And calm and full, yet doth not cloy.

’Tis such a blissful thing, that still

Doth vivifie,

And shine and smile, and hath the skill

To please without Eternity.

Thou art a toylsom Mole, or less

A moving mist

But life is, what none can express,

A quickness, which my God hath kist.