Comfort In Calamity.

To conquered men, some comfort 'tis to fall
By the hand of him who is the general.

Be not dismayed though crosses cast thee down;
Thy fall is but the rising to a crown.

The only comfort of my life
Is, that I never yet had wife;
Nor will hereafter; since I know
Who weds, o'er-buys his weal with woe

The same who crowns the conqueror, will be
A coadjutor in the agony.

What needs complaints,
When she a place
Has with the race
Of saints?
In endless mirth,
She thinks not on
What's said or done
In earth:
She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
She hears;
Nor does she mind,
Or think on't now,
That ever thou
Wast kind:
But changed above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
Thy love.
Forbear, therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
No more.

Conformity was ever known
A foe to dissolution:
Nor can we that a ruin call,
Whose crack gives crushing unto all.