That drops, falling and gath’ring, shud find it not
But nature to enjoin, while man, tho’ he ought
Follow suit, certainly falls in every way
Known– joining indeed! Though enjoining? ‘Tis nay.
Take, for a show, that act call’d matrimony,
A catcher of dreams from the West, made holy
By men in crown. More holey I daresay
Than the whole of their subjects pockets fray’d!
Or words of puppets made sweet to gain a vote,
With the bitter tail of poor poetry rote.
Once wrote, is not the hand quick to set aside
The quill, no more a part than a butcher’s blade?
Truly, the sin of man is not found in fall,
Yet in falling apart, as Autumn’s wind all
The leaves does separate, we gather not
enjoin’d, in parts succumb’d to drops–we rot.