Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.

As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

Though I carry always some ill-nature about me, yet it is, I hope, no more than is in this world necessary for a preservative.

Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.

Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns

Music, the mosaic of the air.