Believe, Azile, when of thee I think, As such sweet thoughts are in me very rife, I'm ready of prepared bane to drink, Or any poison that will end my life; And still because my still consuming heart Enjoys no rest, wisht rest I never have, But of turmoils and troubles I have part; But 'tis not trouble that a soul must save, A sweet content doth lead the way from wrath: He safest lives that quiet conscience hath. |