From being anxious, or secure, 
Dead clods of sadnesse, or light squibs of mirth, 
From thinking, that great courts immure 
All, or no happinesse, or that this earth 
Is only for our prison fram' d, 
Or that thou art covetous 
To them thou lovest, or that they are maim'd 
From reaching this worlds sweet, who seek thee thus, 
With all their might, Good Lord deliver us.