False life ! a foil and no more, when 
              Wilt thou be gone ? 
Thou foul deception of all men, 
That would not have the true come on ! 

Thou art a moon-like toil ; a blind 
              Self-posing state ; 
A dark contest of waves and wind ; 
A mere tempestuous debate. 

Life is a fix'd, discerning light, 
              A knowing joy ; 
No chance, or fit : but ever bright, 
And calm, and full, yet doth not cloy. 

'Tis such a blissful thing, that still 
              Doth vivify, 
And shine and smile, and hath the skill 
To please without eternity. 

Thou art a toilsome mole, or less, 
              A moving mist. 
But life is, what none can express, 
A quickness, which my God hath kiss'd.