2 59 
Thus all things are but alter'd, nothing dies; 
And here, and there, th' unbody’d spirit flies. 
By time, or force, or sickness, dispossest, 
And lodges, where it lights, in man or beast; 
Or hunts without, 'till ready limbs it find, 
And actuates those according to their kind; 
From tenement to tenement is toss'd, 
The soul is still the same, th q figure only lost ; 
And, as the soften'd wax new seals receives. 
This face assumes, and that impression leaves; 
Now call’d by one, now by another name; 
The form is only chang'd, the wax is still the same 
So death , so call'd, can but the form deface; 
Th’ immortal soul flies out in empty space, 
To seek her fortune in some other place. 
Then let not piety be put to flight, 
To please the taste of glutton appetite; 
But suffer inmate souls secure to dwell, 
Lest from their seats your parents you expel; 
With rabid hunger feed upon your kind, 
Or from a beast dislodge a brother's mind. 
And since, like Typhis parting from the shore, 
In ample seas I sail, and depths untry'd before, 
This let me further add, That nature knows 
No stedfast station, but, or ebbs, or flows: 
Ever in motion , she destroys her old , 
And casts new figures in another mold . 
Ev'n times are in perpetual flux, and run, 
Like rivers from their fountain, rolling on, 
For time, no more than streams, is at a stay; 
The flying hour is ever on her way: 
And as the fountain still supplies her store, 
The wave behind impels the wave before; 
Thus in successive course the minutes run, 
And urge their predecessor minutes on, 
Till moving, ever new: for former things 
Are set aside, like abdicated kings: 
And every moment alters what is done, 
And innovates some act, 'dll then unknown. 
Darkness we see emerges into light, 
And shining suns descend to sable night; 
Ev’n heav'n itself receives another dye, 
When weary'd animals in slumbers lie 
Of midnight ease: another, when the gray 
Of morn preludes the splendor of the day. 
The disk of Phoebus , when he climbs on high, 
Appears at first but as a bloodshot eye; 
And when his chariot downward drives to bed, 
His ball is with the same suffusion red; 
But mounted high in his meridian race 
All bright he shines, and with a better face: 
For there, pure particles of cether flow, 
Far from th’ infection of the world below. 
Ev’n our own bodies daily change receive, 
Some part of what was theirs before, they leave; 
