I.

NEAR Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found, But so confused, that neither any eye Can count them just, nor Reason reason try, What force brought them to so unlikely ground.

To stranger weights my mind’s waste soil is bound, Of passion-hills, reaching to Reason’s sky, From Fancy’s earth, passing all number’s bound, Passing all guess, whence into me should fly So mazed a mass; or, if in me it grows, A simple soul should breed so mixéd woes.