On Amaryllis

My name was Amaryllis. I From a harde Shell put forthe to fly; No Bird, alas; with Beautie prim'd, Hath Death th' inconstant Fowler lim'd. No antick Moth on Blossoms set Hath Judgement taken in a Net. So dull, so slowe, so meeke I went In my House-Roof that pay'd no Rent, E'en my deare Mistresse guess'd no Spark Could e'er enlight'n my dustie Dark. Judge not, ye Proud. Each lowlie Thing May lack the Voyce, not Heart, to sing. The Worme that from the Moulde suspires May be attun'd with heavenlie Quires, And I, a-crawling in my Straw, Was moved by Love, and made by Law. So all ye wise, who 'neath your Clod Go creeping onwards up to God, Take Heart of me, who by His Grace, Slough'd off my Pris'n and won my Race.