Thomas Flatman (1637–1688)

NOT to the hills where cedars move

Their cloudy heads; not to the grove

Of myrtles in th’ Elysian shade,

Nor Tempe which the poets made,

Not on the spicy mountains play,

Or travel to Arabia,

I aim not at the careful throne

Which Fortune’s darlings sit upon:

No, no, the best this fickle world can give

Has but a little, little time to live.

But let me soar, O let me fly

Beyond poor earth’s benighted eye,

Beyond the pitch swift eagles tower,

Beyond the reach of human power,

Above the clouds, above the way

Whence the sun darts his piercing ray,

O let me tread those courts that are

So bright, so pure, so blest, so fair,

As neither thou nor I must ever know

On earth: ’tis thither, thither would I go.