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SIMON WASTELL,

A native of Westmoreland, entered of Queen's College, Oxford, in 1580, and afterwards became master of the free school at Northampton. Vide Athen. Oxon. i. 486.

The following specimens are taken from the "Microbiblion," 1629.

UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH.

BEFORE my face the picture hangs
That daily should put me in mind,
Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find:

But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon the face

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;
I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose had sometime been;
I see the bones, across that lie,
Yet little think, that I must die.

I read the label underneath,

That telleth me whereto I must:

I see the sentence eke, that saith "Remember, man, that thou art dust." But yet, alas, but seldom I

Do think indeed, that I must die.

Continually, at my bed's head

An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I, ere morning, may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well: But yet, alas, for all this, I

Have little mind that I must die.

The gown which I do use to wear,
The knife, wherewith I cut my meat,
And eke that old and ancient chair
Which is my only usual seat,

All these do tell me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

My ancestors are turn'd to clay,
And
many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away;-
And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no, I know that all must die,
And yet my life amend not I!

If none can scape death's dreadful dart,
If rich and poor his beck obey,
If strong, if wise, if all do smart,
Then I to scape shall have no way.
O grant me grace, O God, that I
My life may mend, sith I must die:

OF MAN'S MORTALITY.

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had,
Even such is man; whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and cut, and so is done :
The rose withers, the blossoms blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,

The gourd consumes, and man he dies.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May;

Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan,

Even such is man: who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan's near death, man's life is done.

ROBERT DEVEREUX, EARL OF ESSEX,

Born in 1567. The political character of this inconsiderate and presumptuous, but honest and heroic favourite of Queen Elizabeth, has no connection with this work: but as he was the generous patron of literature, and the unceasing object of poetical adulation, the reader will perhaps be glad to see a specimen of his poetry. The following " • Verses, "written in his trouble," were extracted from a MS. in the British Museum, 4128-6, Art. Cat.

THE ways on earth have paths and turnings known,
The ways on sea are gone by needles light;
The birds of th' air the nearest way have flown;
And under earth the moles do cast aright.

A way more hard than these I needs must take, Where none can teach, nor no man can direct; Where no man's good for me example makes; But all men's faults do teach her to suspect.

Her thoughts and mine such disproportion have, All strength in love is infinite in me:

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