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There thy life's glass mayst thou finde thee,
Green now, gray now, gone anon;
Leaving, Worldling, of thine own

Neither fruit nor leaf behind thee.

When chill Winter's cheer wee see

Shrinking, shaking, shivering, cold;
See ourselves, for such are wee
After youth, if ever old.
After Winter, Spring (in order)
Comes again; but earthly thing
Rotting here, not rooting further,
Can thy Winter hope a Spring?

J. SYLVESTER.

LXV

ILLUSION

IF Fortune's dark eclipse cloud glorie's light,

Then what availes that pomp which pride doth claim ?

A meere illusion made to mock the sight,

Whose best was but the shadow of a dreame.

Let greatnesse of her glassie scepters vaunt,

Not scepters, no, but reeds, soone bruis'd, soone broken;

And let this worldlie pompe our wits enchant,

All fades and scarcelie leaves behinde a token.

Those golden palaces, those gorgeous halls,
With furniture superfluously faire;

Those statlie courts, those sky-encount'ring walls
Evanish all-like vapours in the aire.

Our painted pleasures but apparell paine;

We spend our dayes in dread, our lives in dangers, Balls to the starres, and thralls to Fortune's reigne, Knowne unto all, yet to ourselves but strangers.

ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING.

LXVI

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

MORTALITY, behold, and fear,

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within this heap of stones.

Here they lie, had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where, from their pulpits seal'd with dust,
They preach, "In greatness is no trust."

Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royal'st seed,

That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin :

Here the bones of birth have cried

"Though gods they were, as men they died."

Here are sands, ignoble things

Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings;
Here's a world of pomp and state

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

F. BEAUMONT.

LXVII

TO DEATH

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then, from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

DR. DONNE.

LXVIII

A PRAYER

VIEW me, Lord, a work of Thine:
Shall I then lie drowned in night?
Might Thy grace in me but shine,
I should seeme made all of light.

But my soul still surfeits so

On the poisoned baits of sinne, That I strange and ugly grow,

All is dark and foul withinne.

Cleanse me, Lord, that I may kneele
At thine altar, pure and white :
They that once Thy mercies feele,

Gaze no more on earth's delight.

Worldly joys, like shadows, fade

When the heavenly light appears;
But the covenants Thou hast made,
Endless, knowe nor dayes nor yeares.

In Thy Word, Lord, is my trust,
To Thy mercies past I flye;
Though I am but clay and dust,
Yet Thy grace can lift me highe.

T. CAMPION.

LXIX

THE BURNING BABE

As I in hoary winter's night stood shiveringe in the snowe, Surpris'd I was with sudden heat, which made my heart

to glowe ;

And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was neare, A prettie babe all burning bright, did in the air appeare, Who, scorched with exceeding heate, such floodes of teares did shed,

As though His floodes should quench His flames which with His teares were fed;

Alas! quoth He, but newly borne, in fiery heates I fry, Yet none approach to warme their heartes or feele my fire

but I!

My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel woundinge

thornes,

Love is the fire, and sighes the smoke, the ashes shame and scornes;

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blowes the coales; The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled

soules,

For which, as nowe a fire I am, to worke them to their

good,

So will I melt into a bath, to washe them in my bloode:

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