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piety which gave a charm to his life, and breathes through all his writings.


Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright-
The bridal of the earth and sky;

The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shews ye have your closes,
And all inust die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.


All may of thee partake;

Nothing can be so mean,

Which, with this tincture, for thy sake,
Will not grow bright and clean.

This is the famous stone

That turneth all to gold,

For that which God doth touch and own,
Cannot for less be told.

Stanza.-Called by Herbert 'The Pulley."

When God at first made man,

Having a glass of blessings standing by,
'Let us,' said He, pour on him all we can;
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.'

So strength first made a way;

Then beauty flowed; then wisdom, honour, pleasure;
When almost all was out, God made a stay;
Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should,' said He,

Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
Pe would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in nature, not the God of nature-
So both should losers be.

"Yet let him keep the rest-
But keep them, with repining restlessness-
Let him be rich and weary; that, at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.'

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Man, ere he is aware,

Hath put together a solemnity,

And dressed his hearse, while he hath breath
As yet to spare.
Yet, Lord instruct us so to die,

That all these dyings may be life in death.


The writings of FRANCIS QUARLES (1592–1644) are more like those of a divine, or contemplative recluse, than of a busy man of the world, who held various public situations, and died at the age of fifty-two. Quarles was a native of Essex educated at Cambridge, and afterwards a student of Lincoln's Inn. He was successively cupbearer to Elizabeth, the queen of Bohemia, secretary to Archbishop Usher, and chronologer to the city of London. He espoused the cause of Charles I.; and was so harassed by the opposite party, who injured his property, and plundered him of his books and rare manuscripts, that his death was attributed to the affliction and ill-health caused by these disasters. Notwithstanding his loyalty, the works of Quarles have a tinge of Puritanism and ascetic piety that might have mollified the rage of his persecutors. His poems consist of various pieces-‘ Job




Militant,' 'Sion's Elegies,' the History of Queen Esther,' Argalus and Parthenia,' the Morning Muse,' the Feast of Worms,' and the 'Divine Emblems.' The last were published in 1645, and were so popular that Phillips, Milton's nephew, styles Quarles 'the darling of our plebeian judgments.' The eulogium still holds good to some extent, for the 'Divine Emblems,' with their quaint and grotesque illustrations, are still found in the cottages of our peasants. After the Restoration,when everyhing sacred and serious was either neglected or made the subject of ibald jests, Quarles seems to have been entirely lost to the public. Even Pope, who, had he read him, must have relished his lively fancy and poetical expression, notices only his bathos and absurdity. The better and more tolerant taste of modern times has admitted the divine emblemist into the laurelled fraternity of poets,' where, if he does not occupy a conspicuous place, he is at least sure of his due measure of homage and attention. Emblems, or the union of the graphic and poetic arts, to inculcate lessons of moralty and religion, had been tried with success by Peacham and Wither Quarles, however, made Herman Hugo, a Jesuit, his model, and from the 'Pia Desideria' of this author copied a great part of his prints and mottoes. His style is that of his age-studded with conceits, often extravagant in conception, and presenting the most outre and ridiculous combinations. There is strength, however, amidst his contortions, and true wit mixed up with the false. His epigrammatic point, uniting wit and devotion, has been considered the precursor of Young's 'Night Thoughts.'

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As when a lady, walking Flora's bower,
Picks here a pink, and there a gillyflower,
Now plucks a violet from her purple bed,
And then a primrose, the year's maidenhead,
There nips the briar, here the lover's pansy,
Shifting her dainty pleasures with her fancy,
This on her arms, and that she lists to wear
Upon the borders of her curious hair;
At length a rose-bud-passing all the rest-
She plucks, and bosoms in her lily breast.

The Shortness of Life.

And what's a life?-a weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.
And what's a life-the flourishing array
Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.

Read on this dial, how the shades devour
My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour;
Alas! the total's but from eight to four.

Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made,
Fair copies of my life, and open laid

To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade!

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Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon;
My non-aged day already points to noon;"
How simple is my suit !-how small my boon!

Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile

The time away, or falsely to beguile

My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile.

Mors Tua.

Can he be fair, that withers at a blast?
Or he be strong, that airy breath can cast?
Can he be wise, that knows not how to live?
Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give?
Can he be young, that's feebie, weak, and wan?
So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is man.
So fair is man, that death-a parting blast-
Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last;
So strong is man, that with a gasping breath
He totters, and bequeaths his strength to death;
So wise is man, that if with death he strive,
His wisdom cannot teach him how to live;
So rich is man, that-all his debts being paid-
His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he 's laid;
So young is man, that, broke with care and sorrow,
He's old enough to-day to die to-morrow:

Why bragg'st thou, then, thou worm of five feet long?
Thou 'rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young.

The Vanity of the World.

False world, thou ly'st; thou canst not lend
The least delight:
Thy favours cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight:

Thy morning pleasures make an end
To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,
And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st

With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endless treasure;
Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;
Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her:
There's none can want where thou supply'st:
There's none can give where thou deny'st.

Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say?
Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay:

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play:

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revyv'd, deny'st:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

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