AN ANSWER TO MR. TICHBORNE.

HY flower of youth is with a north wind blasted;

Thy feast of joy is an idea found;

Thy corn is shed, thy untimely harvest wasted;
Thy good in ill, thy hope in hurt is drowned;
Dark was thy day, and shadow was thy sun,
And, by such lights, thy life untimely spun.
Thy tale was nought, thy oratory told,
Thy fruit is rotten, and thy leaves are gone,
Thyself wert young in years, in time grown old,
The world accounts thee not worth thinking on;
Thy thread of life's not cut, nor spun, but broken,
So let thy heart, though yet it be but open.

Thou sought'st thy death, and found'st it in desert;
Thou look'dst for life, yet lewdly felt it fade;
Thou trodd'st on earth, and now in earth thou art ;
And men may wish that thou hadst ne'er been
made;

Thy glory and thy glass are timeless run,
Which, Oh unhappy, by thyself was done.

(Unknown.)

A DIRGE.

ALL for the robin redbreast and the

wren,

Since over shady groves they hover,

And with flowers and leaves do cover

The friendless bodies of unburied men;
Call unto his funeral dole,

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,

And, when gay tombs are robbed, sustain no

harm;

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,

For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

(Webster).

APPROACHING DEATH.

DIEU, farewell earth's bliss,
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys,

Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly ;

I am sick, I must die;

Lord, have mercy on us.

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade,
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by;

I am sick, I must die;

Lord, have mercy on us.

Beauty is but a flower

Which wrinkles will devour,

Brightness falls from the air,

Queens have died young and fair,
Dust hath closed Helen's eye;

I am sick, I must die;

Lord, have mercy on us.

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave,
Swords may not fight with fate;
Earth still holds ope her gate,
Come, come, the hells do cry;
I am sick, I must die;

Lord, have mercy on us.

Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner

Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply ;

I am sick, I must die;

Lord, have mercy on us.

Haste therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;

Heaven is our heritage,

Earth but a player's stage;

Mount we unto the sky

I am sick, I must die;

Lord, have mercy on us.

(Nash.)

A DIRGE.

LORIES, pleasures, pomps, delights,

and ease

Can but please

The outward senses when the mind
Is, or untroubled, or by peace refined;
Crowns may flourish and decay;
Beauties shine, but fade away;

Youth may revel, yet it must
Lie down in a bed of dust;
Earthly honours flow, and waste;

Time alone doth change, and last;

Sorrows, mingled with contents, prepare
Rest for care;

Love only reigns in death, though art

Can find no comfort for a broken heart.

(Ford.)