A COUNTRY LIFE.

Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl,

That's tost up after fox i' th' hole;

Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-night kings

And queens, and Christmas revellings;

Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,

And no man pays too dear for it.

To these thou hast thy time to go,

And trace the hare in the treacherous snow:

Thy witty wiles to draw, and get

The lark into the trammel net;

Thou hast thy cock rood, and thy glade,

To take the precious pheasant made!

Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then,

To catch the pilfering birds, not men.

O happy life, if that their good

The husbandmen but understood!

Who all the day themselves do please,

And younglings, with such sports as these;

And, lying down, have nought t'affright

Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

Robert Herrick DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

The glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still;
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar, now, See where the victor victim bleeds: All heads must come To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

James Shirley. SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS.

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes
Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe;
And free access unto that sweet lip lies,
From whence I long the rosy breath to draw.
Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal
From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss:
None sees the theft that would the theft reveal,
Nor rob I her of ought what she can miss:
Nay should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I would do so;
Why then should I this robbery delay 1
Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow.
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

George Wither.