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; Some men with swords may reap the field, 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 George Wither. |