There thy life's glass mayst thou finde thee, Neither fruit nor leaf behind thee. When chill Winter's cheer wee see Shrinking, shaking, shivering, cold; 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, Those statlie courts, those sky-encount'ring walls 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; Here's an acre sown indeed 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; Buried in dust, once dead by fate. F. BEAUMONT. LXVII TO DEATH DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, From rest and sleep which but thy picture be, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, 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: 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 Gaze no more on earth's delight. Worldly joys, like shadows, fade When the heavenly light appears; In Thy Word, Lord, is my trust, 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: |