50

THE SWEETNESS OF CONTENT.

THE SWEETNESS OF CONTENT.

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
Oh, sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
Oh, punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O, sweet content!

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O, sweet content!

Swimmest thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O, punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!

O, sweet content!

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney!

Thomas Dekker.

SWEET OBSCURITY.

51

SWEET OBSCURITY.

SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content:
The quiet mind is richer than a crown:

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent:
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords nor pride, nor care,
The mean that 'grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth's and music's fare,
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

Robert Greene,

LIFE.

THE World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
Less than a span:

In his conception wretched, from the womb
So to the tomb;

Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust,

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools:

The rural parts are turn'd into a den
Of savage men:

And where's a city from foul vice so free,
But may be term'd the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
Or pains his head:

Those that live single, take it for a curse,
Or do things worse:

Some would have children: those that have them, moan
Or wish them gone:

What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,

But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affections still at home to please
Is a disease:

To cross the seas to any foreign soil,
Peril and toil:

Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
We are worse in peace;-

What then remains, but that we still should cry
For being born, or, being born, to die?

Lord Bacon.

LIFE A BUBBLE.

53

LIFE A BUBBLE.

THIS Life, which seems so fair,

Is like a bubble blown up in the air
By sporting children's breath,

Who chase it every where

And strive who can most motion it bequeath.

And though it sometimes seem of its own might
Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,

And firm to hover in that empty height,

That only is because it is so light.

-But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,
Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.

W. Drummond.

THE LIFE OF MAN.

LIKE to the falling off a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to night:
The wind blowes out; the bubble dies;
The spring intomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew's dry'd up; the star is shot;
The flight is past; and man forgot!

Francis Beaumont,

54

MAN'S MORTALITY.

MAN'S MORTALITY.

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had.
E'en such is man; whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth;
The flower fades, the morning hasteth;
The sun sets, the shadow flies;
The gourd consumes,-and man he dies!

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearlèd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan.
E'en such is man; who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended;
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended;
The hour is short, the span is long;

The swan's near death,—man's life is done!
Simon Wastell.