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210 TIMES GO BY TURNS.
Whom none can work or woo
His words, and works, and fashion, too,
Who never melts or thaws
The sun to others writeth laws
Who, when he is to treat With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway, Allows for that, and keeps his constant way;
Whom others' faults do not defeat, But, though men fail him, yet his part doth play.
Whom nothing can procure, When the wide world runs bias from his will, To writhe his limbs, and share, not mend, the ill.
This is the marksman, safe and sure, Who still is right and prays to be so still.
TIMES GO BY TURNS.— Southwell, bora in 1560,
The lopped tree in time may grow again,
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
That net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none, are crossed;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
Unmingled joys here to no man befall;
Who least, have some; who most, have never all.
TO SORROW. — Milnes.
Sister Sorrow! sit beside me,
Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,—
212 to SORROW.
I will say that thou art bound
I will say thou givest scope
That thy shadow brings together
Softly takest thou the crown
Let the blossoms glitter there
If thou goest, sister Sorrow!
And, howe'er thou hid'st the name,
HUMILIBUS DAT GRATIAN. — Peacham about 1600.
The mountains huge, that seem to check the sky,
With heath or moss for most part barren lie;
And with his heat in hedge and grove begets
The virgin primrose or sweet violets.
So God oft times denies unto the great
And those that high in honor's chair are set Do feel their wants; when men of meaner place,
Although they lack the others' golden spring,
Perhaps are blest above the richest king.
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.—Mines.
I 'm not where I was yesterday,
I have lost a thought, that many a year
214 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
I have lost a hope, that many a year
For long, too long, in distant climes
My lot was cast, and then
A frail and casual intercourse
Was all I had with men;
But lonelily in distant climes
I was well content to roam,
And felt no void, for my heart was full
Of the friend it had left at home.
And now I was close to my native shores,
And I felt him at my side,
His spirit was in that homeward wind,
His voice in that homeward tide;
For what were to me my native shores,
But that they held the scene
Where my youth's most genial flowers had blown,
And affection's root had been?
I thought, how should I see him first,
O, what is life but a sum of love,