We have short time to stay as you, As quick a growth, to meet decay, We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. HERRICK. THE BEE AND THE LADY-FLOWER. As Julia once a-slumbering lay, For some rich flower, he took the lip Of Julia, and began to sip; But when he felt, he sucked from thence Honey, and in the quintessence, He drank so much he scarce could stir, So Julia took the pilferer; And thus surprised, as filchers use, Besides, know this, I never sting This said, he laid his little scrip And told her, as some tears did fall, He should from her full lips derive HERRICK. ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED WIFE. SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed, My last good night! thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: It so much loves; and fill the room Each minute is a short degree, And every hour a step towards thee. Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Through which to thee I swiftly glide. "Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou like the van first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort: Dear (forgive Till we shall meet and never part. KING. 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; 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, Early or late, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, 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. AN EPITAPH. THE modest front of this small floor, SHIRLEY. One whose conscience was a thing His prayers took their price and strength, He loved his father, yet his zeal To the Church he did allow her dress, Peace, which he loved in life, did lend Her hand to bring him to his end: Death tore not (therefore) but sans strife So while these lines can but bequeath His better epitaph shall be, CRASHAW. |