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; See where the victor-victim bleeds: To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. THOMAS DEKKER. Born about 1590. Died 1638. SWEET CONTENT. ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexèd To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? O, sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? O, sweet content! Swimm'st 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! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labor bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! PATIENCE. PATIENCE! why 'tis the soul of peace : Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven : RICHARD CRASHAW. Born 1600. Died 1650. THE MYSTERIES OF THE INCARNATION. THAT the great angel-blinding light should shrink That from His mother's breast He milk should drink, That a vile manger His low bed should prove, That He whom the sun serves, should faintly peep That Glory's Self should serve our griefs and fears, And further, that the Law's eternal Giver, These are the knotty riddles, whose dark doubt SAMUEL BUTLER. Born 1612. Died 1680. THE WEAKNESS AND MISERY OF MAN. OUR plans are real things, and all With which our nakedness is decked, HENRY VAUGHAN. Born 1621. Died 1695. BEYOND THE VEIL. THEY are all gone into the world of light; And I alone sit lingering here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest, I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days: My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays. O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have showed them me, To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just, Shining no where, but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust; Could man outlook that mark! O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall, Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill THE RETREAT. HAPPY those early days, when I A several sin to every sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain But ah! my soul with too much stay ABRAHAM COWLEY. Born 1618. Died 1667. THE WISH. THIS only grant me, that my means may lay Not from great deeds, but good alone. Rumour can ope the grave. Acquaintance I would have, but when't depends Not on the number, but the choice of friends : Books should, not business, entertain the light, Than palace, and should fitting be, For all my use, not luxury. My garden painted o'er With nature's hand, not art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field. Thus would I double my life's fading space, For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. These unbought sports, this happy state, But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, |