453.

Or like the 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 winds blow out; the bubble dies;
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew's dryed up; the star is shot;
The flight is past; and man forgot.

H. King (?)

WHE

The Pulley

WHEN God at first made Man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by -

Let us (said He) pour on him all we can;
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way,

Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure;
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said He)
Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:

So both should losers be.

454.

Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.

G. Herbert

Whose guiltless heart is free

From all dishonest deeds,

Or thought of vanity;

The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrow discontent;

That man needs neither towers

Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly

From thunder's violence:

He only can behold

With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,

His wisdom heavenly things;

455.

Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn

And quiet pilgrimage.

A Fancy

E that his mirth hath lost,

HE

T. Campion

Whose comfort is dismayed,

Whose hope is vain, whose faith is scorned,
Whose trust is all betrayed,

If he have held them dear,

And cannot cease to moan,

Come, let him take his place by me;

He shall not rue alone.

But if the smallest sweet
Be mixed with all his sour;
If in the day, the month, the year,
He feel one lightening hour,

Then rest he by himself;
He is no mate for me,

Whose hope is fallen, whose succour void,
Whose hap his death must be.

Yet not the wished death,
Which hath no plaint nor lack,

Which, making free the better part,
Is only nature's wrack.

O no! that were too well;
My death is of the mind,
Which always yields extremest pains,
And leaves the worst behind.

As one that lives in show,
But inwardly doth die,

Whose knowledge is a bloody field
Where all hope slain doth lie;

Whose heart the altar is;
Whose spirit, the sacrifice
Unto the powers, whom to appease
No sorrow can suffice.

My fancies are like thorns,
On which I go by night;
Mine arguments are like an host
Which force hath put to flight.

My sense is passion's spy;
My thoughts like ruins old

Of famous Carthage, or the town
Which Sinon bought and sold;

Which still before mine eyes
My mortal fall do lay,

Whom love and fortune once advanced,
And now hath cast away.

O thoughts, no thoughts, but wounds, Sometime the seat of joy, Sometime the seat of quiet rest, But now of all annoy.

I sowed the soil of peace;
My bliss was in the spring;
And day by day I ate the fruit
Which my life's tree did bring.

To nettles now my corn,
My field is turned to flint,
Where, sitting in the cypress shade,
I read the hyacint.

The peace, the rest, the life,
That I enjoyed before

Came to my lot, that by the loss
My smart might sting the more.

So to unhappy men

The best frames to the worst;
O time, O place, O words, O looks,
Dear then, but now accurst:

In was stands my delight;
In is and shall, my woe;
My horror fastens on the yea;
My hope hangs on the no.

I look for no relief;

Relief would come too late;

Too late I find, I find too well,

Too well stood my estate.