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Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand, And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell, Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend farewell.

And still as time comes in, it goes away,
Not to enjoy, but debts to pay.
Unhappy slave! and pupil to a bell!
Which his hour's work, as well as hours,
does tell!

Unhappy to the last, the kind releasing
knell.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

1618-1667.]

ON THE DEATH OF CRASHAW.
POET and Saint! to thee alone are giv'n
The two most sacred names of earth and
heav'n,

The hard and rarest union which can be,
Next that of Godhead with humanity.
Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide,
And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;
Like Moses thou (tho' spells and charms
withstand)

Hast brought them nobly home back to
their Holy Land.

Ah, wretched We! poets of earth!

but thou

Wert living the same poet which thou'rt

now.

Whilst angels sing to thee their airs
divine,

And joy in an applause so great as thine,
Equal society with them to hold,
Thou need'st not make new songs, but
say the old :

And they, kind Spirits! Shall all rejoice

to see

How little less than they exalted man may be.

LIBERTY,

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The weight of that mounts this so high. These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright,

Brought forth with their own fire and
light.

If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,
Out of myself it must be strook.
Yet I must on: What sound is't strikes
mine ear?

Sure I Fame's trumpet hear:

It sounds like the last trumpet, for it can
Raise up the bury'd man.

Unpass'd Alps stop me, but I'll cat
rough all,

And march, the Muse's Hannibal.
Hence, all the flatt'ring vanities that lay
Nets of roses in the way;

Hence, the desire of honours or estate,

WHERE honour, or where conscience does And all that is not above Fate;

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Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his es- All I was born to know:

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Welcome, learn'd Cicero ! whose bless'd As beams do through a burning-glass;

tongue and wit

Preserves Rome's greatness yet:
Thou art the first of orators; only he
Who best can praise thee next must be.
Welcome the Mantuan swan! Virgil the
wise,

Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age,

And made that art which was a rage.
Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do
To be like one of you?

But you have climb'd the mountain's top,

there sit

On the calm flourishing head of it,

If all things that in nature are
Either soft, or sweet, or fair,
Be not in thee so epitomiz'd,
That nought material's not compris'd,
May I as worthless seem to thee,
As all but thou appear to me.

THE WISH.

WELL, then, I now do plainly see,
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree,
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy :
And they (methinks) deserve my pity

And whilst, with wearied steps, we up- Who for it can endure the stings,

ward go,

See us and clouds below.

LOVE IN HER SUNNY EYES.

LOVE in her sunny eyes does basking play:

Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair;

Love does on both her lips for ever stray,

And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there ;

In all her outward parts Love's always

seen,

But, Oh! he never went within.

THE SOUL.

Ir mine eyes do e'er declare
They've seen a second thing that's fair;
Or ears that they have music found,
Besides thy voice, in any sound;
If my taste do ever meet,

After thy kiss with ought that's sweet;
If my abused touch allow

Ought to be smooth or soft but thou!
If what seasonable springs,
Or the eastern summer brings,
Do my smell persuade at all

Ought perfume but thy breath to call;
If all my senses objects be

Not contracted into thee,

The crowd, and buz, and murmurings,
Of this great hive, the City.

Ah! yet, e'er I descend to the grave, May I a small house and large garden have!

And a few friends, and many books, both true,

Both wise, and both delightful too!
And since Love ne'er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,
Only belov'd, and loving me!

AN IMPRECATION AGAINST CIVIL STRIFE.

CURS'D be the man (what do I wish? as though

The wretch already were not so;

But curs'd on let him be) who thinks it brave

And great his country to enslave;
Who seeks to overpoise alone

The balance of a nation :

Against the whole, but naked state,

Who in his own light scale makes up with arms the weight.

Who of his nation loves to be the first,
Though at the rate of being worst,
Who would be rather a great monster,
than

A well proportion'd man;

And so through thee more pow'rful pass, The sun of earth, with hundred hands,

Upon his three pil'd mountain stands,
Till thunder strikes him from the sky,
The son of Earth again in his earth's
womb does lie.

What blood, confusion, ruin, to obtain
A short and miserable reign?

In what oblique and humble creeping
wise

Does the mischievous serpent rise?
But ev'n his forked tongue strikes dead,
When he's rear'd up his wicked head;
He murders with his mortal frown;

A basilisk he grows if once he get

crown.

a

Come the eleventh plague rather than
this should be,

Come sink us rather in the sea :
Come rather Pestilence, and reap us
down ;

Come God's sword rather than our own:
Let rather Roman come again,

Or Saxon, Norman, or the Dane :
In all the bonds we ever bore

We griev'd, we sigh'd, we wept : we neve.
blush'd before.

If by our sins the divine vengeance be
Call'd to this last extremity,

Let some denouncing Jonas first be sent
To try if England can repent:

But no guards can oppose assaulting Methinks, at least some prodigy,

ears,

Or undermining tears;

No more than doors or close-drawn curtains keep

The swarming dreams out when we sleep:

That bloody conscience, too, of his,

(For oh! a rebel red-coat 't is)

Does here his early hell begin;

Some dreadful comet from on high,
Should terribly forewarn the earth,
As of good princes' deaths, so of a tyrant's
birth.

wwww

[ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 1560-1595-]

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

THE loppéd tree in time may grow again,

He sees his slaves without, his tyrant feels Most naked plants renew both fruit and

within.

Let, gracious God! let never more thine
hand

Lift up this rod against our land:
A tyrant is a rod and serpent too,
And brings worse plagues than Egypt
knew.

What rivers stain'd with blood have
been?

What storm and hail-shot have we seen?
What sores deform'd the ulcerous state?
What darkness to be felt has bury'd us of

late?

How has it snatch'd our flocks and herds
away!

And made even of our sons a prey!
What croaking sects and vermin has it

sent

The restless nation to torment!
What greedy troops, what armed power
Of flies and locusts, to devour
The land, which ev'rywhere they fill!
Nor fly they, Lord! away; no, they
devour it still.

flower,

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Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To come to thee and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties, then,
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain: that's only good
Which God hath bless'd and sent for food.

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