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They two, forth pacing to the river's side, Received those two fair brides, their love's delight; Which, at th' appointed tide,

Each one did make his bride

Against their bridal day, which is not long : Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. E. SPENSER.

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THE HAPPY HEART

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ?
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment !

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
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 crispéd spring?
O sweet content!

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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 labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

T. DEKKER.

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This Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air

By sporting children's breath,
Who chase it everywhere

And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
And though it sometime seem of its own might,

Like to an eye of gold, to be fix'd there, And firm to hover in that empty height, That only is because it is so light.

-But in that pomp it doth not long appear ; For, when 'tis most admired, in a thought, Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought. W. DRUMMOND.

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SOUL AND BODY

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[Fool'd by] those rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?

Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more :

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So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, And death once dead, there's no more dying then. W. SHAKESPEARE.

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LIFE

The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
Less than a span:

In his conception wretched, from the womb
So to the tomb ;

Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns the water, or but writes in dust.

Yet since with sorrow here we live opprest,

What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools:

The rural parts are turn'd into a den

Of savage men :

And where's a city from all vice so free,

But may be term'd the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,

Or pains his head :

Those that live single, take it for a curse,
Or do things worse:

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Some would have children: those that have them

moan

Or wish them gone :

What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affections still at home to please
Is a disease:

To cross the sea to any foreign soil,

Perils and toil :

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Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
We are worse in peace;
What then remains, but that we still should cry
Not to be born, or, being born, to die?

LORD BACON.

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THE LESSONS OF NATURE

Of this fair volume which we World do name
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,

We clear might read the art and wisdom rare : Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,

His providence extending everywhere,

His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, In every page, no period of the same.

But silly we, like foolish children, rest

Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold, Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,

On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold; Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, It is some picture on the margin wrought. W. DRUMMOND.

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Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?

Are these your influences, Powers above?

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Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind, Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove; And they who thee, poor idol, Virtue! love,

Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.

Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all,

Why should best minds groan under most distress?

Or why should pride humility make thrall,
And injuries the innocent oppress?

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Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a`time When good may have, as well as bad, their prime.

W. DRUMMOND.

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THE WORLD'S WAY

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry-
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,

And captive Good attending captain Ill :-Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.

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W. SHAKESPEARE.

SAINT JOHN BAPTIST

The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.

His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd ;
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
-Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry ?
Only the echoes, which he made relent,
Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
W. DRUMMOND.

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