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TIMES GO BY TURNS.
The lopped tree in time may grow again;
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The driest soil suck in some moistening shower;
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay;
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
LIFE A BUBBLE.
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 sometimes seem of its own might
Like as the damask rose you see,
E'en such is man; who lives by breath,
OF MY DEAR SON GERVASE BEAUMONT.
Can I, who have for others oft compiled
The songs of death, forget my sweetest child,
Sir John Beaumont.
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
To thee the reed is as the oak:
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Quiet consummation have;
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Mortality, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones;
Here they lie, had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands,
Here's an acre sown indeed
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried,
'Though gods they were, as men they died!'
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.
Victorious men of earth, no more
As night or day,
Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey,
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
Each able to undo mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are;
Nor to these alone confined,
He hath at will
More quaint and subtle ways to kill; A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings: