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TIMES GO BY TURNS. The loppèd tree in time may grow again;
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower ; The sorriest wight may find release of pain,
The driest soil suck in some moistening shower ; Times go by turns, and chances change by course, 5 From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;
No endless night, yet not eternal day;
15 The roughest storm a calm may soon allay ; Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance
may win that by mischance was lost ; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are crossed ;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish;
LIFE A BUBBLE.
This Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air,
And strive who can most motion it bequeath;
5 And though it sometimes seem of its own might Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there,
And firm to hover in that empty height,
That only is because it is so light.
OF MY DEAR SON GERVASE BEAUMONT.
Can I, who have for others oft compiled
15 Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage ; Let his pure soul, ordained seven years to be In that frail body, which was part of me, Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show, How to this port at every step I go.
Sir John Beaumont.
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages :
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
No exorciser harm thee!
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Mortality, behold and fear !
Here the bones of birth have cried,
DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.
Victorious men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are;
As night or day,
Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
Each able to undo mankind, Death's servile emissaries are; Nor to these alone confined,
He hath at will
15 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: