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THOMAS BEEDOME

WAS the author of "Poems Divine and Humane,” 12mo, London, 1641 (with an address to the reader, signed "Hen. Glapthorne," as well as Latin and English verses by the same). These posthumous poems contain many good lines, but in general wretchedly marred by extravagant conceits. The following is, perhaps, the least faulty specimen.

From the numerous complimentary verses by contemporary wits, which, according to the custom of the times, usher in the author and his productions with hyperbolical praise, it appears that Beedome died very young.

The Question and Answer.

WHEN the sad ruin of that face

In its own wrinkles buried lies, And the stiff pride of all its grace,

By time undone, falls slack and dies;

Wilt not thou sigh, and wish, in some vex'd fit,
That it were now as when I courted it?

And when thy glass shall it present

Without those smiles which once were there,

Showing, like some stale monument,

A scalp departed from its hair;

At thyself frighted, wilt not start, and swear
That I belied thee when I call'd thee fair?

Yes,

yes, I know thou wilt; and so

Pity the weakness of thy scorn,

That now hath humbled thee to know,

Though fair it was, it is forlorn.

Love's sweets thy aged corpse embalming not,
What marvel if thy carcase' beauty rot?

Then shall I live; and live to be
Thy envy, thou my pity: say

Whene'er thou see me, or I thee,

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(Being nighted from thy beauty's day)

'Tis he! and had my pride not wither'd me,

I had, perhaps, been still as fresh as he."

Then shall I smile, and answer, "True; thy scorn Left thee thus wrinkled, slackt, corrupt, forlorn."

HENRY DELAUNE,

A WRITER Concerning whom nothing seems to be known, except that he published a small volume in 1651, under the title of " Πατρικον Δωρον, or, a legacy to his sons, being a miscellany of precepts, theological, moral, political, and œconomical, digested into seven centuries of quadrins," which was reprinted in 1657. These moral and religious epigrams (for such they are) appear to be the real dictates of paternal solicitude, and the result of long experience. A few specimens, taken casually from the concluding century, may serve as examples of the author's style; which is uniformly nervous, correct, and creditable to his learning and good sense as well as piety, but seldom very eminently poetical.

WHEN the straight columns, on whose well-knit chine
Some stately structure leans its weighty head,
Are from their centre mov'd, or made incline,
The pile soon sinks, and shrinks to its first bed:

So, when you see Death's agents daily come,
And from the earth just men and good translate,
A sure and sad prognostic 'tis of some
Impending judgment on a realm or state.

Ere God on Sodom stretch'd his flaming hand,
He had a care to send just Lot away;

So mostly still, when he will scourge a land,
Whom he best loves he puts out of the way.

Early set forth to your eternal race;

Th' ascent is steep and craggy you must climb : God, at all times, has promis'd sinners grace If they repent; but he ne'er promis'd time.

Cheat not yourselves, as most; who then prepare For death, when life is almost turn'd to fume: One thief was sav'd that no man might despair; And but one thief, that no man might presume.

Wealth, honour, friends, wife, children, kindred, all
We so much doat on, and wherein we trust,
Are withering gourds; blossoms that fade and fall;
Landscapes in water; and deeds drawn in dust.

How

many has the morn beheld to rise

In their youth's prime, as glorious as the sun, Who, like a flower cropt, have had their eyes

Clos'd up by Death before the day was done!

Poison, a knife, a pistol, thousands more Sad instruments, set periods to our fates. Nature lets in to life but at one door;

But, to go forth, Death opens many gates.

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