No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,
Not endless night, yet not eternal day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,

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 cross'd;

Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

Scorn not the least.

WHERE words are weak, and foes encountering

strong,

Where mightier do assault than do defend,

The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,

And silent sees that speech could not amend. Yet, higher powers must think, though they repine, When sun is set, the little stars will shine.

The merlin cannot ever soar on high,

Nor greedy grey-hound still pursue the chase: The tender lark will find a time to fly,

And fearful hare to run a quiet race: He that high growth on cedars did bestow Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow.

In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept,
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe:
The Lazar pin'd, while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go.
We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May,
Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away.

Upon the Image of Death."

[From the "Mooniæ," 1595. 4to.]

BEFORE my face the picture hangs
That daily should put me in mind
Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find:

But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon, that I must die.

*This is also to be found in the Microbiblion of Simon Wastell, 1629.

So printed in Wastell.-In Southwell, "names."

I often look upon a face

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;
I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose have sometime been ;
I see the bones, across that lie,
Yet little think, that I must die.

I read the label underneath,

That telleth me whereto I must:
I see the sentence eke, that saith
“Remember, man, that thou art dust.”
But yet, alas, but seldom I

Do think indeed, that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head

An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell

That I, ere morning, may be dead,

Though now I feel myself full well:

But yet, alas, for all this, I

Have little mind that I must die!

The gown which I do use to wear,
The knife, wherewith I cut my meat,
And eke that old and ancient chair
Which is my only usual seat,

All these do tell me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I!

My ancestors are turn'd to clay,

And

many of my mates are gone; My youngers daily drop away;And can I think to 'scape alone?

No, no, I know that I must die,
life amend not I!

And yet my

Not Solomon, for all his wit,

Nor Sampson, though he were so strong,

No king, nor ever person yet

Could 'scape, but Death laid him along! Wherefore I know that I must die, And yet my life, amend not I!

Though all the east did quake to hear
Of Alexander's dreadful name,

And all the west did likewise fear
To hear of Julius Cæsar's fame,

Yet both by death in dust now lie;
Who then can 'scape, but he must die?

If none can scape Death's dreadful dart,
If rich and poor his beck obey,

If strong, if wise, if all do smart,
Then I to scape shall have no way.
O grant me grace, O God, that I
My life may mend, sith I must die!
Wastell, "all"

A Vale of Tears.

[From the same.]

A VALE there is, enwrapt with dreadful shades, Which thick of mourning pines shrouds from

the sun,

Where hanging cliffs yield short and dumpish glades,

And snowy floods with broken streams do run:

Where eye-room is from rock to cloudy sky,
From thence to dales which stormy ruins shroud,
Then, to the crushed water's frothy fry,

Which tumbleth from the tops where snow is thow'd:

Where ears of other sound can have no choice,
But various blustering of the stubborn wind,
In trees, in caves, in straits, with diverse noise,
Which now doth hiss, now howl, now roar by
kind:

Where waters wrestle with encountering stones,

That break their streams, and turn them into foam,

The hollow clouds, full fraught with thundering groans,

With hideous thumps discharge their pregnant womb.