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XLV

LEWD LOVE IS LOSS

Misdeeming eye! that stoopeth to the lure
Of mortal worths, not worth so worthy love;
All beauty's base, all graces are impure,

That do thy erring thoughts from God remove.
Sparks to the fire, the beams yield to the sun,
All grace to God, from whom all graces run.

If picture move, more should the pattern please ;
No shadow can with shadowed thing compare,
And fairest shapes, whereon our loves do seize,
But silly signs of God's high beauty are.
Go, starving sense, feed thou on earthly mast;
True love, in heaven seek thou thy sweet repast.

Glean not in barren soil these offal ears,

Sith reap thou may'st whole harvests of delight;
Base joys with griefs, bad hopes do end with fears,
Lewd love with loss, evil peace with deadly fight :
God's love alone doth end with endless ease,
Whose joys in hope, whose hope concludes in peace.

Let not the luring train of fancies trap,

Or gracious features, proofs of Nature's skill,
Lull Reason's force asleep in Error's lap,
Or draw thy wit to bent of wanton will.
The fairest flowers have not the sweetest smell;
A seeming heaven proves oft a damning hell.

Self-pleasing souls, that play with beauty's bait,
In shining shroud may swallow fatal hook ;
Where eager sight on semblant fair doth wait,

A lock it proves, that first was but a look :
The fish with ease into the net doth glide,
But to get out the way is not so wide.

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So long the fly doth dally with the flame,

Until his singed wings do force his fall;
So long the eye doth follow fancy's game,

Till love hath left the heart in heavy thrall.
Soon may the mind be cast in Cupid's jail,
But hard it is imprisoned thoughts to bail.

Oh! loathe that love whose final aim is lust,
Moth of the mind, eclipse of reason's light;
The grave of grace, the mole of Nature's rust,
The wrack of wit, the wrong of every right;
In sum, an ill whose harms no tongue can tell ;
In which to live is death, to die is hell.

Robert Southwell.

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XLVI

TO THE WORLD. A FAREWELL FOR A GENTLEWOMAN, VIRTUOUS AND NOBLE.

False world, good night, since thou hast brought

That hour upon my morn of age,

Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,

My part is ended on thy stage.

Do not once hope, that thou canst tempt
A spirit so resolved to tread

Upon thy throat, and live exempt

From all the nets that thou canst spread.

I know thy forms are studied arts,
Thy subtil ways be narrow straits ;
Thy courtesy but sudden starts,

And what thou call'st thy gifts, are baits.

I know too, though thou strut and paint,
Yet art thou both shrunk up and old;
That only fools make thee a saint,
And all thy good is to be sold.

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I know thou whole art but a shop
Of toys and trifles, traps and snares,
To take the weak, or make them stop:
Yet art thou falser than thy wares.

And, knowing this, should I yet stay,
Like such as blow away their lives,
And never will redeem a day,
Enamoured of their golden gyves?

Or having 'scaped, shall I return,
And thrust my neck into the noose,
From whence so lately I did burn
With all my powers myself to loose?

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What bird or beast is known so dull,
That fled his cage, or broke his chain,

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Since stirr❜dst up jealousies and fears,
When all the causes were away.

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Then in a soil hast planted me,
Where breathe the basest of thy fools;
Where envious arts professèd be,
And pride and ignorance the schools:

Where nothing is examined, weighed;
But as 'tis rumoured, so believed;
Where every freedom is betrayed,
And every goodness taxed or grieved.

But what we're born for, we must bear :
Our frail condition it is such,
That what to all may happen here,
Ift chance to me, I must not grutch.

Else I my state should much mistake,
To harbour a divided thought

From all my kind: that for my sake
There should a miracle be wrought.

No! I do know that I was born

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But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.

Ben Jonson.

XLVII

TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON.

The Muses' fairest light in no dark time,
The wonder of a learnèd age; the line
Which none can pass; the most proportioned wit
To nature, the best judge of what was fit;
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen;
The voice most echoed by consenting men;

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The soul which answered best to all well said
By others, and which most requital made;

Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,
Returning all her music with his own;

In whom with nature study claimed a part,
And yet who to himself owed all his art :
Here lies Ben Jonson! every age will look
With sorrow here, with wonder on his book.

John Cleveland.

ΙΟ

XLVIII

A CONTENTED MIND.

I weigh not fortune's frown or smile;
I joy not much in earthly joys;
I seek not state, I seek not style;
I am not fond of fancy's toys;

I rest so pleased with what I have,
I wish no more, no more I crave.

I quake not at the thunder's crack;
I tremble not at noise of war;
I swound not at the news of wrack;
I shrink not at a blazing star;
I fear not loss, I hope not gain,
I envy none, I none disdain.

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I see ambition never pleased;

I see some Tantals starved in store;

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I see gold's dropsy seldom eased;

I see e'en Midas gape for more:
I neither want, nor yet abound—
Enough's a feast, content is crowned.

I feign not friendship, where I hate;
I fawn not on the great in show;
I prize, I praise a mean estate—
Neither too lofty nor too low:
This, this is all my choice, my cheer-
A mind content, a conscience clear.

Joshua Sylvester.

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