A little seed best fits a little soil,

A little trade best fits a little toil :

As my small jar best fits my little oil.

A little bin best fits a little bread,

A little garland fits a little head :
As my small stuff best fits my little shed.

A little hearth best fits a little fire,
A little chapel fits a little choir,

As my small bell best fits my little spire.

A little stream best fits a little boat;

A little lead best fits a little float;
As my small pipe best fits my little note.

A little meat best fits a little belly,

As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye, This little pipkin fits this little jelly.

LXXXV.

AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON.

A

H Ben!

Say how or when

Shall we thy guests

Meet at those lyric feasts

Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the Triple Tun,
Where we such clusters had

As made us nobly wild, not mad?
And yet each verse of thine

Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.

My Ben!

Or come agen,

Or send to us

Thy wit's great overplus.

But teach us yet

Wisely to husband it;

Lest we that talent spend ;

And having once brought to an end

That precious stock, the store

Of such a wit the world should have no more.

LXXXVI.

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS

L

HOUSE.

ORD, thou hast given me a cell

Wherein to dwell;

And little house, whose humble roof

Is weather proof;

Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry.

Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,
Who thither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipped, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,

And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by thee.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of thy kindness thou hast sent:

And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That soils my land:

And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one :

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day :

Besides my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year :

The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine.

All these, and better, thou dost send
Me to this end:

That I should render, for my part

A thankful heart,

Which, fired with incense, I resign

As wholly thine :

But the acceptance that must be,

My Christ, by thee.

HENRY KING.

1592-1669.

LXXXVII.

L

ON THE LIFE OF MAN.

IKE to the falling of a star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood :
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.