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Where from their pulpits seald with dust
They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.'
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin :
Here the bones of birth have cried
'Though gods they were, as men they died :
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings :
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried iri dust, once dead by fate.

F. Beaumont


Victorious men of earth, no more

Proclaim how wide your empires are ;
Though you bind-in every shore
And your triumphs reach as far

As night or day,
Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Devouring Famine, Plague, and War

Each able to undo mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are ;
Nor to these alone confined,

He hath at will
More quaint and subtle ways to kill ;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

J. Shirley


DEATH THE LEVELLER 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:

Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill :
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still :
Early or late

And must give up
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ;
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds :

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb ;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

J. Shirley




Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
If deed of honour did thee ever please,
Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' hower :
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower

Went to the ground : and the repeated air
Of sad Electra's poet had the power
To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

J. Milton

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How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought
And simple truth his utmost skill !
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame, or private breath ;

Who envies none that chance doth raise
Nor vice ; Who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise ;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good :
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great ;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend ;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend,
-This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

Sir H. Wotton



It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make Man better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere :

A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,

It was the plant and flower of Light.
In sınall proportions we just beauties see ;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

B. Jonson



When God at first made Man, Having a glass of blessings standing by ; Let us (said He) pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie,

Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way ; Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure,

Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said He)
Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature,

So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness :
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.

G. Herbert


Happy those early days, when I
Shined in my Angel-infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walk'd above
A mile or two from my first Love,

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