Christ hath took in this piece of ground,

And made a garden there for those

Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our creation

Our great Redeemer did remove

With the same shake, which at his passion

Did the earth and all things with it move.

As Sampson bore the doors away,

Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation, And did unhinge that day.

S

The brightness of that day

We sullied by our foul offence :

Wherefore that robe we cast away,

Having a new at his expence,

Whose drops of blood paid the full price,

That was required to make us gay,

And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:

And where the week-days trail on ground,

Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:

O let me take thee at the bound,

Leaping with thee from seven to seven, Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, Fly hand in hand to heaven!

SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;

The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose whose hue, angry and brave,

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in its grave;

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season'd timber never gives;

But, though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

[RICHARD CORBET was born at Ewell, in Surrey, in 1582, and was educated at Oxford, where he obtained great celebrity as a wit. He took orders, and, after obtaining several preferments, was promoted successively to the sees of Oxford and Norwich. He died in 1635.

Bishop Corbet was remarkable for his convivial habits, and some amusing traits of eccentricity and humour have been handed down regarding him; even the mitre does not seem to have made him uniformly grave, or averse to a practical jest.]

FAREWELL rewards and fairies,

Good housewives now may say,

For now foul sluts in dairies

Do fare as well as they.

And though they sweep their hearths no less

Than maids were wont to do,

Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old Abbeys,

The fairies' lost command;

They did but change priests' babies,
But some have changed your land;
And all your children sprung from thence
Are now grown Puritans;

Who live as changelings ever since,

For love of your domains.

At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,

So little care of sleep or sloth

These pretty ladies had;

When Tom came home from labour,

Or Cis to milking rose,

Then merrily went their tabor,

And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days

On many a grassy plain;
But since of late Elizabeth,

And later, James came in,