So now I mourned that she was dead, Whose single power did govern me; 50 To find the harm of liberty. They soon in passion's war contest, 60 And those, when by my mandates brought And now the day to night was turned, 65 All lovers quickly did perceive 70 And now all quires her dirges sing, In shades of cypress and of yew; The bells of every temple ring, 75 Where maids their withered garlands strew. To such extremes did sorrow rise, And was so lost to ears and eyes As seamen sinking in a storm. 80 My soul, in sleep's soft fetters bound, And straight, by horror waked, I found Yet she's to me but such a light, As are the stars to those who know We can at most but guess their height, CVIII Sir William Davenant. THE DIRGE. What is the existence of man's life Till death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm, where the hot blood Which bears his bark with many a wave, 85 5 10 It is a flower, which buds and grows, 15 Then shrinks into that fatal mould It is a dream, whose seeming truth 20 Where all the comforts he can share Till in the mist of dark decay It is a dial, which points out It is a weary interlude, Which doth short joys, long woes include; Henry King. CIX PARAPHRASE FROM SENECA. Let him that will, ascend the tottering seat K And thus, while I shall pass my silent days CX 15 20 Sir Matthew Hale. VANISHED BLESSINGS. The voice which I did more esteem All earthly comforts vanish thus ; So little hold of them have we, That we from them, or they from us, May in a moment ravished be. Yet we are neither just nor wise, If present mercies we despise; Or mind not how there may be made A thankful use of what we had. George Wither. 5 ΙΟ 15 CXI ЕРІТАРН. In this marble casket lies A matchless jewel of rich price; Anon. CXII THE WORLD'S FALLACIES. False world, thou liest thou canst not lend The least delight: Thy favours cannot gain a friend, They are so slight: Thy morning pleasures make an end Poor are the wants that thou suppliest: And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou viest 5 With heaven; fond earth, thou boast'st; false world, thou liest. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endless treasure: Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure: Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, There's none can want where thou suppliest, There's none can give where thou deniest ; Alas! fond world, thou boast'st; false world, thou liest. What well-advisèd ear regards What earth can say? Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Are painted clay : Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thy game at weakest, still thou viest; If seen, and then revied, deniest : Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou liest. |