Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crookèd scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath 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: To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. James Shirley. 5 ΙΟ 15 20 LVIII LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG AND CONDEMNED TO DIE. My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain : The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun; 5 The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung ; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen : I sought my death, and found it in my womb; Chidiock Tychborn. LIX LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS E'en such is time; which takes on trust Which in the dark and silent grave, Sir Walter Raleigh. LX SONNET. Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day 5 This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, 5 May live for ever in felicity: And that thy love we weighing worthily, IO LXI THE HEAVENLY JERUSALEM. Jerusalem, my happy home, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, O happy harbour of the saints! In thee no sorrow may be found, In thee no sickness may be seen, There lust and lucre cannot dwell, 55 ΙΟ There is no hunger, heat, nor cold, 15 Thy walls are made of precious stones, 20 Thy turrets and thy pinnacles With carbuncles do shine; Thy very streets are paved with gold, We sigh, and sob, we weep and wail, 40 Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall, Our pleasure is but pain, Our joys scarce last the looking on, Continually are green; 50 There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers Quite through the streets, with silver sound, Upon whose banks on every side The wood of Life doth grow. There trees for evermore bear fruit, And evermore do spring; There evermore the angels sit, And evermore do sing. Jerusalem, my happy home, Would God I were in thee! Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see! Anon. 55 60 |