CIXPARAPHRASE FROM SENECA.

What is the existence of man’s lifeBut open war, or slumbered strife?Where sickness to his sense presentsThe combat of the elements;And never feels a perfect peace,5Till death’s cold hand signs his release.It is a storm, where the hot bloodOutvies in rage the boiling flood;And each loud passion of the mindIs like a furious gust of wind,10Which bears his bark with many a wave,Till he casts anchor in the grave.It is a flower, which buds and grows,And withers as the leaves disclose;Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,15Like fits of waking before sleep:Then shrinks into that fatal mouldWhere its first being was enrolled.It is a dream, whose seeming truthIs moralized in age and youth:20Where all the comforts he can shareAs wandering as his fancies are;Till in the mist of dark decayThe dreamer vanish quite away.It is a dial, which points out25The sunset, as it moves about:And shadows out in lines of nightThe subtle stages of time’s flight,Till all-obscuring earth hath laidThe body in perpetual shade.30It is a weary interlude,Which doth short joys, long woes include;The world the stage, the prologue tears,The acts vain hope, and varied fears:The scene shuts up with loss of breath,35And leaves no epilogue but death.Henry King.

What is the existence of man’s life

But open war, or slumbered strife?

Where sickness to his sense presents

The combat of the elements;

And never feels a perfect peace,5

Till death’s cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm, where the hot bloodOutvies in rage the boiling flood;And each loud passion of the mindIs like a furious gust of wind,10Which bears his bark with many a wave,Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a storm, where the hot blood

Outvies in rage the boiling flood;

And each loud passion of the mind

Is like a furious gust of wind,10

Which bears his bark with many a wave,

Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower, which buds and grows,And withers as the leaves disclose;Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,15Like fits of waking before sleep:Then shrinks into that fatal mouldWhere its first being was enrolled.

It is a flower, which buds and grows,

And withers as the leaves disclose;

Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,15

Like fits of waking before sleep:

Then shrinks into that fatal mould

Where its first being was enrolled.

It is a dream, whose seeming truthIs moralized in age and youth:20Where all the comforts he can shareAs wandering as his fancies are;Till in the mist of dark decayThe dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth

Is moralized in age and youth:20

Where all the comforts he can share

As wandering as his fancies are;

Till in the mist of dark decay

The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial, which points out25The sunset, as it moves about:And shadows out in lines of nightThe subtle stages of time’s flight,Till all-obscuring earth hath laidThe body in perpetual shade.30

It is a dial, which points out25

The sunset, as it moves about:

And shadows out in lines of night

The subtle stages of time’s flight,

Till all-obscuring earth hath laid

The body in perpetual shade.30

It is a weary interlude,Which doth short joys, long woes include;The world the stage, the prologue tears,The acts vain hope, and varied fears:The scene shuts up with loss of breath,35And leaves no epilogue but death.Henry King.

It is a weary interlude,

Which doth short joys, long woes include;

The world the stage, the prologue tears,

The acts vain hope, and varied fears:

The scene shuts up with loss of breath,35

And leaves no epilogue but death.

Henry King.

Let him that will, ascend the tottering seatOf courtly grandeur, and become as greatAs are his mounting wishes: as for me,Let sweet repose and rest my portion be;Give me some mean obscure recess, a sphere5Out of the road of business, or the fearOf falling lower; where I sweetly mayMyself and dear retirement still enjoy:Let not my life or name be known untoThe grandees of the time, tost to and fro10By censures or applause; but let my ageSlide gently by; not overthwart the stageOf public action; unheard, unseen,And unconcerned, as if I ne’er had been.And thus, while I shall pass my silent days15In shady privacy, free from the noiseAnd bustles of the mad world, then shall IA good old innocent plebeian die.Death is a mere surprise, a very snareTo him, that makes it his life’s greatest care20To be a public pageant; known to all,But unacquainted with himself, doth fall.Sir Matthew Hale.

Let him that will, ascend the tottering seat

Of courtly grandeur, and become as great

As are his mounting wishes: as for me,

Let sweet repose and rest my portion be;

Give me some mean obscure recess, a sphere5

Out of the road of business, or the fear

Of falling lower; where I sweetly may

Myself and dear retirement still enjoy:

Let not my life or name be known unto

The grandees of the time, tost to and fro10

By censures or applause; but let my age

Slide gently by; not overthwart the stage

Of public action; unheard, unseen,

And unconcerned, as if I ne’er had been.

And thus, while I shall pass my silent days15

In shady privacy, free from the noise

And bustles of the mad world, then shall I

A good old innocent plebeian die.

Death is a mere surprise, a very snare

To him, that makes it his life’s greatest care20

To be a public pageant; known to all,

But unacquainted with himself, doth fall.

Sir Matthew Hale.

The voice which I did more esteemThan music in her sweetest key,Those eyes which unto me did seemMore comfortable than the day—Those now by me, as they have been,5Shall never more be heard or seen;But what I once enjoyed in themShall seem hereafter as a dream.All earthly comforts vanish thus;So little hold of them have we,10That 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 made15A thankful use of what we had.George Wither.

The voice which I did more esteem

Than music in her sweetest key,

Those eyes which unto me did seem

More comfortable than the day—

Those now by me, as they have been,5

Shall never more be heard or seen;

But what I once enjoyed in them

Shall seem hereafter as a dream.

All earthly comforts vanish thus;So little hold of them have we,10That 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 made15A thankful use of what we had.George Wither.

All earthly comforts vanish thus;

So little hold of them have we,10

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 made15

A thankful use of what we had.

George Wither.

In this marble casket liesA matchless jewel of rich price;Whom Nature in the world’s disdainBut showed, and put it up again.Anon.

In this marble casket lies

A matchless jewel of rich price;

Whom Nature in the world’s disdain

But showed, and put it up again.

Anon.

False world, thou liest: thou canst not lendThe least delight:Thy favours cannot gain a friend,They are so slight:Thy morning pleasures make an end5To please at night:Poor are the wants that thou suppliest:And yet thou vaunt’st, and yet thou viestWith heaven; fond earth, thou boast’st; false world, thou liest.Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales10Of endless treasure:Thy bounty offers easy salesOf lasting pleasure:Thou ask’st the conscience what she ails,And swear’st to ease her;15There’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 regardsWhat earth can say?20Thy words are gold, but thy rewardsAre painted clay:Thy cunning can but pack the cards,Thou canst not play:Thy game at weakest, still thou viest;25If seen, and then revied, deniest:Thou art not what thou seem’st; false world, thou liest.Thy tinsel bosom seems a mintOf new-coined treasure;A paradise, that has no stint,30No change, no measure;A painted cask, but nothing in’t,Nor wealth, nor pleasure.Vain earth! that falsely thus compliestWith man; vain man, that thou reliest35On earth: vain man, thou doat’st; vain earth, thou liest.What mean dull souls in this high measureTo haberdashIn earth’s base wares, whose greatest treasureIs dross and trash;40The height of whose enchanting pleasureIs but a flash?Are these the goods that thou suppliestUs mortals with? Are these the highest?44Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou liest.Francis Quarles.

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 end5

To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou suppliest:

And yet thou vaunt’st, and yet thou viest

With heaven; fond earth, thou boast’st; false world, thou liest.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales10Of endless treasure:Thy bounty offers easy salesOf lasting pleasure:Thou ask’st the conscience what she ails,And swear’st to ease her;15There’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.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales10

Of endless treasure:

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure:

Thou ask’st the conscience what she ails,

And swear’st to ease her;15

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 regardsWhat earth can say?20Thy words are gold, but thy rewardsAre painted clay:Thy cunning can but pack the cards,Thou canst not play:Thy game at weakest, still thou viest;25If seen, and then revied, deniest:Thou art not what thou seem’st; false world, thou liest.

What well-advisèd ear regards

What earth can say?20

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards

Are painted clay:

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,

Thou canst not play:

Thy game at weakest, still thou viest;25

If seen, and then revied, deniest:

Thou art not what thou seem’st; false world, thou liest.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mintOf new-coined treasure;A paradise, that has no stint,30No change, no measure;A painted cask, but nothing in’t,Nor wealth, nor pleasure.Vain earth! that falsely thus compliestWith man; vain man, that thou reliest35On earth: vain man, thou doat’st; vain earth, thou liest.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coined treasure;

A paradise, that has no stint,30

No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in’t,

Nor wealth, nor pleasure.

Vain earth! that falsely thus compliest

With man; vain man, that thou reliest35

On earth: vain man, thou doat’st; vain earth, thou liest.

What mean dull souls in this high measureTo haberdashIn earth’s base wares, whose greatest treasureIs dross and trash;40The height of whose enchanting pleasureIs but a flash?Are these the goods that thou suppliestUs mortals with? Are these the highest?44Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou liest.Francis Quarles.

What mean dull souls in this high measure

To haberdash

In earth’s base wares, whose greatest treasure

Is dross and trash;40

The height of whose enchanting pleasure

Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou suppliest

Us mortals with? Are these the highest?44

Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou liest.

Francis Quarles.

Farewell, too little and too lately known,Whom I began to think, and call my own;For sure our souls were near allied, and thineCast in the same poetic mould with mine.One common note on either lyre did strike,5And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike.To the same goal did both our studies drive;The last set out, the soonest did arrive.Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,Whilst his young friend performed, and won the race.10Oh early ripe! to thy abundant storeWhat could advancing age have added more?It might (what nature never gives the young)Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue.But satire needs not those, and wit will shine15Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.A noble error, and but seldom made,When poets are by too much force betrayed;Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime,Still showed a quickness; and maturing time20But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme.Once more, hail, and farewell; farewell, thou young,But, ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue!Thy brows with ivy and with laurels bound;But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.25John Dryden.

Farewell, too little and too lately known,

Whom I began to think, and call my own;

For sure our souls were near allied, and thine

Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.

One common note on either lyre did strike,5

And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike.

To the same goal did both our studies drive;

The last set out, the soonest did arrive.

Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,

Whilst his young friend performed, and won the race.10

Oh early ripe! to thy abundant store

What could advancing age have added more?

It might (what nature never gives the young)

Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue.

But satire needs not those, and wit will shine15

Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.

A noble error, and but seldom made,

When poets are by too much force betrayed;

Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime,

Still showed a quickness; and maturing time20

But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme.

Once more, hail, and farewell; farewell, thou young,

But, ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue!

Thy brows with ivy and with laurels bound;

But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.25

John Dryden.

The chief perfection of both sexes joined,With neither’s vice nor vanity combined;Of this our age the wonder, love, and care,The example of the following, and despair;Such beauty, that from all hearts love must flow,5Such majesty, that none durst tell her so;A wisdom of so large and potent sway,Rome’s Senate might have wished, her Conclave may:Which did to earthly thoughts so seldom bow,Alive she scarce was less in heaven than now;10So void of the least pride, to her aloneThese radiant excellencies seemed unknown;Such once there was; but let thy grief appear,Reader, there is not: Huntingdon lies here.Lord Falkland.

The chief perfection of both sexes joined,

With neither’s vice nor vanity combined;

Of this our age the wonder, love, and care,

The example of the following, and despair;

Such beauty, that from all hearts love must flow,5

Such majesty, that none durst tell her so;

A wisdom of so large and potent sway,

Rome’s Senate might have wished, her Conclave may:

Which did to earthly thoughts so seldom bow,

Alive she scarce was less in heaven than now;10

So void of the least pride, to her alone

These radiant excellencies seemed unknown;

Such once there was; but let thy grief appear,

Reader, there is not: Huntingdon lies here.

Lord Falkland.

In this marble buried liesBeauty may enrich the skies,And add light to Phœbus’ eyes;Sweeter than Aurora’s air,When she paints the lilies fair,5And gilds cowslips with her hair;Chaster than the virgin spring,Ere her blossoms she doth bring,Or cause Philomel to sing.If such goodness live ’mongst men,10Tell me it: I [shall] know thenShe is come from heaven again.Anon.

In this marble buried liesBeauty may enrich the skies,And add light to Phœbus’ eyes;

In this marble buried lies

Beauty may enrich the skies,

And add light to Phœbus’ eyes;

Sweeter than Aurora’s air,When she paints the lilies fair,5And gilds cowslips with her hair;

Sweeter than Aurora’s air,

When she paints the lilies fair,5

And gilds cowslips with her hair;

Chaster than the virgin spring,Ere her blossoms she doth bring,Or cause Philomel to sing.

Chaster than the virgin spring,

Ere her blossoms she doth bring,

Or cause Philomel to sing.

If such goodness live ’mongst men,10Tell me it: I [shall] know thenShe is come from heaven again.Anon.

If such goodness live ’mongst men,10

Tell me it: I [shall] know then

She is come from heaven again.

Anon.

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,Meekly thou didst resign this earthly loadOf death, called life; which us from life doth sever.Thy works and alms, and all thy good endeavour,5Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod,Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best,Thy handmaids, clad them o’er with purple beams10And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,And spake the truth of thee on glorious themesBefore the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest,And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.John Milton.

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,

Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,

Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load

Of death, called life; which us from life doth sever.

Thy works and alms, and all thy good endeavour,5

Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;

But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod,

Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.

Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best,

Thy handmaids, clad them o’er with purple beams10

And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,

And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes

Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest,

And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

John Milton.

To these, whom death again did wed,This grave’s their second marriage-bed;For though the hand of Fate could force’Twixt soul and body a divorce,It could not sunder man and wife,5’Cause they both lived but one life.Peace, good reader, do not weep;Peace, the lovers are asleep:They (sweet turtles) folded lieIn the last knot that love could tie.10And though they lie as they were dead,Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead;(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm)Love made the bed, they’ll take no harm.Let them sleep, let them sleep on,15Till this stormy night be gone,And the eternal morrow dawn;Then the curtains will be drawn,And they wake into that light,Whose day shall never die in night.20Richard Crashaw.

To these, whom death again did wed,

This grave’s their second marriage-bed;

For though the hand of Fate could force

’Twixt soul and body a divorce,

It could not sunder man and wife,5

’Cause they both lived but one life.

Peace, good reader, do not weep;

Peace, the lovers are asleep:

They (sweet turtles) folded lie

In the last knot that love could tie.10

And though they lie as they were dead,

Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead;

(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm)

Love made the bed, they’ll take no harm.

Let them sleep, let them sleep on,15

Till this stormy night be gone,

And the eternal morrow dawn;

Then the curtains will be drawn,

And they wake into that light,

Whose day shall never die in night.20

Richard Crashaw.

Here lies a piece of Christ; a star in dust;A vein of gold; a china dish that mustBe used in heaven, when God shall feast the just.Robert Wild.

Here lies a piece of Christ; a star in dust;

A vein of gold; a china dish that must

Be used in heaven, when God shall feast the just.

Robert Wild.

I were unkind unless that I did shed,Before I part, some tears upon our dead:And when my eyes be dry, I will not ceaseIn heart to pray their bones may rest in peace:Their better parts (good souls) I know were given5With an intent they should return to heaven:Their lives they spent to the last drop of blood,Seeking God’s glory and their country’s good.And as a valiant soldier rather dies,Than yields his courage to his enemies;10And stops their way with his hewed flesh, when deathHath quite deprived him of his strength and breath;So have they spent themselves; and here they lie,A famous mark of our discovery.We that survive, perchance may end our days15In some employment meriting no praise;And in a dung-hill rot, when no man namesThe memory of us, but to our shames.They have outlived this fear, and their brave endsWill ever be an honour to their friends.20Why drop you so, mine eyes? Nay rather pourMy sad departure in a solemn shower.The winter’s cold, that lately froze our blood,Now were it so extreme, might do this good,As make these tears bright pearls, which I would lay25Tombed safely with you till doom’s fatal day;That in this solitary place, where noneWill ever come to breathe a sigh or groan,Some remnant might be extant of the trueAnd faithful love I ever tendered you.30Oh! rest in peace, dear friends, and, let it beNo pride to say, the sometime part of me.What pain and anguish doth afflict the head,The heart, and stomach, when the limbs are dead;So grieved, I kiss your graves, and vow to die,35A foster-father to your memory.Thomas James.

I were unkind unless that I did shed,

Before I part, some tears upon our dead:

And when my eyes be dry, I will not cease

In heart to pray their bones may rest in peace:

Their better parts (good souls) I know were given5

With an intent they should return to heaven:

Their lives they spent to the last drop of blood,

Seeking God’s glory and their country’s good.

And as a valiant soldier rather dies,

Than yields his courage to his enemies;10

And stops their way with his hewed flesh, when death

Hath quite deprived him of his strength and breath;

So have they spent themselves; and here they lie,

A famous mark of our discovery.

We that survive, perchance may end our days15

In some employment meriting no praise;

And in a dung-hill rot, when no man names

The memory of us, but to our shames.

They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends

Will ever be an honour to their friends.20

Why drop you so, mine eyes? Nay rather pour

My sad departure in a solemn shower.

The winter’s cold, that lately froze our blood,

Now were it so extreme, might do this good,

As make these tears bright pearls, which I would lay25

Tombed safely with you till doom’s fatal day;

That in this solitary place, where none

Will ever come to breathe a sigh or groan,

Some remnant might be extant of the true

And faithful love I ever tendered you.30

Oh! rest in peace, dear friends, and, let it be

No pride to say, the sometime part of me.

What pain and anguish doth afflict the head,

The heart, and stomach, when the limbs are dead;

So grieved, I kiss your graves, and vow to die,35

A foster-father to your memory.

Thomas James.

The Lady Mary Villiers liesUnder this stone: with weeping eyesThe parents that first gave her birth,And their sad friends, laid her in earth.If any of them, reader, were5Known unto thee, shed a tear:Or if thyself possess a gem,As dear to thee as this to them,Though a stranger to this place,Bewail in their’s thine own hard case;10For thou perhaps at thy returnMayst find thy darling in an urn.Thomas Carew.

The Lady Mary Villiers lies

Under this stone: with weeping eyes

The parents that first gave her birth,

And their sad friends, laid her in earth.

If any of them, reader, were5

Known unto thee, shed a tear:

Or if thyself possess a gem,

As dear to thee as this to them,

Though a stranger to this place,

Bewail in their’s thine own hard case;10

For thou perhaps at thy return

Mayst find thy darling in an urn.

Thomas Carew.

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,Instead of dirges this complaint;And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,Receive a strew of weeping verseFrom thy grieved friend, whom thou might’st see5Quite melted into tears for thee.Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,My task hath been to meditateOn thee, on thee: thou art the book,The library whereon I look,10Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay,I languish out, not live, the day,Using no other exerciseBut what I practise with mine eyes:By which wet glasses I find out15How lazily time creeps aboutTo one that mourns; this, only this,My exercise and business is:So I compute the weary hoursWith sighs dissolvèd into showers.20Nor wonder if my time go thusBackward and most preposterous;Thou hast benighted me; thy setThis eve of blackness did beget,Who wast my day (though overcast25Before thou hadst thy noontide past),And I remember must in tears,Thou scarce hadst seen so many yearsAs day tells hours. By thy clear sunMy love and fortune first did run;30But thou wilt never more appearFolded within my hemisphere,Since both thy light and motion,Like a fled star, is fall’n and gone,And ’twixt me and my soul’s dear wish35The earth now interposèd is,Which such a strange eclipse doth makeAs ne’er was read in almanack.I could allow thee for a timeTo darken me and my sad clime;40Were it a month, a year, or ten,I would thy exile live till then;And all that space my mirth adjourn.So thou wouldst promise to return;And putting off thy ashy shroud45At length disperse this sorrow’s cloud.But woe is me! the longest dateToo narrow is to calculateThese empty hopes: never shall IBe so much blest as to descry50A glimpse of thee, till that day comeWhich shall the earth to cinders doom,And a fierce fever must calcineThe body of this world like thine,My little world! That fit of fire55Once off, our bodies shall aspireTo our souls’ bliss: then we shall rise,And view ourselves with clearer eyesIn that calm region, where no nightCan hide us from each other’s sight.60Meantime, thou hast her, earth: much goodMay my harm do thee. Since it stoodWith Heaven’s will I might not callHer longer mine, I give thee allMy short-lived right and interest65In her, whom living I loved best:With a most free and bounteous grief,I give thee what I could not keep.Be kind to her, and prithee lookThou write into thy Doomsday book70Each parcel of this rarity,Which in thy casket shrined doth lie:See that thou make thy reckoning straight,And yield her back again by weight;For thou must audit on thy trust75Each grain and atom of this dust,As thou wilt answer him that lent,Not gave, thee, my dear monument.So close the ground, and ’bout her shadeBlack curtains draw; my bride is laid.80Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bedNever to be disquieted!My last good night! Thou wilt not wakeTill I thy fate shall overtake:Till age, or grief, or sickness must85Marry my body to that dustIt so much loves; and fill the roomMy heart keeps empty in thy tomb.Stay for me there; I will not failTo meet thee in that hallow vale.90And think not much of my delay;I am already on the way,And follow thee with all the speedDesire can make, or sorrows breed.Each minute is a short degree,95And every hour a step towards thee.At night when I betake to rest,Next morn I rise nearer my westOf life, almost by eight hours’ sail,Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.100Thus from the sun my bottom steers,And my day’s compass downward bears:Nor labour I to stem the tide,Through which to thee I swiftly glide.’Tis true, with shame and grief I yield,105Thou, like the van, first took’st the field,And gotten hast the victoryIn thus adventuring to dieBefore me, whose more years might craveA just precedence in the grave.110But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,Beats my approach, tells thee I come;And slow howe’er my marches be,I shall at last sit down by thee.The thought of this bids me go on,115And wait my dissolutionWith hope and comfort. Dear (forgiveThe crime) I am content to liveDivided, with but half a heart,Till we shall meet and never part.120Henry King.

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,

Instead of dirges this complaint;

And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,

Receive a strew of weeping verse

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might’st see5

Quite melted into tears for thee.

Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,

My task hath been to meditate

On thee, on thee: thou art the book,

The library whereon I look,10

Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay,

I languish out, not live, the day,

Using no other exercise

But what I practise with mine eyes:

By which wet glasses I find out15

How lazily time creeps about

To one that mourns; this, only this,

My exercise and business is:

So I compute the weary hours

With sighs dissolvèd into showers.20

Nor wonder if my time go thus

Backward and most preposterous;

Thou hast benighted me; thy set

This eve of blackness did beget,

Who wast my day (though overcast25

Before thou hadst thy noontide past),

And I remember must in tears,

Thou scarce hadst seen so many years

As day tells hours. By thy clear sun

My love and fortune first did run;30

But thou wilt never more appear

Folded within my hemisphere,

Since both thy light and motion,

Like a fled star, is fall’n and gone,

And ’twixt me and my soul’s dear wish35

The earth now interposèd is,

Which such a strange eclipse doth make

As ne’er was read in almanack.

I could allow thee for a time

To darken me and my sad clime;40

Were it a month, a year, or ten,

I would thy exile live till then;

And all that space my mirth adjourn.

So thou wouldst promise to return;

And putting off thy ashy shroud45

At length disperse this sorrow’s cloud.

But woe is me! the longest date

Too narrow is to calculate

These empty hopes: never shall I

Be so much blest as to descry50

A glimpse of thee, till that day come

Which shall the earth to cinders doom,

And a fierce fever must calcine

The body of this world like thine,

My little world! That fit of fire55

Once off, our bodies shall aspire

To our souls’ bliss: then we shall rise,

And view ourselves with clearer eyes

In that calm region, where no night

Can hide us from each other’s sight.60

Meantime, thou hast her, earth: much good

May my harm do thee. Since it stood

With Heaven’s will I might not call

Her longer mine, I give thee all

My short-lived right and interest65

In her, whom living I loved best:

With a most free and bounteous grief,

I give thee what I could not keep.

Be kind to her, and prithee look

Thou write into thy Doomsday book70

Each parcel of this rarity,

Which in thy casket shrined doth lie:

See that thou make thy reckoning straight,

And yield her back again by weight;

For thou must audit on thy trust75

Each grain and atom of this dust,

As thou wilt answer him that lent,

Not gave, thee, my dear monument.

So close the ground, and ’bout her shade

Black curtains draw; my bride is laid.80

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed

Never to be disquieted!

My last good night! Thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake:

Till age, or grief, or sickness must85

Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves; and fill the room

My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.

Stay for me there; I will not fail

To meet thee in that hallow vale.90

And think not much of my delay;

I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed

Desire can make, or sorrows breed.

Each minute is a short degree,95

And every hour a step towards thee.

At night when I betake to rest,

Next morn I rise nearer my west

Of life, almost by eight hours’ sail,

Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.100

Thus from the sun my bottom steers,

And my day’s compass downward bears:

Nor labour I to stem the tide,

Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

’Tis true, with shame and grief I yield,105

Thou, like the van, first took’st the field,

And gotten hast the victory

In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave

A just precedence in the grave.110

But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,

Beats my approach, tells thee I come;

And slow howe’er my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,115

And wait my dissolution

With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive

The crime) I am content to live

Divided, with but half a heart,

Till we shall meet and never part.120

Henry King.

Our life is only death! time that ensu’thIs but the death of time that went before;Youth is the death of childhood, age of youth;Die once to God, and then thou diest no more.Anon.

Our life is only death! time that ensu’th

Is but the death of time that went before;

Youth is the death of childhood, age of youth;

Die once to God, and then thou diest no more.

Anon.

As due by many titles, I resignMyself to Thee, O God. First I was madeBy Thee and for Thee; and, when I was decayed,Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine:I am thy son, made with Thyself to shine;5Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid,Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betrayedMyself, a temple of thy Spirit divine.Why doth the devil then usurp on me?Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that’s thy right?10Except Thou rise, and for thine own work fight,Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall seeThat Thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.John Donne.

As due by many titles, I resign

Myself to Thee, O God. First I was made

By Thee and for Thee; and, when I was decayed,

Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine:

I am thy son, made with Thyself to shine;5

Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid,

Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betrayed

Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine.

Why doth the devil then usurp on me?

Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that’s thy right?10

Except Thou rise, and for thine own work fight,

Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see

That Thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,

And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.

John Donne.

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;For those, whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,5Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow:And soonest our best men with thee do go,Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;10And poppy’ or charms can make us sleep as well,And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?One short sleep past, we wake eternally;And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.John Donne.

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those, whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,5

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow:

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.

Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;10

And poppy’ or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally;

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

John Donne.

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never-sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude;And, with forced fingers rude,Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year:5Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compels me to disturb your season due:For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew10Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,15That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destined urn;20And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high lawns appeared25Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,We drove a-field, and both together heardWhat time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright,30Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Tempered to the oaten flute;Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long;35And old Damœtas loved to hear our song.But, oh the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,40And all their echoes, mourn:The willows and the hazel copses greenShall now no more be seenFanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.As killing as the canker to the rose,45Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,When first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds’ ear.Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep50Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:55Ay me! I fondly dream!Had ye been there—for what could that have doneWhat could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,Whom universal Nature did lament,60When by the rout that made the hideous roarHis gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus, to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely, slighted, shepherd’s trade,65And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise—70That last infirmity of noble mind—To scorn delights, and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears,75And slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the praise,’Phœbus replied, and touched my trembling ears;‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet-off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies;80But lives, and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,85Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood:But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the seaThat came in Neptune’s plea.90He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?And questioned every gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beakèd promontory:They knew not of his story;95And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panope with all her sisters played.It was that fatal and perfidious bark,100Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge105Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.‘Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?’Last came, and last did go,The pilot of the Galilean lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,110(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,)He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake,‘How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such as for their bellies’ sakeCreep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!115Of other care they little reckoning make,Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest;Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least120That to the faithful herdman’s art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And, when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,125But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Beside what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said:But that two-handed engine at the door130Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is pastThat shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues.135Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks,Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,That on the green turf suck the honied showers,140And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet,145The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,150To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.For, so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away, where’er thy bones are hurled,155Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,160Where the great Vision of the guarded MountLooks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more;165For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore170Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,175And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the saints aboveIn solemn troops and sweet societies,That sing and, singing, in their glory move,180And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.185Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,While the still Morn went out with sandals gray;He touched the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,190And now was dropt into the western bay;At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.John Milton.

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never-sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude;

And, with forced fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year:5

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,

Compels me to disturb your season due:

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew10

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

He must not float upon his watery bier

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,

Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,15

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.

Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:

So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my destined urn;20

And as he passes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,

Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared25

Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,

We drove a-field, and both together heard

What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,

Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,

Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright,30

Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,

Tempered to the oaten flute;

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel

From the glad sound would not be absent long;35

And old Damœtas loved to hear our song.

But, oh the heavy change, now thou art gone,

Now thou art gone and never must return!

Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,

With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,40

And all their echoes, mourn:

The willows and the hazel copses green

Shall now no more be seen

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rose,45

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,

When first the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds’ ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep50

Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep,

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:55

Ay me! I fondly dream!

Had ye been there—for what could that have done

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,

The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,

Whom universal Nature did lament,60

When by the rout that made the hideous roar

His gory visage down the stream was sent,

Down the swift Hebrus, to the Lesbian shore?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care

To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd’s trade,65

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better done, as others use,

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise—70

That last infirmity of noble mind—

To scorn delights, and live laborious days;

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears,75

And slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the praise,’

Phœbus replied, and touched my trembling ears;

‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set-off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies;80

But lives, and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,85

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,

That strain I heard was of a higher mood:

But now my oat proceeds,

And listens to the herald of the sea

That came in Neptune’s plea.90

He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,

What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?

And questioned every gust of rugged wings

That blows from off each beakèd promontory:

They knew not of his story;95

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,

That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;

The air was calm, and on the level brine

Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.

It was that fatal and perfidious bark,100

Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,

His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge105

Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.

‘Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?’

Last came, and last did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake;

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,110

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,)

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake,

‘How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,

Enow of such as for their bellies’ sake

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!115

Of other care they little reckoning make,

Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast,

And shove away the worthy bidden guest;

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold

A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least120

That to the faithful herdman’s art belongs!

What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;

And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,125

But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:

Beside what the grim wolf with privy paw

Daily devours apace, and nothing said:

But that two-handed engine at the door130

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past

That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,

And call the vales, and bid them hither cast

Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues.135

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use

Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,

On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks,

Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,

That on the green turf suck the honied showers,140

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,

The glowing violet,145

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears:

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,150

To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.

For, so to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;

Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas

Wash far away, where’er thy bones are hurled,155

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,

Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,

Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;

Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,

Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,160

Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount

Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more;165

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;

So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore170

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,

Where, other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,175

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,

In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.

There entertain him all the saints above

In solemn troops and sweet societies,

That sing and, singing, in their glory move,180

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;

Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good

To all that wander in that perilous flood.185

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,

While the still Morn went out with sandals gray;

He touched the tender stops of various quills,

With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:

And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,190

And now was dropt into the western bay;

At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;

To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

John Milton.

The good in graves as heavenly seed are sown;And at the saints’ first spring, the general doom,Will rise, not by degrees, but fully blown;When all the angels to their harvest come.Cannot Almighty Heaven (since flowers which pass5Thawed through a still, and there melt mingled too,Are raised distinct in a poor chymist’s glass)Do more in graves than men in limbecs do?God bred the arts, to make us more believe(By seeking nature’s covered mysteries,)10His darker works, that faith may thence conceiveHe can do more than what our reason sees.O coward faith! religion’s trembling guide!Whom ev’n the dim-eyed arts must lead to seeWhat nature only from our sloth does hide,15Causes remote, which faith’s dark dangers be.Religion, ere imposed, should first be taught;Not seem to dull obedience ready laid,Then swallowed straight for ease, but long be sought;And be by reason counselled, though not swayed.20God has enough to human kind disclosed;Our fleshly garments He a while received,And walked as if the Godhead were deposed,Yet could be then but by a few believed.The faithless Jews will this at doom confess,25Who did suspect Him for his low disguise:But, if He could have made his virtue less,He had been more familiar to their eyes.Frail life! in which, through mists of human breathWe grope for truth, and make our progress slow,30Because by passion blinded; till, by deathOur passions ending, we begin to know.O reverend death! whose looks can soon adviseEven scornful youth, whilst priests their doctrine waste;Yet mocks us too; for he does make us wise,35When by his coming our affairs are past.O harmless death! whom still the valiant brave,The wise expect, the sorrowful invite,And all the good embrace, who know the graveA short dark passage to eternal light.Sir William Davenant.

The good in graves as heavenly seed are sown;And at the saints’ first spring, the general doom,Will rise, not by degrees, but fully blown;When all the angels to their harvest come.

The good in graves as heavenly seed are sown;

And at the saints’ first spring, the general doom,

Will rise, not by degrees, but fully blown;

When all the angels to their harvest come.

Cannot Almighty Heaven (since flowers which pass5Thawed through a still, and there melt mingled too,Are raised distinct in a poor chymist’s glass)Do more in graves than men in limbecs do?

Cannot Almighty Heaven (since flowers which pass5

Thawed through a still, and there melt mingled too,

Are raised distinct in a poor chymist’s glass)

Do more in graves than men in limbecs do?

God bred the arts, to make us more believe(By seeking nature’s covered mysteries,)10His darker works, that faith may thence conceiveHe can do more than what our reason sees.

God bred the arts, to make us more believe

(By seeking nature’s covered mysteries,)10

His darker works, that faith may thence conceive

He can do more than what our reason sees.

O coward faith! religion’s trembling guide!Whom ev’n the dim-eyed arts must lead to seeWhat nature only from our sloth does hide,15Causes remote, which faith’s dark dangers be.

O coward faith! religion’s trembling guide!

Whom ev’n the dim-eyed arts must lead to see

What nature only from our sloth does hide,15

Causes remote, which faith’s dark dangers be.

Religion, ere imposed, should first be taught;Not seem to dull obedience ready laid,Then swallowed straight for ease, but long be sought;And be by reason counselled, though not swayed.20

Religion, ere imposed, should first be taught;

Not seem to dull obedience ready laid,

Then swallowed straight for ease, but long be sought;

And be by reason counselled, though not swayed.20

God has enough to human kind disclosed;Our fleshly garments He a while received,And walked as if the Godhead were deposed,Yet could be then but by a few believed.

God has enough to human kind disclosed;

Our fleshly garments He a while received,

And walked as if the Godhead were deposed,

Yet could be then but by a few believed.

The faithless Jews will this at doom confess,25Who did suspect Him for his low disguise:But, if He could have made his virtue less,He had been more familiar to their eyes.

The faithless Jews will this at doom confess,25

Who did suspect Him for his low disguise:

But, if He could have made his virtue less,

He had been more familiar to their eyes.

Frail life! in which, through mists of human breathWe grope for truth, and make our progress slow,30Because by passion blinded; till, by deathOur passions ending, we begin to know.

Frail life! in which, through mists of human breath

We grope for truth, and make our progress slow,30

Because by passion blinded; till, by death

Our passions ending, we begin to know.

O reverend death! whose looks can soon adviseEven scornful youth, whilst priests their doctrine waste;Yet mocks us too; for he does make us wise,35When by his coming our affairs are past.

O reverend death! whose looks can soon advise

Even scornful youth, whilst priests their doctrine waste;

Yet mocks us too; for he does make us wise,35

When by his coming our affairs are past.

O harmless death! whom still the valiant brave,The wise expect, the sorrowful invite,And all the good embrace, who know the graveA short dark passage to eternal light.Sir William Davenant.

O harmless death! whom still the valiant brave,

The wise expect, the sorrowful invite,

And all the good embrace, who know the grave

A short dark passage to eternal light.

Sir William Davenant.

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