And by the aide of leifure, fo controule
Whate'er is earth in us, to grow all foule ?
Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when
We study misteries of other men

And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade
Thy head upon fome flowry pillow laide,
(Kind Nature's hufwifery) contemplate all
His ftratagems who labours to inthrall

The world to his great Master; and you'le finde
Ambition mockes itfelfe, and grafpes the wind.
Not conquest makes us great, blood is too deare
A price for Glory: Honour doth appeare
To statesmen like a vision in the night,
And juggler-like workes on the deluded fight.
The unbufied only wife: for no respect
Indangers them to error; they affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equall eye, not bright in gold
Or tall in title; fo much him they weigh
As Vertue raifeth him above his clay.
Thus let us value things; and fince we find
Time bends us toward death, let's in our mind
Create new Youth, and arme against the rude
Affaults of age; that no dull folitude

Of the Country dead our thoughts, nor bufie care
Of the towne make us not thinke, where now we are
And whether we are bound; Time nere forgot

His journey, though his fteps we numbred not.

A Farewell to the Vanities of the World.

FAR

AREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleafing troubles;
Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;
Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay;

Honour the darling but of one short day.
Beauty, th' eye's idol but a damask'd fkin;
State but a golden prison to live in,

And torture free-born minds: embroider'd trains
Merely but pageants for proud fwelling veins;
And blood ally'd to greatness, is alone
Inherited, not purchas'd nor our own,

Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood and birth,
Are but the fading bloffoms of the earth,

I would be great, but that the fun doth still
Level his rays against the rifing hill:

I would be high, but fee the proudest oak
Moft fubject to the rending thunder-stroke;
I would be rich, but fee men too unkind,
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind:
I would be wife, but that I often fee
The fox fufpected, whilft the afs goes free:
I would be fair, but fee the fair and proud
Like the bright fun, oft fetting in a cloud:
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy afs:
Rich hated: wife fufpected: fcorn'd if poor:
Great fear'd: fair tempted: high still envy'd more;
I have wifh'd all; but now I wish for neither ;
Great, high, rich, wife nor fair; poor I'll be rather.

Would

Would the World now adopt me for her heir,
Would Beauty's Queen entitle me "The Fair,"
Fame fpeak me Fortune's minion, could I vie
Angels with India; with a fpeaking eye

Command bare heads, bow'd knees, ftrike Juftice dumb,
As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue
To stones by epitaphs: be call'd Great Mafter
In the loose rhimes of every poetaster?
Could I be more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wife, all in fuperlatives:
Yet I more freely would these gifts refign,
Than ever fortune would have made them mine,

And hold one minute of this holy leisure,
Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye filent groves,
These guests, these courts, my foul most dearly loves:
Now the wing'd people of the sky fhall fing
My chearful anthems to the gladfome spring:
A prayer-book now fhall be my looking-glafs,
In which I will adore fweet Virtues face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-fac'd fears:
Then here I'll fit, and figh my hot love's folly,
And learn t' affect an holy melancholy;

And if Contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it, but in Heaven again.

Sir H. Wotton.

The

The SHORTNESS of LIFE,

MY

Y glafs is half unfpent; forbear t' arreft
My thriftless day too foon: my poor requeft
Is that my glass may run but out the rest.

My time-devouring minutes will be done.
Without thy help; fee! fee how swift they run;
Cut not my thread before my thread be fpun.

The gaines not great I purchase by this ftay;
What lofs fuftain't thou by so small delay,
To whom ten thousand years are but a day?

My following eye can hardly make a shift
To count my winged hours; they fly fo fwift,
They scarce deferve the bounteous name of gift.

The fecret wheels of hurrying time do give
So fhort a warning, and so fast they drive,
That I am dead before I feem to live.

And what's a life? a weary pilgrimage,

Whofe glory in one day doth fill the stage
With Childhood, Manhood, and decrepit Age.

And

7

And what's a life? the flourishing array
Of the proud fummer-meadow, which to-day
Weares her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.

Read on this dial, how the fhades devour
My fhort-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour;
Alas! the total's but from eight to four.

Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made
Fair copies of my life, and open laid

To view, how foon they droop, how foon they fade!

Shade not that dial, night will blind too foon;
My non-aged day already points to noon;
How fimple is my fuit! how small my boon!

Nor do I beg this flender inch, to wile
The time away, or falfely to beguile

My thoughts with joy; here's nothing worth a smile.

Quarles Emblems.
B. 3. Em. 13.

O That