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THE SEARCH.

WHITHER, O, whither art thou fled,
My Lord, my Love?

My searches are my daily bread;
Yet never prove.

My knees pierce th' earth, mine eies the skie:
And yet the sphere

And centre both to me denie

That thou art there.

Yet can I mark how herbs below
Grow green and gay;

As if to meet thee they did know,
While I decay.

Yet can I mark how starres above
Simper and shine,

As having keyes unto thy love,
While poore I pine.

I sent a sigh to seek thee out,

Deep drawn in pain,

Wing'd like an arrow: but my scout
Returns in vain.

I tun'd another (having store)

Into a grone,

Because the search was dumbe before:
But all was one.

Lord, dost thou some new fabrick mold
Which favour winnes,

And keeps the present, leaving th' old
Unto their sinnes?

Where is my God? what hidden place
Conceals thee still?
What covert dare eclipse thy face?
Is it thy will?

O let not that of any thing:

Let rather brasse,

Or steel, or mountains be thy ring,

And I will passe.

Thy will such an intrenching is,
As passeth thought:

To it all strength, all subtilties
Are things of nought.

Thy will such a strange distance is,
As that to it

East and West touch, the poles do kisse,
And parallels meet.

Since then my grief must be as large
As is thy space,

Thy distance from me; see my charge,
Lord, see my case.

O take these barres, these lengths away :
Turn, and restore me:

Be not Almightie, let me say,

Against, but for me.

When thou dost turn, and wilt be neare;
What edge so keen,

What point so piercing can appeare
To come between?

For as thy absence doth excell

All distance known:

So doth thy nearnesse bear the bell,
Making two one.

THE QUIP.

THE merrie world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together, where I lay,
And all in sport to geere at me.

First, Beautie crept into a rose;
Which when I pluckt not, Sir, said she,
Tell me, I pray, Whose hands are those !
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then Money came, and chinking still,
What tune is this, poore man? said he:
I heard in Musick you had skill:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glorie puffing by
In silks that whistled, who but he!
He scarce allow'd me half an eie:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Yet when the houre of thy designe
To answer these fine things shall come;
Speak not at large, say, I am thine,
And then they have their answer home.

PEACE.

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave, Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd, if Peace were there.
A hollow winde did seem to answer, No:
Go seek elsewhere.

I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:
I will search out the matter.

But while I lookt the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden and did spy
A gallant flower,

The crown Imperiall: Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell.

But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devoure
What show'd so well.

At length I met a rev'rend good old man;
Whom when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:

There was a Prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

He sweetly liv'd; yet sweetnesse did not save
His life from foes.

But after death out of his grave.

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat:
Which many wondring at, got some of those
To plant and set.

It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth:

For they that taste it do rehearse,
That vertue lies therein;

A secret vertue, bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sinne.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you;

Make bread of it: and that repose
And peace, which ev'ry where
With so much earnestnesse you do pursue
Is onely there.

James Shirley.

Born 1596.
Died 1666.

A DISTINGUISHED dramatist, of whom it was said by the Censor that his plays were free from "oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness." He was born in London in 1596, and was designed for holy orders. He officiated as curate at St Albans, but resigned the curacy on becoming a Roman Catholic. He then removed to London, where he became a successful writer for the stage. Thirty-nine plays came successively from his pen, besides a volume of poems. He lost all his property at the great fire of London, and died amid the distress occasioned by it in 1666.

DEATH THE CONQUEROR OF ALL.

THE glories of our mortal state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings;
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at length must yield;
They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to Fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
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:
All heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom from the dust.

Edmund Waller.

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Born 1605.

Died 1687.

AN English Poet, born at Coleshill in 1605. While yet a child he was left heir to an estate of £3000 a year. His mother was a Hampden, and also related to Oliver Cromwell. Waller wrote his first poem in his eighteenth year. His intellectual powers were of the highest order; and being graceful in his manners and sprightly in conversation, he was a general favourite. Waller was at one time a suitor for the hand of the daughter of the Earl of Leicester, and he wrote many poems in praise of "his Sacharissa," but she turned a deaf ear to his addresses. On meeting her long after, when she was advanced in years, she asked him when he would again write such verses upon her, he replied, "When you are as young and as handsome as you were then." Waller was utterly destitute of political principle, siding with the Parliament in the civil war, and seeking to betray them to the King; writing praises on Cromwell when in power; and on Charles II. and James II. after the restoration, and carrying off his apostasy with a flow of sparkling wit which made his peace with all. Charles challenged him for having written a panegyric on him inferior to that on Cromwell; "It is more easy for poets to write fiction than truth," was the reply. Waller was a keen observer of political matters, and is said to have given James II. much good advice. His fame rests chiefly on his short, light, occasional pieces written in "a melodious verse," which made him popular. He died on 21st October 1687, at Beaconsfield.

ON LOVE.

ANGER, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow, too, finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief:
So ev'ry passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,

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