Tender twigs are bent with ease, LIFE IS BUT LOST. By force I live, in will I wish to die, Who would not die, to kill all-murdering griefs? Who would not wish his treasure safe from thieves, Life is a wandering course to doubtful rest; Come, cruel death, why lingerest thou so long? What doth withhold thy dint from fatal stroke ? 1 Prise, (French) hold. 2 Destructive. Now press'd I am: alas! thou dost me wrong, Thy right is had, when thou hast stopped my breath; Why shouldst thou stay, to work my double death? If Saul's attempt in falling on his blade, Where life is lov'd, thou ready art to kill, Avaunt, O viper! I thy spite defy; There is a God that overrules thy force, I DIE ALIVE. O LIFE, what lets thee from a quick decease? 1 As lawful as it were easy to put in practice. I live but such a life as ever dies; I die but such a death as never ends: Thus still I die, yet still I do revive, Not where I breathe, but where I love, I live; The deaths I feel, in present dangers lie. A FANCY TURNED TO A SINNER'S COMPLAINT. HE that his mirth hath lost, Whose comfort is to rue, Whose hope is fallen, whose faith is crossed, If he have held them dear, And cannot cease to moan, He shall not rue alone. But if the smallest sweet Be mixed with all his sour; If in the day, the month, the year, Then rest he with himself, He is no mate for me; Whose time in tears, whose race in ruth, Whose life a death must be. Yet not the wished death, That feels no pain or lack; That making free the better part, Is only nature's wrack. O no, that were too well; That always yields extremest pangs, And inwardly doth die; Whose knowledge is a bloody field, Where virtue slain doth lie. My sense is passion's spy, Which show how fair the building was, While grace did it uphold. And still before mine eyes My mortal fall they lay: Whom grace and virtue once advanced, Now sin hath cast away. O thoughts, no thoughts but wounds, Some time the store of quiet rest, I sowed the soil of peace, To nettles now my corn, My field is turned to flint, Where I a heavy harvest reap Of cares that never stint. The peace, the rest, the life Were happy lot; but by their loss So, to unhappy men, The best frames to the worst. O time! O place! where thus I fell; Dear then, but now accursed. In was, stands my delight, In is and shall, my woe; My horror fastened in the yea, My hope hangs in the no. Unworthy of relief, That craved is too late; Too late I find, (I find too well,) Behold, such is the end That pleasure doth procure! Of nothing else but care and plaint Can she the mind assure. |