The SHORTNESS of LIFE.

MY glafs is half unfpent; forbear t' arreft

My thriftless day too foon: my poor request Is that my glass may run but out the rest.

My time-devouring minutes will be done

Without thy help; fee! fee how fwift they run:
Cut not my thread before my thread be spun.

The gaines not great I purchase by this stay;
What lofs fuftain't thou by fo fmall 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 secret wheels of hurrying time do give
So fhort a warning, and so fast they drive,
That I am dead before I seem 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

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 short-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

O That thou wouldst hide me in the Grave, that thou wouldft keep me in fecret until thy wrath be past.

PSALMS.

A

H! whither fhall I fly? what path untrod Shall I feek out to 'fcape the flaming rod Of my offended, of my angry God?

Where fhall I fojourn? what kind fea will hide
My head from thunder? where fhall I abide,
Until his flames be quench'd or laid afide ?

What if my feet should take their hafty flight,
And feek protection in the fhades of night?
Alas! no fhades can blind the God of Light.

What if my foul fhould take the wings of day,
And find fome defert; if fhe fpring away,
The wings of Vengeance clip as fast as they.

What if fome folid rock fhould entertain
My frighted foul? can folid rocks restrain
The ftroke of Juftice and not cleave in twain?

Nor fea, nor fhade, nor fhicld, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor filent deferts, nor the fullen grave,
Where flame-ey'd fury means to fmite, can fave.

'Tis vain to flee; 'till gentle Mercy fhew
Her better eye; the farther off we go,
The fwing of Justice deals the mightier blow,

Th'

Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not flie
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.

Great God! there is no fafety here below;
Thou art my fortrefs, thou that feem'st my foe,
Tis thou that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow.

Quarles Emblems.

ALL THINGS ARE VAINE.

ALTHOUGH the purple morning, brages in brightness of

the funne

As though he had of chafed night, a glorious conqueft

wonne :

The time by day, gives place againe to force of drowsy night,
And every creature is conftrain'd to change his lufty plight.
Of pleasure all that here we tafte;

We feele the contrary at laste.

In fpring, though pleasant Zephirus hath frutefull earth infpired,

And Nature hath each bush, each branch, with blossomes brave attired:

Yet fruites and flowers, as buds and blomes ful quickly withered be,

When stormie Winter comes to kill, the Sommers jollitie.

By time are got, by time are lost,

All thinges wherein we pleasure moft.

3

Although

Although the Seas fo calmely glide, as daungers none ap.

peare,

And dout of stormes, in skie is none, king Phoebus fhines fo

cleare:

Yet when the boiftrous windes breake out, and raging waves do fwel,

The feely barke now heaves to heaven, now finkes againe to hel,

Thus change in ever thing we fee,

And nothing conftant feemes to be.

Who floweth most in worldly wealth of wealth is most unfure, And he that cheefely tastes of joy, doth fometime woe endure: Who vaunteth most of numbred freendes, foregoe them all he

must,

The fairest flesh and livelieft bloud, is turn'd at length to duft. Experience gives a certain ground,

That certen here, is nothing found.

Then truft to that which aye remaines, the bliffe of heavens above,

Which Time, nor Fate, nor Wind, nor Storme, is able to

remove,

Truft to that fure celeftiall rocke, that refts in glorious

throne,

That hath bene, is, and must be ftil, our anker hold alone.

The world is but a vanitie,

In heaven feeke we our furetie.

The Paradife of Daynty Devifes.
Fol. 18, 44. figned F. K.

CHURCH