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: The gaines not great I purchase by this stay; My following eye can hardly make a shift The secret wheels of hurrying time do give And what's a life? a weary pilgrimage, Whofe glory in one day doth fill the stage And And what's a life? the flourishing array Read on this dial, how the fhades devour Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made To view, how foon they droop, how foon they fade! Shade not that dial, night will blind too foon ; Nor do I beg this flender inch, to wile My thoughts with joy; here's nothing worth a smile. Quarles Emblems. 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 What if my feet should take their hafty flight, What if my foul fhould take the wings of day, What if fome folid rock fhould entertain Nor fea, nor fhade, nor fhicld, nor rock, nor cave, 'Tis vain to flee; 'till gentle Mercy fhew Th' Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not flie Great God! there is no fafety here below; 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, 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. CHURCH |