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Of pleasure all that here we taste;
We feel the contrary at last.

In spring, though pleasant Zephyrus hath fruitful earth in

spired, And nature hath each bush, each branch, with blossoms

brave attired : Yet fruits and flowers, as buds and blooms, full quickly

withered be,
When stormy winter comes to kill, the summer's jollity.

By time are got, by time are lost,
All things wherein we pleasure most.

Although the seas so calmly glide, as dangers none appear, And doubt of storms, in sky is none, king Phæbus shines so

clear: Yet when the boisťrous winds break out, and raging waves

do swell, The seely bark now heaves to heaven, now sinks again to hell,

Thus change in ev'ry thing we see,
And nothing constant seems to be.

Who floweth most in worldly wealth, of wealth is most unsure, And he that chiefly tastes of joy, doth sometime woe endure: Who vaunteth most of numb’red friends, forego them all he

must, The fairest flesh and liveliest blood, is turn'd at length to dust.

Experience gives a certain ground,
That certain here, is nothing found.

Then trust to that which aye remains, the bliss of heavens

above, Which Time, nor Fate, nor Wind, nor Storm, is able to re


Trust to that sure celestial rock, that rests in glorious throne,
That hath been, is, and must be still, our anchor hold alone.

The world is but a vanity,
In heaven seek we our surety.

The Paradise of Dainty Devises,

Fol. 18, 44, signed F. K*.


While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I entomb my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
To which the blast of Death's incessant motiou,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last; therefore I gladly trust

My body to the school, that it


To spell his elements, and finds his birth
Written in dusty heraldry and lines.
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jeat, and marble put for signs,

To sever the good fellowship of dust,
And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,

* Probably written by Francis Kinwelmershe, a contributor to the collection in which they appear, and a student of Gray's Inn. He assisted Gascoigne in his tragedy of Jocasta.

When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust ?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent: that when thou shalt grow fat,

And wanton in thy cravings, thou may'st know
That flesh is but the glass which holds the dust
That measures all our time ; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust, mark here below
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
That thou may’st fit thyself against thy fall.

The Temple, by G. Herbert,

p. 56, Edit. 1709.



now, ye British swains (whose harmless sheep
Than all the world's beside I joy to keep),
Which spread on every plain and hilly wold,
Fleeces no less esteem'd than that of gold,
For whose exchange one India gems of price,
The other gives you of her choicest spice;
And well she may: but we unwise, the while,
Lessen the glory of our fruitful isle ;
Making those nations think we foolish are,
For baser drugs to vent our richer ware,
Which (save the bringer) never profit man,
Except the sexton and physician.



And whether change of climes, or what it be,
That proves our mariners' mortality,
Such expert men are spent for such bad fares
As might have made us lords of what is theirs.
Stay, stay at home, ye nobler spirits, and prize
Your lives more high than such base trumperies ;
Forbear to fetch; and they'll go near to sue,
And at your own doors offer them to you;
Or have their woods and plains so overgrown
With pois'nous weeds, roots, gums, and seeds unknown,
That they would hire such weeders as you be
To free their land from such fertility.
Their spices hot their nature best endures,
But 'twill impair and much distemper yours.
What our own soil affords befits us best;
And long, and long, for ever may we rest
Needless of help! and may this isle alone
Furnish all other lands, and this land none!

Britannia's Pastorals, by W. Browne,

B. II. Song iv.



Mine own John Poins, since ye delight to know

The causes why that homeward I me draw,
And flee the praise of courts, whereso they go,
Rather than to live thral under the awe
Of lordly looks, wrapped within my cloak,
To will and lust learning to set a law;

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It is not, that because I storm or mock
The power of them, whom Fortune here hath lent
Charge over us, of right to strike the stroke;
But true it is, that I have always meant
Less to esteem them, than the common sort,
Of outward things that judge in their intent,
Without regard what inward doth resort:
I grant, some time of Glory that the fire
Doth touch my heart, me list not to report:
Blame by honour, and honour to desire.
But how may I this honour now attain,
That cannot die the colour black a liar* ?
My Poins, I cannot frame my tune to feign,
To cloak the truth, for praise, without desert,
Of them that list all vice for to retain:
I cannot honour them that set their part
With Venus and Bacchus all their life long;
Nor hold my peace of them, although I smart.
I cannot crouch nor kneel to such a wrong,
To worship them like God on earth alone,
That are as wolves these sely lambs among;
I cannot with words complain and moan,
And suffer nought; nor smart without complaint,
Nor turn the word that from my mouth is gone.
I cannot speak and look like a saint,
Use wiles for wit, and make deceit a pleasure,
Call craft counsel, for lucre still to paint:


* But how may I this honour now attain
That cannot, &c.] Thus Johnson:

Well may they rise ; while I, whose rustic tongue
Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong,
Spuro'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy,
Live unregarded, unlamented die. London.

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