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 in the dust.

Dibine Lobe.

THIS love's a fire for ever burning,
Mounting high, though often turning;
Quench it, it the more is flaming;
None can stifle it by taming.

This love's a spirit ever acting,
Nought for love, but love exacting;
Boundless in its reach and notion,
Restless in its course and motion.

This love's a star gross hearts refining,
Clouded, sometimes, and then shining;
And this fortune telling ever,
He who loveth, ceaseth never.

This love's a river, ever flowing,
Fruit and plenty still bestowing;
Wafting us into an ocean

Where we drown in love's devotion.

SHIRLEY.

This love is music, where the metre
Makes the harmony the sweeter;
If it tell a heavenly story,

Then the music turns to glory.

This love's a master, ever pleasing,
Bonds untying, burdens easing;
Chide he may, but never rages;
One whose work is wages.

very

ANON.

Period Fourth.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

ΤΟ

JOHN NORRIS.

Period Fourth.

The Dormitive.

THE night is come, like to the day; Depart not Thou, great God, away. Let not my sins, black as the night, Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. Keep still in my horizon; for to me The sun makes not the day, but Thee. Thou whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples sentry keep; Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes, Whose eyes are open while mine close. Let no dreams my head infest, But such as Jacob's temples blest. While I do rest my soul advance; Make my sleep a holy trance: That I may, my rest being wrought, Awake into some holy thought. And with as active vigour run My course as doth the nimble sun. Sleep is a death ;-O make me try, By sleeping, what it is to die! And as gently lay my head On my grave, as now my bed.