Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go:

We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May,

Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away.

CONTENT AND RICH.

I DWELL in grace's court,
Enriched with virtue's rights;
Faith guides my wit, love leads my will,
Hope all my mind delights.

In lowly vales I mount
To pleasure's highest pitch;
My silly shroud true honour brings,
My poor estate is rich.

My conscience is my crown,
Contented thoughts, my rest;
My heart is happy in itself,
My bliss is in my breast.

Enough I reckon wealth,

A mean the surest lot;
That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few,
All easy to fulfil :

I make the limits of my power
The bounds unto my will.

I have no hopes but one, Which is of heavenly reign: Effects attained, or not desired, All lower hopes refrain.

I feel no care of coin;
Well-doing is my wealth:
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.

I clip high climbing thoughts, The wings of swelling pride: Their fall is worst, that from the height Of greater honour slide.

Sith sails of largest size

The storm doth soonest tear, I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with rage,
While fury's flame doth burn:
It is in vain to stop the stream,
Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end,
I turn a late enraged foe
Unto a quiet friend;

And taught with often proof,
A tempered calm I find
To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.

Spare diet is my fare,

My clothes more fit than fine:
I know, I feed and cloathe a foe,
That pamper'd would repine.

I envy not their hap

Whom favour doth advance:
I take no pleasure in their pain
That have less happy chance.

To rise by others' fall,
I deem a losing gain :

All states with others' ruins built,
To ruin run amain.

No change of fortune's calms
Can cast my comforts down:
When fortune smiles, I smile to think
How quickly she will frown;

And when in froward mood,

She proved an angry foe:
Small gain I found to let her come,
Less loss to let her go.

LOSS IN DELAYS.

SHUN delays, they breed remorse; Take thy time while time doth serve thee; Creeping snails have weakest force, Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee: Good is best, when soonest wrought, Lingering labours come to nought.

Hoist up sail while gale doth last, Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure; Seek not time, when time is past, Sober speed is wisdom's leisure: After-wits are dearly bought, Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time wears all his locks before, Take then hold upon his forehead; When he flies, he turns no more, And behind his scalp is naked: Works adjourned have many stays, Long demurs breed new delays.

Seek thy salve while sore is green, Festered wounds ask deeper lancing; After-cures are seldom seen,

Often sought, scarce ever chancing.
Time and place give best advice;
Out of season, out of price.

Crush the serpent in the head, Break ill eggs ere they be hatched : Kill bad chickens in the tread; Fledged, they hardly can be catched: In the rising stifle ill,

Lest it grow against thy will.

Drops do pierce the stubborn flint, Not by force, but often falling; Custom kills with feeble dint,

More by use, than strength prevailing ; Single sands have little weight,

Many make a drowning freight.

Tender twigs are bent with ease,
Aged trees do break with bending;
Young desires make little prease,'
Growth doth make them past amending :
Happy man that soon doth knock
Babel's babes against the rock.

LIFE IS BUT LOST.

By force I live, in will I wish to die,
In plaint I pass the length of lingering days;
Free would my soul from mortal body fly,
And tread the track of death's desired ways:
Life is but lost, where death is deemed gain,
And loathed pleasures breed displeasing pain.

Who would not die, to kill all-murdering griefs?
Or who would live in never-dying fears?

Who would not wish his treasure safe from thieves,
And quit his heart from pangs, his eyes from tears ?
Death parteth but two ever-fighting foes,
Whose civil strife doth work our endless woes.

Life is a wandering course to doubtful rest;
As oft a cursed rise to damning leap,2
As happier race to win a heavenly crest;
None being sure what final fruits to reap.
And who can like in such a life to dwell,
Whose
ways are strait to heaven, but wide to hell?

Come, cruel death, why lingerest thou so long?
What doth withhold thy dint from fatal stroke?