not meteor-like exhaled from the vapours of this world; but shines a fixt starre, which when by misfortune it appears to fall, onely casts away the slimie matter. Poverty he neither feares nor covets, but cheerefully entertaines; imagining it the fire which tries vertue: nor how tyrannically soever it usurpe on him, doth he pay to it a sigh or wrinckle; for he who suffers want without reluctancie, may be poore not miserable. He sees the covetous prosper by usury, yet waxeth not leane with envie: and when the posteritie of the impious flourish, he questiones not the divine justice; for temporall rewards distinguish not ever the merits of men: and who hath beene of councel with the Eternall? Fame he weighes not, but esteemes a smoake, yet such as carries with it the sweetest odour, and riseth usually from the sacrifice of our best actions. Pride he dis

:

daines, when he findes it swelling in himself; but easily forgiveth it in another: Nor can any man's errour in life, make him sinne in censure, since seldome the folly we condemne is so culpable as the severity of our judgement. He doth not malice the over-spreading growth of his æqualls but pitties, not despiseth the fall of any man esteeming yet no storme of fortune dangerous, but what is rais'd through our owne demerit. When he lookes on other's vices, he values not himselfe virtuous by comparison, but examines his owne defects, and findes matter enough at home for reprehension. In conversation his carriage is neither plausible to flattery, nor reserv'd to rigour but so demeanes himselfe as created for societie. In solitude he remembers his better part is angelicall; and therefore his minde practiseth the best discourse without assistance of

inferiour organs. Lust is the basiliske he flyes, a serpent of the most destroying venome: for it blasts al plants with the breath, and carries the most murdering artillery in the eye. He is ever merry but still modest: not dissolved into undecent laughter, or tickled with wit scurrilous or injurious. He cunningly searcheth into the vertues of others, and liberally commends them: but buries the vices of the imperfect in a charitable silence, whose manners he reformes not by invectives but example. In prayer he is frequent not apparent yet as he labours not the opinion, so he feares not the scandall of being thought good. He every day travailes his meditations up to Heaven, and never findes himselfe wearied with the journey; but when the necessities of nature returne him downe to Earth, he esteemes it a place, hee is condemned to. Devotion is his mistresse on which he is passionately enamour'd: for that he hath found the most soveraigne antidote against sinne, and the onely balsome powerfull to cure those wounds hee hath receav'd through frailety. To live he knowes a benefit, and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates on life. Death how deformed soever an aspect it weares, he is not frighted with: since it not annihilates, but uncloudes the soule. He therefore stands every moment prepared to dye and though he freely yeelds up himselfe, when age and sicknesse sommon him; yet he with more alacritie puts off his earth, when the profession of faith crownes him a martyr.

The glorious trouble of the court.

For though

The vale lyes open to each overflow,
And in the humble shade we gather ill
And aguish ayres: yet lightnings oftner kill
O'th' naked heights of mountaines, whereon we
May have more prospect, not securitie.

For when, with losse of breath, we have orecome
Some steepe ascent of power, and forc'd a roome
On the so envi'd hill, how doe our hearts
Pant with the labour, and how many arts
More subtle must we practise, to defend
Our pride from sliding, than we did t' ascend?
How doth successe delude the mysteries
And all th' involv'd designements of the wise?
How doth that power, our pollitickes call chance,
Racke them till they confesse the ignorance
Of humane wit? Which, when 'tis fortified
So strong with reason that it doth deride
All adverse force, o'th' sudden findes its head
Intangled in a spider's slender thread.
Cœlestiall Providence! how thou dost mocke
The boast of earthly wisdome! On some rocke
When man hath a structure, with such art
It doth disdaine to tremble at the dart
Of thunder, or to shrinke, oppos'd by all
The angry winds, it of it selfe doth fall,
Ev'n in a calme so gentle, that no ayre
Breaths loud enough to stirre a virgin's haire !
But misery of judgement! Though past time
Instruct us by th' ill fortune of their crimes,
And show us how we may secure our state
From pittied ruine, by another's fate;
Yet we, contemning all such sad advice,
Pursue to build, though on a precipice.

But you (my lord) prevented by foresight
To engage your selfe to such an unsafe height,
And in your selfe both great and rich enough,
Refused t' expose your vessell to the rough
Vncertaine sea of businesse: whence even they
Who make the best returne, are forc'd to say:
"The wealth we by our worldly traffique gaine
Weighs light, if ballanc'd with the feare or paine."

And this is th' emblem of our life: to please
And flatter which, we sayle ore broken seas,
Vnfaithfull in their rockes and tides; we dare
All the sicke humours of a forraine ayre.
And mine so deepe in earth, as we would trie
To unlocke Hell, should gold there hoarded lie.
But when we have built up an ædifice

T' outwrastle time, we have but built on ice :
For firme however all our structures be,
Polisht with smoothest Indian ivory,
Rais'd high on marble, our unthankfull heire
Will scarce retaine in memory, that we were.
Tracke thro' the ayre the footsteps of the wind,
And search the print of ships sail'd by; then finde
Where all the glories of those monarchs be
Who bore such sway in the world's infancie.
Time hath devour'd them all; and scarce can Fame
Give an account, that ere they had a name.
How can he, then, who doth the world controle,
And strikes a terrour now in either pole,
Th' insulting Turke secure himself, that he
Shall not be lost to dull posterity?

And though the superstition of those times,

Which defied kings to warrant their owne crimes,
Translated Cæsar to a starre; yet they,
Who every region of the skie survay,

In their cœlestiall travaile, that bright coast
Could nere discover, which containes his ghost.
And after death to make that awe survive
Which subjects owe their princes yet alive,
Though they build pallaces of brasse and jet,
And keepe them living in a counterfet,
The curious looker on soone passes by,
And findes the tombe a sickenesse to his eye,
Neither, when once the soule is gone, doth all
The solemne triumph of the funerall
Adde to her glory, or her paine release:
Then all the pride of warre, and wealth of peace,
For which we toild, from us abstracted be,
And onely serve to swell the history.

These are sad thoughts (my lord) and such as fright
The easie soule made tender with delight,
Who thinkes that he hath forfetted that houre
Which addes not to his pleasure or his powre.
But by the friendship which your lordship daignes
Your servant, I have found your judgement raignes
Above all passion in you: and that sence
Could never yet demolish that strong fence
Which vertue guards you with: by which you are
Triumphant in the best, the inward warre.

No unregarded star
Contracts its light

Into so small a character,
Remov'd far from our humane sight:

But if we stedfast looke

We shall discerne

In it, as in some holy booke,

How man may heavenly knowledge learne.

It tells the conqueror,

That farre stretcht powre,

Which his proud dangers traffique for, Is but the triumph of an houre.

That from the farthest North,
Some nation may

Yet undiscovered issue forth,
And ore his new got conquest sway.

Some nation yet shut in

With hills of ice

May be let out to scourge his sinne, Till they shall equall him in vice.

And then they likewise shall

Their ruine have;

For as your selves your empires fall, And every kingdome hath a grave.

Thus those cœlestiall fires,

Though seeming mute,
The fallacie of our desires
And all the pride of life confute.

For they have watcht since first
The world had birth:
And found sinne in it selfe accurst,
And nothing permanent on Earth.

ET ALTA A LONGE COGNOSCIT.

DAVID

To the cold humble hermitage
(Not tenanted but by discoloured age,
Or youth enfeebled by long prayer,
And tame with fasts) th' Almighty doth repaire,
But from the lofty gilded roofe,

Stain'd with some pagan fiction, keeps aloofe.
Nor the gay landlord daignes to know,

Whose buildings are like monsters but for show.
Ambition! whither wilt thee climbe,

Knowing thy art, the mockery of time?
Which by examples tells the high

Rich structures they must as their owners, dye :
And while they stand, their tennants are
Detraction, Flatt'ry, Wantonnesse, and Care,
Pride, Envie, Arrogance, and Doubt,
Surfet, and Ease still tortured by the gout.
O rather may I patient dwell

In th' injuries of an ill cover'd cell!

'Gainst whose too weake defence the haile, The angry winds, and frequent showres prevaile. Where the swift measures of the day Shall be distinguisht onely as I pray : And some starre's solitary light

Be the sole taper to the tedious night.

The neighbo'ring fountaine (not accurst
Like wine with madnesse) shall allay my thirst:
And the wilde fruites of Nature give
Dyet enough, to let me feele I live.

You wantons! who impoverish seas,

And th' ayre dispeople, your proude taste to please!
A greedy tyrant you obey,

Who varies still its tribute with the day.
What interest doth all the vaine
Cunning of surfet to your sences gaine?
Since it obscure the spirit must,

And bow the flesh to sleepe, disease or lust.
While who, forgetting rest and fare,
Watcheth the fall and rising of each starre,

Ponders how bright the orbes doe move,

And thence how much more bright the Heav'ns above,

Where on the heads of cherubins Th'Almightie sits, disdaining our bold sinnes: Who, while on th' Earth we groveling lye, Dare in our pride of building tempt the skie.