A virtuous woman doth excel

The richest treasure of the earth;
Who can describe her parallel,
Or fully set her praises forth?
She is a Phœnix very rare,
She is a jewel past compare.
There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.

That man is happy in his choice,
Who unto such a one is wed,
He may with cheerfulness rejoice
Because that he so well hath sped;
He hath his portion with the best
That with a virtuous wife is blest.
There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.

How sweet a sight it is to see

A married pair so truly joined
In perfect love, that though there be
Two persons, yet there's but one mind.
Such couples do enjoy content,

And in true peace their lives are spent.
There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.

A virtuous woman evermore

Her husband's pleasure doth fulfil,
She treasures up his love in store,

And always strives to do his will;
She gives consent to what he says,
When he commands then she obeys.
There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.
She useth not abroad to roam
Amongst the gossips' idle crew,
But careful is and stays at home
With diligence her work to do :
Her family she will direct,
And give her husband due respect.
There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.

She's wary and she's provident,

And often saves what others lose,

By right forecasting the event,

She well doth know which way to choose.

Accordingly her course she steers,

And daily orders her affairs.

There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.
If that her husband fault doth find
With anything that is amiss,
As soon as e'er she knows his mind
She rests not till it mended is :
His love doth all her pains requite,
And in the same she takes delight.
There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.

When he with sickness is oppressed,
Or any ways cast down with grief,
She suffers not her heart to rest,

Till she hath gained him some relief;
When he doth mourn, then she is sad,
When he rejoices she is glad.

There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.

If sometimes for a little space

His business calls him forth from home,
She greatly longs to see his face,

And often wishes he would come.
His presence gives her full content,
His absence she doth much lament.
There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.

She will not vary in the least

From what at first she seemed to be ;
Her constancy shall be increased,

But not disminished one degree;
Her husband she hath vowed to love,
And she to him will faithful prove.
There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.

Thus having set before your eyes,

In characters right plain to read,
A virtuous woman's qualities,

I wish you now even well to speed:
Choose a good wife, and you shall see
My words will all fulfilled be.

There is no comfort in this life
Like to a constant loving wife.

THE GOOD WIFE.

THE good wife is none of our dainty dames, who loves to appear in a variety of suits every day new; as if a good gown, like a stratagem

in war, were to be used but once. But our good wife sets up a sail according to the keel of her husband's estate; and if of high parentage, she doth not so remember what she was by birth, that she forgets what she is by match. The good wife commandeth her husband, in any equal matter, by constantly obeying him. It was always observed that what the English gained of the French in battle by valour, the French regained of the English in cunning by treaties. So if the husband should chance by his power in his passion to prejudice his wife's right, she wisely knoweth by compounding and complying to recover and rectify it again.-Fuller.

A GOOD AND VIRTUOUS WIFE.

WHO doth desire that chaste his wife should be,
First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve;
Then be he such as she his worth may see,
And, always one, credit with her preserve;
Not toying kind, nor causelessly unkind,

Not stirring thoughts, nor yet denying right,
Not spying faults, nor in plain errors blind,

Never hard hand, nor ever reins too tight;
As far from want, as far from vain expense,
Th' one doth enforce, the other doth entice;
Allow good company, but drive from thence
All filthy mouths that glory in their vice :
This done thou hast no more but leave the rest
To nature, fortune, time, and woman's breast.
Sir Philip Sidney.

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.—Shirley.

[This poem is said to have been a favourite with Charles I.]

ON A GIRDLE.

THAT which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer;
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move!
A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair,-
Give me but what this ribbon bound,

Take all the rest the sun goes round.-Waller.

SICKNESS AND CONVALESCENCE.

SICKNESS.

FAREWELL, Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim:
Thronging shadows crowd the light,
Like the advent of the night.
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upwards steals a vapour chill ;
Strong the earthly odour grows-
I smell the mould above the rose !

RETURNING HEALTH.

Welcome, Life! the spirit strives!
Strength returns, and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn:
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,

Warm perfume for vapour cold

I smell the rose above the mould !-Thomas Hood.

THE DEAD IN THE SEA.
UNDER the sea-waves bright and clear,
Deep on the pearly, gravelly sands,
Sleeps many a brave his slumbers drear,
Who joined the gay and festive bands
That pushed from forth their land and home,
Companions of the wild sea-foam,

When blasts arose and tossed their bark,
Till, whelmed beneath the waters dark,
The Storm King claimed them for his own,
That late in life and beauty shone !

Under the sea-waves green and bright,
Deep on the pearly, gravelly sands,
Sleeps many a one in slumbers light,

But not by the Storm King's ruthless hands ;
For there, within his narrow berth,
Lies the cold corpse of clammy earth!
Never to hail a harbour more,
Never to reach the friendly shore ;
To a rude plank his form they lash,
Heave overboard--waves sullen plash!

There might be seen the stately mast,
Bearing its freight of corpses lashed,
Clasped by the sea-rock, where the blast,
Shattering it fiercely, wildly dashed;
Gnawed by the worms, unconscious sleeper,
Rooted to rock-cliff all the deeper;
Dreams perchance of the granite tower,
Beetling above his home's sweet bower;
For under the sea-waves bright and green,
Among pure pearls of the silvery sheen,
Many a rustic companion sleeps,

Who sank in the wave-worn ocean deeps.

Slumber they far from home and hall;

Flowers there are none to deck their bier ;

Friends are not nigh to spread the pall,

O'er their pale forms to shed the tear.

Balmy rosemary there is none;

Rose-tree never shall breathe upon

Graves where, sweet, they sleep 'neath the billow,

Waving around no weeping willow.

Matters it not! Though fall no tear

O'er the corpse in his briny bier,

Troubles it not the "dead in the sea "

Salt tears around them flow ceaselessly.-Freiligrath.