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Man cannot serve Thee: let him go
And serve the swine-there, that is his delight: He doth not like this virtue, no;
Give him his dirt to wallow in all night :
'These preachers make
His head to shoot and ache.'
O foolish man! where are thine eyes?
How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares! Thou pull'st the rug, and wilt not rise,
No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars: "There let them shine;
Thou must go sleep or dine.'
The bird that sees a dainty bower
Made in the tree, where she was wont to sit,
Who made the arbour; this exceeds her wit.
The Spring whence all things flow:
And yet, as though he knew it not,
His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign;
They make his life a constant blot,
And all the blood of God to run in vain.
Ah, wretch! what verse
Can thy strange ways rehearse?
Indeed, at first man was a treasure,
Did crown his heart and face.
But sin hath fooled him; now he is
A lump of flesh, without a foot or wing To raise him to a glimpse of bliss;
A sick-tossed vessel, dashing on each thing, Nay, his own shelf:
My God, I mean myself.
THE glories of our blood and state
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
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:
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
WEEP you no more, sad fountains;
Heaven's sun doth gently waste.
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets;
When fair at eve he sets?
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT
THE lark now leaves his watery nest,
And to implore your light, he sings;
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
Who look for day before his mistress wakes; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.
Go, lovely rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young
And shuns to have her graces spied,
In deserts, where no men abide,
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share
I HAVE a mistress, for perfections rare
We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours