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Where is th' Affyrian Lion's golden hide,
That all the East once graspt in lordly paw?
Where that great Persian Beare, whose swelling pride
The Lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw ?

Or he whích twixt a Lion and a Pard,

Through all the World with nimble pineons far'd, And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdomes shar'di

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Hardly the place of such antiquitie,
Or note of these great monarchies we finde :
Onely a fading verball memorie,
And empty name in writ is left behinde :

But when this second life, and glory fades,

And sinks at length in times obscurer shades, A second fall succeeds, and double death invades.

That monstrous beast, which nurft in Tiber's fenne
Did all the world with hideous shape affray ;
That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping denne,
And trode downe all the rest to dust and clay :

His batt'ring horns, pulld out by civil hands,

And iron teeth, lie scatter'd on the sands;
Back't, bridled by a Monk with seven heads yoked stands.

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And that black Vulture, which with deathfull wing
Ore-lhadowes half the Earth, whose dismal fight
Frighted the Muses from their native spring,
Already stoops, and flagges with weary flight.

Who then shall hope for happines beneath ;

Where each new day proclaims chance, change and death, And life itself's as flit as is the aire we breathe?

Purple Ifland,


by Ph. Fletcher. Edit. 1633.

Cant. 7,

F Α Ι Τ Η.

*HE proudest pitch of that victorious Spirit

Was but to win the World, whereby t’ inherite
The ayrie purchase of a transitory
And glozing title of an age's glory;
Would'st thou by conquest win more fame than he,
Subdue thyselfe ; thyselfe's a world to thee.
Earth’s but a ball, that Heaven hath quilted ore
With Wealth and Honour, banded on the floore
Of fickle Fortune's false and slippery Court,
Sent for a Toy, to make us Children sport,
Man's fatiate fpirits with fresh delights supplying,
To still the fondlings of the world from crying ;
And he, whose merit mounts to such a joy,
Gaines but the honour of a mighty toy.

But would'st thou conquer, have thy conquest crown'd
By hands of Seraphims, trymph'd with the found
Of Heaven's loud trumpet, warbled by the shrill
Celestial quire, recorded with a quill,
Pluckt from the pinion of an Angels wing,
Confirm'd with joy by Heavens eternal King;
Conquer thyselfė, thy rebel thoughts repell,
And chase those false affections that rebell.
Hath Heaven despoil'd what his full hand hath given thee?
Nipt thy fucceeding blossomes ? or bereaven thee,
Of thy deare latest hope, thy bosome friend?
Doth sad Despaire deny these griefes an end?
Despaire's a whisp'ring rebell, that within thee,
Bribes all thy field, and sets thy felfe agin thee :
Vol. II,


thee :

Make keene thy faith, and with thy force let flee,
If thou not conquer him, he'll

Advance thy fhield of Patience to thy head,
And when Griefe striks, 'twil strike the striker dead.

In adverse fortunes, be thou strong and stout,
And bravely win thyselfe, Heaven holds not out
His bow for ever bent; the disposition
Of noblest spirit, doth, by opposition,
Exasperate the more : a gloomy night
Whets on the morning to returne more bright ;
+ Brave minds, opprest, should in despight of Fate,
Looke greatest, like the Sune, in lowest state.
But, ah! shall God thus strive with flesh and blood ?
Receives he glory from, or reapes he good
In mortals ruine, that he leaves, man so
To be overwhelm'd by this unequall foe?

May not a Potter, that, from out the ground,
Hath fram'd a vessel, search if it be found ?
Or if, by furbishing, he take more paine
To make it fairer, fhall the pot complaine?
Mortall, thou art but clay : then shall not he,
That fram'd thee for his fervice, season thee?
Man, cloze thy lips ;' be thou no undertaker
Of God's defignes; dispute not with thy Maker.

Job Mil. 3 Med.
Ed. 1638, by F. Quarles.

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To the Honourable Mr. W. E

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HE who is good is happy—let the loude

Artillery of Heaven breake through a cloude,
And dart its thunder at him ; hee'le remaine
Unmov'd and nobler comfort entertaine
In welcomming th' approach of Death, then Vice,
Ere found in her fictitious Paradise.
Time mocks our youth,' and (while we number past
Delights, and raise our appetite to taste
Ensuing) brings us to unflatter'd Age,
Where we are left to satisfie the rage
Of threatning Death: Pompe, Beauty, Wealth, and all
Our Friendships, shrinking from the funerall.
The thought of this begets that brave disdaine
With which thou view's the world, and makes those vaine
Treasures of fancy, serious fooles fo court,
And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.
What should we covet here? why interpose
A cloud twixt us and Heaven? kind Nature chose
Man's foule th’ Exchequer where she'd hoord her wealth,
And lodge all her rich secrets; but by the stealth
Of our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,
The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.
The learned Halcyon by her wisdome finds
A gentle season, when the seas and winds
Are silenc't by a calme, and then brings forth
The happy miracle of her rare birth,
Leaving with wonder all our arts poffest,
That view the architecture of her nest.

C 2


Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestowe
Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow
By age to dotage ; while the sensitive
Part of the world in its first strength doth live.
Folly! what dost thou in thy power containe
Deserves our study? merchants plough the maine,
And bring home th’ Indies, yet aspire to more,
By avarice in the poffeffion poore.

that Idol Wealth we all adinite
Into the soule's great Temple, busie Wit
Invents new orgies, Fancy frames new rites
To thew its superstition, anxious nights
Are watcht to win its favour ; while the beast
Content with Nature's courtesie doth rest.
Let man then boast no more a soule, since he
Hath lost that great prerogative ; but thee
(Whom Fortune hath exempted from the herd
Of vulgar men, whom Vertue hath preferr'd
Farre higher than thy birth) I must commend,
Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.
And though my fate conducts me to the shade
Of humble Quiet, my ambition payde
With safe content, while a pure Virgin fame
Doth raise me trophies in Caftara's name.
No thought of glory swelling me above
The hope of being famed for vertuous love.
Yet with I thee, guided by better starres
To purchase unsafe honour in the warres
Or envied smiles at Court; for thy great race,
And merits well may challenge th' highest place.
Yet know, what busie path fo-ere you tread
To Greatneffe, you must fleepe among the dead.

Caftara, by W. Habington,
Ed. Lond. 1640.

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