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النشر الإلكتروني

The SHORTNESS of LIFE,

MY

Y glass is half unspent ; forbear t arrest

My thriftless day too soon : my poor request Is that my glass may run but out the rest.

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My time-devouring minutes will be done
Without thy help; see! see how swift they run:
Cut not my thread before my thread be spun.

The gaines not great I purchase by this stay;
What loss sustain'st thou by so small delay,
To whom ten thousand years are but a day?

My following eye can hardly make a shift
To count my winged hours ; they fly so swift,
They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift,

The secret wheels of hurrying time do give
So short a warning, and so fast they drive,
That I am dead before I seem to live.

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And what's a life? a weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
With Childhood, Manhood, and decrepit Age.

And

And what's a life? the flourishing array
Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day
Weares her green plush, and is to-morrow hay,
Read on this dial, how the shades devour
My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour;
Alas! the total's but from eight to four.

Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made
Fair copies of my life, and open laid
To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade!

Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon ;
My non-aged day already points to noon;
How limple is my suit ! how small my boon!

Nor do I beg this slender inch, to wile
The time away, or falsely to beguile
My thoughts with joy ; here's nothing worth a smile.

Quarles Emblems.

B. 3. Em. 13

O That

O That thou wouldst hide me in the Grave, that thou wouldst keep me in secret until thy wrath be past.

PSALMS.

AT

H! whither shall I fly? what path untrod

Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod Of my offended, of my angry God?

Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? where shall I abide,
Until his flames be quench'd or laid afide ?

What if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of Light.

What if my soul should take the wings of day,
And find some desert; if the spring away,
The wings of Vengeance clip as fast as they.

What if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted foul ? can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain?

Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the fullen

grave,
Where flame-ey'd fury means to smite, can save.

'Tis vain to flee ; 'till gentle Mercy shew
Her better eye; the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.

Th

Th'ingenuous child, corrected, doth not flie
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.

Great God! there is no safety here below;
Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe,
Tis thou that ftrik'st the stroke, must guard the blow.

Quarles Emblems.

ALL THINGS ARE VAIN E.

ALTHOUGH the purple morning, brages in brightness of As though he had of chased night, a glorious conquest

the funne

wonne:

The time by day, gives place againe to force of drowsy night,
And every creature is constrain’d to change his lufty plight.

Of pleasure all that here we taste;
We feele the contrary at laste.

In spring, though pleasant Zephirus hath frutefull earth

inspired, And Nature hath each bush, each branch, with blossomes

brave attired: Yet fruites and flowers, as buds and blomes ful quickly

withered be,
When stormie Winter comes to kill, the Sommers jollitie.

By time are got, by time are lost,
All thinges wherein we pleasure moft,

3

Although

Although the Seas so calmely glide, as daungers none ap.

peare, And dout of stormes, in skie is none, king Phæbus shines fa

cleare: Yet when the boistrous windes breake out, and raging waves

do swel, The feely bạrke now heaves to heaven, now finkes againe

to hel,
Thus change in ever thing we see,
And nothing constant seemes to be.

Who floweth most in worldly wealth of wealth is most unsure, And he that cheefely tastes of joy, doth fometime woe endure: Who vaunteth most of numbred freendes, foregoe them all he

must, The fairest flesh and liveliest bloud, is turn'd at length to dust.

Experience gives a certain ground,
That certen here, is nothing found.

Then trust to that which aye remaines, the blisfe of heavens

above, Which Time, nor Fate, nor Wind, nor Storme, is able to

remove, Trust to that fure celestiall rocke, that rests in glorious

throne, That hath bene, is, and must be stil, our anker hold alone.

The world is but a vanitie,
In heaven seeke we our furetie.

The Paradise of Daynty Devises.

Fol. 18, 44. figned F.K,

CHURCH

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