CHURCH MONUMENTS.

WHILE that my Soul repairs to her devotion,

Here I intomb my flesh, that it betimes

May take acquaintance of this heap of duft;
To which the blast of Death's inceffant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last, therefore I gladly trust

My body to the School, that it may learn
To fpell his elements, and finds his birth
Written in dufty herauldry and lines.
Which diffolution fure doth best discern,
Comparing duft with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jeat, and marble put for figns,

To fever the good fellowship of dust,

And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
When they fhall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kifs those heaps, which now they have in trust ?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true defcent: that when thou shalt grow fat,

And

And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
That flesh is but the glass which holds the duft
That meaufures all our time; which also fhall
Be crumbled into duft, mark here below,
How tame these afhes are, how free from luft,
That thou may'ft fit thyfelf against thy fall.

The Temple, by G. Herbert,
Fdit. 1709, P 56.

AGAINST FOREIGN LUXURY.

AND now ye British fwaines (whofe harmeleffe sheepe

Then all the worlds befide I joy to keepe)

Which spread on every plaine, and hilly would,
Fleeces no leffe efteem'd then that of gold,
For whofe exchange one Indy jems of price,
The other gives you of her choiceft fpice,
And well the may; but we unwife, the while,
Leffen the glory of our fruitfull Ifle:
Making thofe nations thinke we foolish are,
For bafer drugs to vent our richer ware,
Which (fave the bringer) never profit man,
Except the Sexten and Phyfitian.

And whether change of clymes, or what it be,
That proves our marainers mortalitic,

Such

Such expert men are spent for fuch bad fares
As might have made us Lords of what is theirs.
Stay, stay at home, ye nobler fpirits, and prife
Your lives more high then such base trumperies;
Forbeare to fetch; and they 'le goe neere to fue,
And at your owne dores offer them to you;
Or have their woods and plaines so overgrowne
With poyfnous weeds, roots, gums, and feeds unknowne ;
That they would hire fuch weeders as you be
To free their land from fuch fertilitie.
Their spices hot their nature best indures,
But 'twill impayre and much diftemper yours.
What our owne foyle affords befits us beft;
And long and long, for ever may we rest
Needleffe of help! and may this Ifle alone
Furnish all other lands, and this land none!

OF THE COURTIER'S LIFE.

MYNE own John Poines, fins ye delight to know
The causes why that homeward I me draw,
And flee the preafe of Courtes, wherefo they goe,
Rather then to live thrall under the awe
Of lordly lookes, wrapped within my cloke,
To will and luft learning to fet a law;

It is not, that because 1 ftorme or mocke

The power of them, whom Fortune here hath lent
Charge over us, of right to frike the stroke;
But true it is, that I have always ment
Lefs to esteeme them, then the common fort,
Of outward thinges that judge in their entent,
Without regarde, what inward doth refort:
I graunt, fome time of Glory that the fyre,
Doth touch my heart, me lift not to report:
Blame by honour and honour to defyre.
But how may I this honour now attaine,
That cannot dye the colour blacke a lyer?
My Poynes, I cannot frame my tune to fayn,
To cloke the truth, for praife, without defert,
Of them that lift all vice for to retayne:
I cannot honour them that fet theyr part
With Venus and Bacchus all their life long;
Nor hold my peace of them, although I fmart.
I cannot crouche nor knele to fuch a wronge,

Те

To worship them like God on Earth alone,
That are as wolves these sely lambes among;
I cannot with my woordes complayne and mone,
And fuffer nought; nor fmart without complaint,
Nor turne the word that from my mouth is gone.
I cannot speake and looke like a Saint,

Use wyles for wit, and make desceit a pleasure,
Call craft counfaile, for lucre ftill to paynt:
I cannot wrest the law to fyll the coffer,
With innocent blood to feed myself fatte,
And do most hurt where that most help I offer.
'I am not he that can allow the state

Of hye Cæfar, and damne Cato to dye,
That with his death did scape out of the gate,
From Cæfer's hands, if Livy doth not lye ;
And would not live were Liberty was loft,
So did his heart the Common Wealth apply.
I am not he, fuch eloquence to boft,

To make the crow in finging, as the swanne ;
Nor call the lyon of coward beasts the most,
That cannot take a mouse as the cat can,
And he that dyeth for honger of the golde,
Call him Alexander, and fay that Pan
Paffeth Apollo in muficke manyfolde,
Praise Syr Topas for a noble tale,

And scorn the story that the knight tolde.

Praise him for counsell that is dronke of ale,

Grinne when he laughes, that beareth all the fway,
Frowne when he frownes, and grone when he is pale;
On others luft to hang both night and day,
None of these Poines would ever frame in me,

My wit is nought, I cannot learn the way.
And much the lefs of things that greater be,
That asken helpe of colours to devise,
To joyne the meane with eche extremitie,
With nereft vertue ay to cloke the vyce;
And as to purpose likewise it shall fall,
To preffe the vertue that it may not ryfe ;