the last stanzas of the same, which end the subject of Thirsi'ls song, and conclude the poem with the shepherds adding new laurels to their " May Lord's" brow.

Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness,

And here long seeks what here is never found!
For all our good we hold of heaven on lease,
With many forfeits and conditions bound;
Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due,
Though now but writ and seal'd, and giv'n anew ;
Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew.

Why should'st thou here look for perpetual good,
Of ev'ry loss 'gainst heaven's face repining?

Do but behold where glorious cities stood,

With gilded tops, and silver turrets shining;

There now the hart, fearless of greyhound, feeds,
And loving pelican in safety breeds;

There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads.

Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide,
That all the east once grasp'd in lordly paw?
Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride
The lion's self tore out with rav'nous jaw?
Or he which 'twixt a lion and a pard

Through all the world with nimble pinions far'd, And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shar'd.

Hardly the place of such antiquity,

Or note of these great monarchies we find;

Only a faded verbal memory,

And empty name in writ is left behind:

But when this second life and glory fades,

And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, A second fall ensues, and double death invades.

That monstrous beast,* which hid in Tiber's fen,
Did all the world with hideous shape affray;
That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den,

And trode down all the rest to dust and clay;
His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands,
And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands;
ack'd, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked
stands.

And that black vulture,† which with deathful wing
O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight
Frighten'd the muses from their native spring,
Already stoops, and flags with weary flight :
Who then shall look for happiness beneath?
Where each new day proclaims chance, change
and death;

And life itself's as flit as is the air we breathe.

Next Pleonectes ‡ went, his gold admiring,
His servant's drudge, slave to his basest slave;
Never enough, and still too much desiring:

His gold his god; yet in an iron grave

Himself protects his god from noisome rusting; Much fears to keep, much more to lose his lusting; Himself, and golden god, and every god mistrusting.

*Rome. Turkey. Covetousness

Age on his hairs the winter snow had spread;
That silver badge his near end plainly proves:
Yet on to earth he nearer bows his head,

So loves it more; for Like his like still loves:

Deep from the ground he digs his sweetest gain, And deep into the earth digs back with pain: From hell his gold he brings, and hoards in hell again.

His clothes all patch'd with more than honest thrift,
And clouted shoes were nail'd for fear of wasting;
Fasting he prais'd, but sparing was his drift;

And when he eats, his food is worse than fasting;
Thus starves in store, thus doth in plenty pine;

Thus wallowing on his god his heap of mine, He feeds his famish'd soul with that deceiving shine.

Oh, hungry metal! false, deceitful ray;

Well laid'st thou dark, press'd in th' earth's hidden

womb;

Yet through our mother's en trails cutting way,

We drag thy buried corse from hellish tomb;
The merchant from his wife and home departs,
Nor at the swelling ocean ever starts;
While death and life a wall of thin planks only
parts.

Who was it first, that from thy deepest cell,
With so much costly toil and painful sweat,
Durst rob thy palace bord'ring next to hell?

Well may'st thou come from that infernal seat;

Thou all the world with hell-black deeds dost fill: Fond man, that with such pain do'st woo your ill! Needless to send for grief, for he is next us still...

His arms were light and cheap, as made to save
His purse, not limbs ; the money not the man ;
Rather he dies, than spend: his helmet brave
An old brass pot; breast plate, a dripping pan;

His spear a spit; a pot-lid broad his shield,

Whose smoky plain a chalked impress fill'd; A bag sure seal'd: his word, Much better sav'd than spill'd!

By Pleonectes, shameless Sparing went,

Who whines and weeps to beg a longer day; Yet with a thund'ring voice claims tardy rent, Quick to receive, but hard and slow to pay: His cares to lesson cost with cunning base;

But when he's forc'd beyond his bounded space, Loud would he cry and howl, while others laugh apace.

Next march'd Asotus, careless, spending swain;
Who with a fork went spreading all around,
What his old sire, with sweating toil and pain,
Long time won raking from his racked ground:

In giving he observed nor form, nor matter,

But best reward he got that best could flatter, Thus what he thought to give, he did not give, but

scatter.

Before array'd in sumptuous bravery,

Deck'd court-like in the choice, and newest guise; But all behind like drudging slavery,

With ragged patches, rent, and bared thighs,

His shameful parts, that shun the hated light,
Were naked left: ah, foul unhonest sight!

Yet neither could he see, nor feel his wretched plight.

* Prodigality

His shield presents to life death's latest rites,
A sad black hearse borne up with sable swains;
Which many idle grooms with hundred lights,
Tapers, lamps, torches, usher through the plains
To endless darkness; while the sun's bright brow,
With fiery beams, quenches their smoking tow,
And wastes their idle cost: the word, Not need, but
shew.

A vagrant rout, a shoal of tattling daws,

Strew him with vain-spent pray'rs, and idle lays;
And flattery to his sin close curtains draws,
Cloying his itching ear with tickling praise:
Behind fond pity much his fall lamented,
And misery that former waste repented:
The usurer for his goods, jail for his bones indented.

His steward was his kinsman, Vain Expence,
Who proudly strove in matters light to shew
Heroic mind in braggart affluence ;

So lost his treasure, getting nought in lieu,
But ostentation of a foolish pride,

While women fond, and boys stood gaping wide; But wise men all his waste and needless cost deride.

Fido* was nam'd the marshall of the field;
Weak was his mother when she gave him day;
And he at first a sick and weakly child,

As e'er with tears welcom'd the sunny ray;

Yet when more years afford more growth and might, A champion stout he was, and puissant knight, As ever came in field, or shone in armour bright.

* Faith.