III.

ADVERSITY.

MAN.

In his own image the Creator made,

His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man! Thou breathing dial! since the day began The present hour was ever marked with shade!

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE WORLD.

THE World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
Less than a span:

In his conception wretched, from the womb,
So to the tomb;

Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools

To dandle fools:

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The rural parts are turned into a den

Of savage men:

And where's a city from foul vice so free,
But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
Or pains his head:

Those that live single, take it for a curse,
Or do things worse:

Some would have children: those that have them,

moan

Or wish them gone:

What is it, then, to have or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affection still at home to please
Is a disease:

To cross the seas to any foreign soil,

Peril and toil:

Wars with their noise affright us; when they

cease,

We are worse in peace;

What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die?

FRANCIS, LORD BACON.

MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.

MOAN, moan, ye dying gales!

The saddest of your tales

Is not so sad as life;

Nor have you e'er began
A theme so wild as man,
Or with such sorrow rife.

Fall, fall, thou withered leaf!
Autumn sears not like grief,

Nor kills such lovely flowers;
More terrible the storm,
More mournful the deform,

When dark misfortune lowers.

Hush! hush! thou trembling lyre,
Silence, ye vocal choir,

And thou, mellifluous lute,
For man soon breathes his last,
And all his hope is past,

And all his music mute.

Then, when the gale is sighing,
And when the leaves are dying,
And when the song is o'er,

O, let us think of those

Whose lives are lost in woes,

Whose cup of grief runs o'er.

HENRY NEELE.

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.

FALSE world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend The least delight:

Thy favors cannot gain a friend,

They are so slight:

Thy morning pleasures make an end.
To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,

And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st

With heaven: fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endless treasure;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her;

There's none can want where thou supply'st;
There's none can give where thou deny'st.
Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou

ly'st.

What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say?

Thy words are gold, but thy regards
Are painted clay:

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play:

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;

If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint
Of new-coined treasure;

A paradise, that has no stint,

No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in 't,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure:

Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st

With man; vain man! that thou rely'st

On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure,
To haberdash

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash?

The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou supply'st

Us mortals with? Are these the high'st?

Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou

ly'st.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

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FROM AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. SC. 7.

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly;