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Where is th' Affyrian Lion's golden hide,

That all the Eaft once grafpt in lordly paw?

Where that great Perfian Beare, whofe fwelling pride
The Lion's felf tore out with ravenous jaw?

Or he which twixt a Lion and

Pard,

Through all the World with nimble pineons far'd,

And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdomes fhar'd?

Hardly the place of fuch antiquitie,

Or note of thefe great monarchies we finde:
Onely a fading verball memorie,

And empty name in writ is left behinde :

But when this fecond life, and glory fades,

And finks at length in times obfcurer fhades, A fecond fall fucceeds, and double death invades.

That monftrous beaft, which nurst in Tiber's fenne
Did all the world with hideous shape affray;
That fill'd with coftly fpoil his gaping denne,
And trode downe all the reft to duft and clay :

His batt'ring horns, pull'd out by civil hands,
And iron teeth, lie fcatter'd on the fands;

Back't, bridled by a Monk with feven heads yoked ftands.

And that black Vulture, which with deathfull wing
Ore-fhadowes half the Earth, whofe difimal fight
Frighted the Mufes from their native fpring,
Already ftoops, and flagges with weary flight.

Who then fhall hope for happines beneath;

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

Purple Island,

Cant. 7, St. 2-7;

by Ph. Fletcher. Edit. 1633.

FAIT H.

HE proudest pitch of that victorious Spirit

THE

Was but to win the World, whereby t' inherite The ayrie purchase of a tranfitory

And glozing title of an age's glory;

Would't thou by conqueft win more fame than he,
Subdue thyfelfe; thyfelfe'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 falfe and flippery Court,
Sent for a Toy, to make us Children sport,
Man's fatiate fpirits with fresh delights fupplying,
To still the fondlings of the world from crying;
And he, whofe merit mounts to fuch a joy,
Gaines but the honour of a mighty toy.

But would'st thou conquer, have thy conqueft crown'd
By hands of Seraphims, trymph'd with the found
Of Heaven's loud trumpet, warbled by the fhrill
Celestial quire, recorded with a quill,
Pluckt from the pinion of an Angels wing,
Confirm'd with joy by Heavens eternal King;
Conquer thyfelfe, thy rebel thoughts repell,
And chafe thofe falfe affections that rebell.

Hath Heaven defpoil'd what his full hand hath given thee?
Nipt thy fucceeding bloffomes? or bereaven thee,
Of thy deare latest hope, thy bofome friend?
Doth fad Despaire deny these griefes an end?
Despaire's a whisp'ring rebell, that within thee,
Bribes all thy field, and fets thy felfe agin thee;
VOL. II.

C

Make

Make keene thy faith, and with thy force let flee,
If thou not conquer him, he'll conquer thee:
Advance thy fhield of Patience to thy head,

And when Griefe ftriks, 'twil strike the striker dead.
In adverfe fortunes, be thou ftrong and tout,
And bravely win thyfelfe, Heaven holds not out
His bow for ever bent; the difpofition

Of nobleft fpirit, doth, by oppofition,
Exafperate the more: a gloomy night

Whets on the morning to returne more bright;
+ Brave minds, oppreft, fhould in defpight of Fate,
Looke greateft, like the Sune, in lowest state.
But, ah! fhall God thus ftrive with flesh and blood?
Receives he glory from, or reapes he good
In mortals ruine, that he leaves, man fo
To be overwhelm'd by this unequall foe?
May not a Potter, that, from out the ground,
Hath fram'd a veffel, fearch 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 fhall not he,
That fram'd thee for his fervice, season thee?
Man, cloze thy lips; be thou no undertaker
Of God's defignes; difpute not with thy Maker.

Two lines are here omitted. + Two lines are here omitted.

Job Mil. 3 Med.

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Ed. 1638, by F. Quarles.

To

To the Honourable Mr. W. E

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 tafte
Enfuing) brings us to unflatter'd Age,
Where we are left to fatisfie the rage

Of threatning Death: Pompe, Beauty, Wealth, and all
Our Friendships, fhrinking from the funerall.

The thought of this begets that brave difdaine

With which thou view'ft the world, and makes those vaine
Treasures of fancy, ferious fooles fo court,

And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.
What should we covet here? why interpofe

A cloud twixt us and Heaven? kind Nature chofe
Man's foule th' Exchequer where fhe'd hoord her wealth,
And lodge all her rich fecrets; but by the stealth
Of our owne vanity, w'are left fo poore,
The creature meerely fenfuall knowes more.
The learned Halcyon by her wifdome finds
A gentle feafon, when the feas and winds
Are filenc'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.

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Pride raiseth us 'bove juftice. We bestowe
Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow
By age to dotage; while the fenfitive

Part of the world in its first strength doth live.
Folly what doft thou in thy power containe
Deferves our study? merchants plough the maine,
And bring home th' Indies, yet afpire to more,
By avarice in the poffeffion poore.

And

yet that Idol Wealth we all admite
Into the foule's great Temple, bufie Wit
Invents new orgies, Fancy frames new rites
To fhew its fuperftition, 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 foule, fince he
Hath loft 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 fo fweete a friend.
And though my fate conducts me to the shade
Of humble Quiet, my ambition payde
With fafe content, while a pure Virgin fame
Doth raife me trophies in Caftara's name.
No thought of glory fwelling me above
The hope of being famed for vertuous love.
Yet with I thee, guided by better starres
To purchafe unfafe honour in the warres
Or envied fmiles at Court; for thy great race,
And merits well may challenge th' highest place.
Yet know, what butie path fo-ere you tread
To Greatneffe, you muit fleepe among the dead.

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

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