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We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth, to meet decay,

As you or any thing.

We die,

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer's rain,

Or as the pearls of morning's dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

HERRICK.

THE BEE AND THE LADY-FLOWER.

As Julia once a-slumbering lay,
It chanced a Bee did fly that way,
After a dew, or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower.

For some rich flower, he took the lip

Of Julia, and began to sip;

But when he felt, he sucked from thence

Honey, and in the quintessence,

He drank so much he scarce could stir,

So Julia took the pilferer;

And thus surprised, as filchers use,
He thus began to make excuse:
Sweet LADY-FLOWER, I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought;
But taking these rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much syrup ran at waste,

Besides, know this, I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing;
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.

This said, he laid his little scrip
Of honey 'fore her ladyship;

And told her, as some tears did fall,
That THAT he took, and that was all.
At which she smiled, and bade him go
And take his bag; but thus much know,
When next he came a pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive
Honey enough to fill his hive.

HERRICK.

ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED WIFE.

SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed,
Never to be disquieted!

My last good night! thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake:
Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb
Stay for me there; I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay,
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.

Each minute is a short degree,

And every hour a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west

Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.
Thus from the sun my bottom steers,
And my day's compass downward bears:
Nor labour I to stem the tide

Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou like the van first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory

In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;

And slow howe'er my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,

And wait my dissolution

With hope and comfort: Dear (forgive
The crime), I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.

KING.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

THE glories of our birth and state,
Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate:

Death lays his icy hands on kings;
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still:

Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar, now,

See where the victor victim bleeds:

All heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

AN EPITAPH.

THE modest front of this small floor,
Believe me, reader, can say more
Than many a braver marble can-
"Here lies a truly honest man;"

SHIRLEY.

One whose conscience was a thing
That troubled neither church nor king.
One of those few that, in this town,
Honour all preachers, hear their own.
Sermons he heard; yet not so many
As left no time to practise any:
He heard them reverently, and then
His practice preached them o'er again.
His parlour-sermons rather were
Those to the eye, than to the ear:

His prayers took their price and strength,
Not from the loudness, nor the length.
He was a Protestant at home;
Not, only in despite of Rome:

He loved his father, yet his zeal

Tore not off his mother's veil.

To the Church he did allow her dress,

True beauty to true holiness.

Peace, which he loved in life, did lend

Her hand to bring him to his end:
When age and death called for the score,
No surfeits were to reckon for;

Death tore not (therefore) but sans strife
Gently untwined his thread of life.
What remains, then, but that thou
Write these lines, reader, in thy brow,
And by his fair example's light,
Burn in thy imitation bright.

So while these lines can but bequeath
A life perhaps unto his death,

His better epitaph shall be,
His life still kept alive in thee.

CRASHAW.

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