Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth
To assail him with his goad; so, with his hook in hand,
The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hollo,
When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and hunts-
men follow;
Until the noble deer, through toil bereaved of strength,
His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length,
The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way
To any thing he meets now at his sad decay.
The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near,
This noblest beast of chace, that vainly doth not fear,
Some bank or quick-set finds; to which his haunch op
posed,
He turns upon his foes, that soon have him inclosed,
The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay;
And, as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay,
With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds.
The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds,
He desperately assails; until, oppressed by force,
He who the mourner is to his own dying corse,
Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall.
XXXIII. SIR HENRY WOTTON.
1. PRAISE OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
Mistaken mortals! did you know
Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,
You'd scorn proud towers,
And seek them in these bowers;
Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake,
But blustering care could never tempest nake,
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,
Save of fountains that glide by us.
Here's no fantastic masque or dance,
But of our kids that frisk and prance;
Nor wars are seen,
Unless upon the green
Two harmless lambs are butting one another-
Which done, both bleating run each to his mother;
And wounds are never found,
Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.
Go! let the diving negro seek
For gems hid in some forlorn creek ;
We all pearls scorn,
Save when the dewy morn
Congeals upon each little spire of grass,
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass; And gold ne'er here appears,
Save what the yellow harvest bears.
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his almost skill.
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose sual is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat :
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great ;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend; This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.
3. SONNET ON THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the moon shall rise?
Ye violets that first appear
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the Spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown ?
Ye curious chaunters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents: what's your praise,
When Philomel her voice shall raise ?
So when my mistress shall be seen
Inform and beauty of her mind ; By virtue first, then choice a queen; Tell me, if she was not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind.
XXXIV. JOHN DONNE.
1. THE CROSS.
Since Christ embraced the Cross itself, dare I
His image, th' image of his Cross, deny?
Would I have profit by the sacrifice,
And dare the chosen altar to despise ?
It bore all other sins, but is it fit
That it should bear the sin of scorning it?
From me no pulpit, nor misguided law,
Nor scandal taken, shall the Cross withdraw.
Who can blot out this Cross, which th' instrument
Of God dew'd on him in the sacrament?
Who can deny me power and liberty
To stretch mine arms and mine own Cross to be?
Swim-and at every stroke thou art thy Cross;
The mast and yard are theirs whom seas do toss.
Look down; thou see'st our Crosses in small things;
Look up; thou see'st birds fly on crosséd wings.
In what torn ship soever I embark,
That ship shall be my emblem of thy ark:
What sea soever swallow me, that flood
Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood.
Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise
Thy face, yet through that mask I know those eyes,
Which though they turn away sometimes,
Thev never will despise.
Sweetest love, I do not go
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me:
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
Thus to use myself in jest
By feigned death to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Hastier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
O how feeble is man's power!
That, if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
Nor a lost hour recall.
But come bad chance,
And we join to it our strength,
And we teach it art and length
Itself o'er us to advance.
When thou sigh'st thou sigh'st not wind,
But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
My life's blood doth decay.
It cannot be
That thou lov'st me as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
Which art the life of me.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfil;
But think that we
Are but laid aside to sleep :
They who one another keep
Alive ne'er parted be.
XXXV. WILLAM WARNER.
1. THE OLD MAN AND THE ASS.
An ass, an old man, and a boy did through the city pass,
And whilst the wanton boy did ride, the old man led the ass.
"See yonder doting fool," said folk, "that crawleth scarce for age,
Doth set the boy upon the ass and makes himself his page."
Anon the blamed boy alights, and lets the old man ride,
And, as the old man did before, the boy the ass did guide.
But, passing so, the people there did much the old man blame,
And told him "Churl, thy limbs be tough, let ride the boy for shame
The fault thus found, both man and boy did back the ass and ride
Then that the ass was overcharged, each man that met them cried.
Now both alight and go on foot and lead the empty beast,
But then the people laugh and say that one might ride at least,
The old man, seeing by no ways he could the people please,
Not blameless then, did drive the ass and drown him in the seas.
His aged eyes pour out their tears, when holding up his hands,
He said, "O God, whoso thou art that my good hap withstands,
Prolong not life, defer not death; myself I overlive,
When those that owe to me their lives, to me my death would give.
Thou town, whose walls rose of my wealth, stand evermore to tell
Thy founder's fall, and warn that none do fall as Leir fell.
Bid none affy in friends; for say His children wrought his wrack
Yea, those to him that were most dear did loath and let him lack
Cordella, well Cordella said she lovèd as a child,
But sweeter words we seek than sooth, and so are men beguiled
She only rests untried yet; but what may I expect
From her, to whom I nothing gave, when these do me reject?
Then die-nay try; the rule may fail; and nature may ascend,
Nor are they ever surest friends on whom we most depend.
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