Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here awhile.
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night!
'Tis pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

TO PRIMROSES.

Filled with Morning Dew.

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes ?

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teemed her refreshing dew!

Can tears

Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,
Or warped as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet ?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweet heart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read

"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

FOR COMFORT IN DEATH

In the hour of my distresse,
When temptations me oppresse,
And when I my sins confesse ;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts disquieted;

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the house doth sigh and weep.
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep ;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the Furies, in a shoal,

Come to fright my parting soul,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When, God knowes, I'm tost about,
Either with despair or doubt,

Yet before the glasse be out,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the Tempter me pursu❜th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half-damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the judgment is reveal'd,
And that open'd which was seal'd,
When to Thee I have appeal,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

Francis Quarles.

Born 1592.

Died 1644

BORN near Romford, Essex; was cup bearer to Elizabeth of Bohemia; afterwards secretary to Archbishop Usher in Ireland, where he lost most of his wealth in the Rebellion of 1641. He joined Charles in the civil wars; and having had all his property sequestrated by Parliament, and his MS. plundered, he took the matter so much to heart that it hastened his death, which took place in 1644. He is chiefly known by his Emblems."

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.

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

Thy favours 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 rewards
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 iy'st

DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY.

I LOVE and have some cause to love-the earth.
She is my Maker's creature; therefore good:
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse-she gives me food;

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee?
Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air: her dainty sweets refresh

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me; Her shrill-mouthed quire sustains me with their flesh, And with their polyphonian notes delight me :

But what's the air or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee?

I love the sea she is my fellow-creature,

My careful purveyor; she provides me store :
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore:

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee,
What is the ocean or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky:

F

But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee? Without thy presence heaven's no heaven to me. Without thy presence earth gives no refection; Without thy presence sea affords no treasure; Without thy presence air's a rank infection; Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure: If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee, What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me? The highest honours that the world can boast, Are subjects far too low for my desire; The brightest beams of glory are at mostBut dying sparkles of thy living fire:

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be But nightly glowworms, if compared to thee. Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares; Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet-sadness: Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness; Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have they being, when compared with thee. In having all things, and not thee, what have I? Not having thee, what have my labours got? Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I? And having thee alone, what have I not? I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee.

DECAY OF LIFE.

THE day grows old, the low pitched lamp hath made
No less than treble shade,

And the descending damp doth now prepare
To uncurl bright Titan's hair;

Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold
Her purples, fringed with gold,

To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms
Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' arms.

Nature now calls to supper, to refresh

The spirits of all flesh;

The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams,
To taste the slipp'ry streams