[STANZAS,]

[Extracted out of " Alcilia, Philoparthen's loving Folly," &c. By J. C. 1628, 4to. second edition.]

WHAT thing is Beauty, Nature's dearest minion? The snare of Youth; like the inconstant moon, Waxing and waning; error of opinion;

A morning's flower that withereth ere noon ; A swelling fruit, no sooner ripe than rotten, Which sickness makes forlorn, and time forgotten.

In looking back unto my follies past,

While I the present with times past compare, And think how many hours I then did waste, Painting on clouds, and building in the air,

I sigh within myself, and say in sadness,

"This thing, which fools call love, is nought but "madness."

*

How vain is youth, that, cross'd in his desire,
Doth fret and fume, and inwardly repine,
As though 'gainst heaven itself he would conspire,
And with his frailty 'gainst his fate combine:

Who of itself continues constant still,

And doth us good oft-times against our will.

Thy large smooth forehead wrinkled shall appear; Vermilion hue to pale and wan shall turn;

Time shall deface what Youth hath held most dear;` Yea, those clear eyes, which once my heart did

burn,

Shall in their hollow circles lodge the night,
And yield more cause of terror than delight.

Lo, here the record of my follies past,

The fruits of wit unstaid, and hours mis-spent!
Full wise is he that perils can forecast,

And so by others' harms his own prevent.
All worldly pleasure that delights the sense
Is but a short sleep, and time's vain expence.

Charles I.