Thy game at weakest still thou viest;

If seen and then revied, deniest :

Thou art not what thou seem'st: false World! thou liest.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coin'd 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 compliest

With Man! vain Man that thus reliest

On Earth!

Vain Man! thou doat'st; vain Earth! thou liest.

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 suppliest

Us mortals with? Are these the highest?

Can these bring cordial peace! False World! thou liest.

HENRY KING.

1591-2-1669.

THE DIRGE.

What is the existence of Man's Life

But open war or slumber'd strife,
Where sickness to his sense presents

The combat of the elements,
And never feels a perfect peace

Till death's cold hand signs his release ?

It is a storm, where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood;

And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,

Which beats his bark with many a wave
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower, which buds and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose ;
Whose Spring and Fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep,
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralized in age and youth,
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandering as his fancies are,
Till in the midst of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial, which points out
The sunset, as it moves about,
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtle stages of Time's flight,
Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
The body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interlude,

Which doth short joys, long woes include:
The world the stage, the prologue tears,
The acts vain hopes and varied fears :
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but death.

THE FORFEITURE

TO HIS WIFE.

My Dearest! to let you or the world know What debt of service I do truly owe

To your unpattern'd self were to require
A language only form'd in the desire

Of him that writes. It is the common fate
Of greatest duties to evaporate

In silent meaning, as we often see

Fires by their too much fuel smother'd be :
Small obligations may find vent, and speak,
When greater the unable debtor break.

And such are mine to you, whose favour'd store
Hath made me poorer than I was before :
For I want words and language to declare
How strict my bond, or large your bounties are.

Since nothing in my desperate fortune found
Can payment make, nor yet the sum compound,
You must lose all or else of force accept
The body of a bankrupt for your debt.
Then, Love! your bond to execution sue,
And take myself as forfeited to you!

ROBERT HERRICK.

1591-4-1674.

TO JULIA.

Her lamp the glow-worm lend thee!
The shooting stars attend thee !
And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee!

No Will-o'the-Wisp mislight thee!
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee!
But on! on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there's none to affright thee!

Let not the dark thee cumber!
What though the moon does slumber,

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,

Like tapers clear without number.

Then, Julia! let me woo thee

Thus, thus to come unto me :
And when I shall meet

Thy silvery feet,

My soul I'll pour into thee.

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair Daffodils! we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attain'd his noon :
Stay! stay

Until the hastening day

Has run

But to the even-song!

And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a Spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or anything :

We die

As your hours do, and dry

Away

Like to the summer's rain,

Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree!

Why do ye fall so fast?

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.