No: 'Tis a Fast, to dole

Thy sheaf of wheat,

And meat,

Unto the hungry Soule.

It is to fast from strife,
From old debate,

And hate;

To circumcise thy life.

To show a heart grief-rent;

To starve thy sin,

Not Bin;

And that's to keep thy Lent.

HENRY KING

A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS

Brave flowers-that I could gallant it like you And be as little vain!

You come abroad, and make a harmless show,
And to your beds of earth again.

You are not proud; you know your birth;
For your embroider'd garments are from earth.

You do obey your months and times, but I
Would have it ever Spring:

My fate would know no Winter, never die,
Nor think of such a thing.

O that I could my bed of earth but view
And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

O teach me to see Death and not to fear,
But rather to take truce!

How often have I seen you at a bier,

And there look fresh and spruce!

You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath

Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

FRANCIS QUARLES

RESPICE FINEM

My soul, sit thou a patient looker on;
Judge not the Play before the Play is done:
Her Plot has many changes; Every day
Speaks a new Scene; the last act crowns the Play.

FALSE 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 heav'n; fond earth, thou boast'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endlesse 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 boast'st; false world, thou ly'st.

What well adviséd eare 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 tinsil-bosome 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 comply'st
With man; Vain man, that thou rely'st
On earth; Vain man, thou doat'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 drosse and trash?

The height of whose inchaunting pleasure
Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou supply'st
Us mortalls with? Are these the high'st?
Can these bring cordiall peace?

False world,

thou ly'st.

A DIVINE RAPTURE

Canticles II. 16

Ev'n like two little bank-dividing brooks,

That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, And having rang'd and search'd a thousand nooks, Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,

Where in a greater current they conjoyn:
So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine.

Ev'n so we met; and after long pursuit,

Ev'n so we joined; we both became entire; No need for either to renew a suit,

For I was flax, and He was flames of fire: Our firm-united souls did more than twine; So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine.

If all those glittering monarchs, that command
The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
Should tender in exchange their shares of land,
I would not change my fortunes for them all:
Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
The world's but theirs; but my Beloved's
mine.

He gives me wealth; I give Him all my vows:
I give Him songs; He gives me length of days:
With wreaths of grace He crowns my conquering
brows;

And I His temples with a crown of praise,

Which He accepts: an everlasting sign That I my Best-beloved's am; that He is mine.