In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept,

Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe.
The Lazar pin'd, while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven: to hell did Dives go.

We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May:
Yet grass is green, when flowers do fade away."

Southwell thought the art of poetry discredited by the meretricious graces and idle fancies, "the follies and feignings of love," in which poets have indulged; and it was to bring them back to those "solemn and devout matters to which, in duty, they owe their abilities," that he was induced "to weave a new web in their own loom." Poetry, therefore, with him is solely used as a medium for the expression of his ardent religious feelings and aspirations, or to enforce some point of religious or moral obligation. These lines are from his Maonia.

The Image of Death.

"Before my face the picture hangs,
That daily should put me in mind,
Of those cold names and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find;

But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a face

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;
I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose had sometime been;

I see the bones across that lie,

Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath,

That telleth me whereto I must;
I see the sentence too, that saith,
Remember, man, thou art but dust.'

But yet, alas! how seldom I

Do think, indeed, that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head

A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell

That I ere morning may be dead,

Though now I feel myself full well;

But yet, alas! for all this, I

Have little mind that I must die!

The gown which I am us'd to wear,

The knife wherewith I cut my meat;

And eke that old and ancient chair,
Which is my only usual seat;
All these do tell me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.
My ancestors are turn'd to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away,

And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no; I know that I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart,
If rich and poor his beck obey;

If strong, if wise, if all do smart,

Then I to 'scape shall have no way:
Then grant me grace, O God! that I
My life may mend, since I must die."

The stanzas headed Loss in Delays are also worth quoting.

"Shun delays, they breed remorse;

Take thy time, while time is lent thee;
Creeping snails have weakest force,

Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee.
Good is best, when soonest wrought,
Ling'ring labours come to nought.

Hoist up sail while gale doth last,

Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure:
Seek not time, when time is past,

Sober speed is wisdom's leisure.
After-wits are dearly bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time wears all his locks before,

Take thou hold upon his forehead;

When he flies, he turns no more,

And behind his scalp is naked.
Works adjourn'd have many stays;
Long demurs breed new delays.

Seek thy salve while sore is green,

Fester'd wounds ask deeper lancing:

After-cures are seldom seen,

Often sought, scarce ever chancing,

Time and place give best advice,

Out of season, out of price."

The following verses are in a more vivacious strain, and are aptly and beautifully written. The title of them is Love's Servile Lot.

"She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil,

Pretending good in ill;

She offereth joy, but bringeth grief;
A kiss-where she doth kill.

A honey-show'r rains from her lips,
Sweet lights shine in her face;
She hath the blush of virgin-mind,
The mind of viper's race.

She makes thee seek-yet fear to find:
To find-but nought enjoy ;

In many frowns, some passing smiles
She yields, to more annoy.

She letteth fall some luring baits,

For fools to gather up;

Now sweet-now sour-for every taste

She tempereth her cup.

Her watery eyes have burning force,
Her floods and flames conspire ;
Tears kindle sparks-sobs fuel are,
And sighs but fan the fire.

May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers:
But rather April-wet by kind,
For love is full of showers.

With soothing words enthralled souls
She chains in servile bands;
Her eye, in silence, hath a speech
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours;
Short hap immortal harms :
Her loving looks are murd'ring darts,
Her songs, bewitching charms.

Like winter-rose and summer-ice,
Her joys are still untimely;
Before her hope, behind remorse,

Fair first-in fine unkindly.

Plough not the seas-sow not the sands

Leave off your idle pain;

Seek other mistress for your minds

Love's service is in vain."

These lines are characteristic of the author's turn of mind.

The Epistle called The Triumphs over Death was composed on the death of Lady Margaret, the daughter of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and wife of the Honourable Robert Sackville, afterwards Earl of Dorset. Of this Lady, Southwell gives the following character, the excellence of which we hope will be an ample apology for its length.