My short-liv'd right and interest
In her, whom living I lov'd best:
With a most free and bounteous grief,
I give thee, what I could not keep.
Be kind to her, and prethee look
Thou write into thy Dooms-day book
Each parcell of this Rarity,

Which in thy Casket shrin'd doth ly:
See that thou make thy reck'ning streight,
And yield her back again by weight:
For thou must audit on thy trust
Each graine and atome of this dust,
As thou wilt answer Him that lent,
Not gave thee, my dear Monument.
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade
Black curtains draw;
;- Bride is laid.
-my

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed,
Never to be disquieted!

My last good night! Thou wilt not wake,

Till I thy fate shall overtake:

Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy Tomb.
Stay for me there; I will not faile
To meet thee in that hollow Vale:

And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And ev'ry houre a step towards thee.
At night, when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise neerer my West
Of life, almost by eight houres saile
Then when sleep breath'd his drowsie gale.

Thus from the Sun my Bottom stears,
And my dayes Compass downward bears:
Nor labour I to stemme the tide,
Through which to Thee I swiftly glide.
'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield,
Thou, like the Vann, first took'st the field,
And gotten hast the victory,

In thus adventuring to dy

Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.

But heark! My Pulse, like a soft Drum,
Beats my approch, tells Thee I come;
And slow howere my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by Thee.

C

The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution

With hope and comfort. Dear, (forgive
The crime,) I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,

Till we shall meet and never part.

Francis Quarles (1592-1644)

Mors Tua

AN he be fair, that withers at a blast?

Or he be strong, that aiery breath can cast?

Can he be wise, that knows not how to live? Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give? Can he be young, that's feeble, weak and wan?

So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is Man. So fair is Man, that Death (a parting blast) Blasts his fair flow'r, and makes him Earth at last; So strong is Man, that with a gasping breath He totters, and bequeaths his strength to Death; So wise is Man, that if with Death he strive, His wisdom cannot teach him how to live; So rich is Man, that (all his debts b'ing paid) His wealth's the winding sheet wherein he 's laid;

So young is Man, that (broke with Care and Sorrow) He's old enough to day, to die to-morrow:

Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five-foot long? Th' art neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young.

My trust is in the Cross

AN nothing settle my uncertain breast,
And fix my rambling love?

CAN

Can my affections find out nothing best, But still and still remove?

Has earth no mercy? Will no ark of rest

Receive my restless dove?

Is there no good, than which there's nothing higher,
To bless my full desire

With joys that never change; with joys that ne'er expire?

I wanted wealth; and, at my dear request,

Earth lent a quick supply;

I wanted mirth, to charm my sullen breast;
And who more brisk than I?

I wanted fame, to glorify the rest;

My fame flew eagle-high;

My joy not fully ripe, but all decay'd,

Wealth vanish'd like a shade;

My mirth began to flag, my fame began to fade.

The world's an ocean, hurried to and fro
With ev'ry blast of passion:

Her lustful streams, when either ebb or flow,

Are tides of man's vexation:
They alter daily, and they daily grow

The worse by alteration:

The earth's a cask full tunn'd, yet wanting measure;

Her precious wine is pleasure:

Her yeast is honour's puff; her lees are worldly treasure.

My trust is in the Cross: let beauty flag
Her loose, her wanton sail;

Let count'nance-gilding honour cease to brag
In courtly terms, and vail;

Let ditch-bred wealth henceforth forget to wag

Her base, though golden, tail;

False beauty's conquest is but real loss,

And wealth but golden dross;

Best honour's but a blast: my trust is in the Cross.

My trust is in the Cross; there lies my rest:

My fast, my sole delight:

Let cold-mouth'd Boreas, or the hot-mouth'd East,

Blow till they burst with spite;

Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best,
And join their twisted might;