Nothing hath got so far,

But man hath caught and kept it, as his prey.
His eyes dismount the highest star:
He is in little all the sphere:

Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they
Find their acquaintance there.

For us the winds do blow;

The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow.
Nothing we see, but means our good,

As our delight, or as our treasure:
The whole is either our cupboard of food,
Or cabinet of pleasure.

The stars have us to bed;

Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws :
Music and light attend our head.

All things unto our flesh are kind
In their descent and being; to our mind
In their ascent and cause.

Each thing is full of duty:

Waters united are our navigation;

Distinguished, our habitation; Below, our drink; above, our meat: Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty? Then how are all things neat!

More servants wait on man,

Than he'll take notice of: in every path

He treads down that which doth befriend him,
When sickness makes him pale and wan.

Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.

Since then, my God, thou hast

So brave a palace built; O dwell in it, That it may dwell with thee at last! 'Till then afford us so much wit,

That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee, And both thy servants be.

UNKINDNESS.

LORD, make me tender to offend :

In friendship, first I think, if that agree,
Which I intend,

Unto my friend's intent and end.—

I would not use a friend as I use thee.

If

any touch my friend, or his good name, It is my honour and my love to free

His blasted fame

From the least spot or thought of blame.

I could not use a friend as I use thee.

My friend may spit upon my curious floor :
Would he have gold? I lend it instantly;
But let the poor,

And thou within them, starve at door.—
I cannot use a friend as I use thee.

When that my friend pretendeth to a place,
I quit my interest, and leave it free;

But when thy grace

Sues for my heart, I thee displace; Nor would I use a friend as I use thee.

S

Yet, can a friend, what thou hast done, fulfil ?
O write in brass, "My God upon a tree
His blood did spill,

Only to purchase my good will ;-
Yet use I not my foes as I use thee.”

LIFE.

I MADE a posy, while the day ran by:
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band."

But time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
And wither'd in my hand.

My hand was next to them,

I took, without more thinking, in good part
Time's gentle admonition;
Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,]
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,

Yet sugaring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time ye

spent,

Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament;

And after death for cures.

I follow straight, without complaints or grief;
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if
It be as short as yours.

MORTIFICATION.

How soon doth man decay !

When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets To swaddle infants, whose young breath Scarce knows the way:

They are like little winding-sheets, Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed,
They step into their voluntary graves;

Sleep binds them fast; only their breath
Makes them not dead:

Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When youth is frank and free, And calls for music, while his veins do swell, All day exchanging mirth and breath

In company;

That music summons to the knell, Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise, Getting a house and home, where he may move Within the circle of his breath, Schooling his eyes;

That dumb inclosure maketh love

Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak,

Marking his grave, and thawing ev'ry year,
Till all do melt, and drown his breath

When he would speak;

A chair or litter shows the bier,

Which shall convey him to the house of death.

Man, ere he is aware,

Hath put together a solemnity,

And dress'd his hearse, while he hath breath

As yet to spare.

Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die,

That all these dyings may be life in death.

MISERY.

LORD, let the angels praise thy name. Man is a foolish thing-a foolish thing; Folly and sin play all his game.

His house still burns; and yet he still doth sing, "Man is but glass,

He knows it, fill the glass."

How canst thou brook his foolishness?
Nay, he'll not lose a cup of drink for thee:
Bid him but temper his excess;

Not he; he knows where he can better be,
As he will swear,

Than to serve thee in fear.

What strange pollutions doth he wed, And make his own, as if none knew but he! No man shall beat into his head,

That thou within his curtains drawn canst see: They are of cloth,

Where never yet came moth.