When scarce begun;
And ere we apprehend
That we begin to live, our life is done : Man, count thy days; and if they fly too fast For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last.
THE day grows old, the low-pitch'd lamp hath made
No less than treble shade,
And the descending damp doth now prepare
To uncurl bright Titan's hair;
Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold
Her purples, fring'd with gold,
To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms
Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis arms.
Nature now calls to supper, to refresh
The spirits of all flesh;
The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams,
To taste the slipp'ry streams:
The droyling swineherd knocks away, and feasts
His hungry whining guests:
The boxbill ouzle, and the dappled thrush
Like hungry rivals meet at their beloved bush.
And now the cold autumnal dews are seen
To cobweb every green;
And by the low-shorn rowins doth appear
The fast-declining year:
The sapless branches doff their summer suits
And wain their winter fruits;
And stormy blasts have forc'd the quaking trees Το wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy
Our wasted taper now hath brought her light
To the next door to night;
Her sprightless flame grown with great snuff, doth
Sad as her neighb'ring urn:
Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains,
Lights but to further pains,
And in a silent language bids her guest
Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal rest.
Now careful age hath pitch'd her painful plough
Upon the furrow'd brow;
And snowy blasts of discontented care
Have blanch'd the falling hair:
Suspicious envy mix'd with jealous spite
Disturbs his weary night:
He threatens youth with age; and now, alas!
He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he
Gray hairs peruse thy days, and let thy past
Read lectures to thy last:
Those hasty wings that hurried them away
Will give these days no day :
The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire
Until her works expire:
That blast that nipp'd thy youth, will ruin thee; That hand that shook the branch will quickly strike
IN hell no life, in heaven no death there is;
In earth both life and death, both bale and bliss;
In heaven's all life, no end, nor new supplying;
In hell's all death, and yet there is no dying.
Earth (like a partial ambidexter) doth
Prepare for death, or life, prepares for both :
Who lives to sin in hell his portion's given,
Who dies to sin, shall after live in heaven.
Though earth my nurse be, heaven, be thou my
father;
Ten thousand deaths let me endure rather
Within my nurse's arms, than one to thee;
Earth's honour with thy frowns, is death to me:
I live on earth, upon a stage of sorrow;
Lord, if thou pleasest, end the play to-morrow.
I live on earth, as in a dream of pleasure;
Awake me when thou wilt, I wait thy leisure:
I live on earth, but as of life bereaven;
My life's with thee, for, Lord, thou art in heaven
CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast?
Or he be strong, that airy 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 being 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?
Thou art neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young.
WHAT joyful harvester did e'er obtain
The sweet fruition of his hopeful gain,
Till he in hardy labours first had pass'd
The summer's heat, and stormy winter's blast?
A sable night returns a shining morrow,
And days of joy ensue sad nights of sorrow;
The way to bliss lies not on beds of down,
And he that had no cross deserves no crown.
There's but one heaven, one place of perfect ease,
In man it lies, to take it where he please,
Above, or here below and few men do
Enjoy the one, and taste the other too :
Sweating, and constant labour wins the goal
Of rest; afflictions clarify the soul,
And like hard masters, give more hard directions,
Tutoring the nonage of uncurb'd affections.
Wisdom, the antidote of sad despair,
Make sharp afflictions seem not as they are,
Through patient sufferance; and doth apprehend,
Not as they seeming are, but as they end.
To bear affliction with a bended brow,
Or stubborn heart, is but to disallow
The speedy means to health; salve heals no sore, If misapplied, but makes the grief the more. Who sends affliction, sends an end, and he
Best knows what's best for him, what's best for
'Tis not for me to carve me where I like;
Him pleases when he list to stroke or strike.
I'll neither wish nor yet avoid temptation,
But still expect it, and make preparation :
If he think best, my faith shall not be tried,
Lord, keep me spotless from presumptuous pride :
If otherwise with his trial, give me care,
By thankful patience to prevent despair:
Fit me to bear whate'er thou shalt assign;
I kiss the rod, because the rod is thine.
Howe'er, let me not boast, nor yet repine,
With trial, or without, Lord, make me thine.
AMONG the noble Greeks it was no shame
To lose a sword; it but deserv'd the name
Of war's disastrous fortune; but to yield
The right and safe possession of the shield,
Was foul reproach, and manless cowardice,
Far worse than death to him that scorn'd to prize
His life before his honour: honour's won
Most in a just defence; defence is gone,
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