BUSINESS. CANST be idle, canst thou play Foolish soul, who sinned to-day? If, poor soul, thou hast no tears, Winds still work, it is their plot, Hast thou sighs, or hast thou not? If thou hast no sighs or groans, Would thou hadst no flesh and bones: Lesser pains 'scape greater ones. But if yet thou idle be, Foolish soul, who died for thee? If He had not lived for thee He so far thy good did plot, If He had not died for thee And hath any space of breath "Twixt his sins and Saviour's death? 1 He that finds a silver vein Thinks on it, and thinks again— Neither sin nor Saviour feels. PEACE. SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave Let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave, And asked if peace were there, A hollow wind did seem to answer, "No! Go seek elsewhere." I did; and going, did a rainbow note: Surely, thought I, This is the lace of Peace's coat: I will search out the matter. But while I looked, the clouds immediately Then went I to a garden, and did spy A gallant flower, The crown imperial. "Sure," said I, "Peace at the root must dwell." But when I digged I saw a worm devour At length I met a reverend good old man ; I did demand, he thus began : "There was a prince of old At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase Of flock and fold. 1 "He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes, But after death out of his grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat: Which many wond'ring at, got some of those To plant and set. "It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth; For they that taste it do rehearse, That virtues lie therein; A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth, "Take of this grain which in my garden grows, And grows for you: Make bread of it; and that repose, And peace which every where With so much earnestness you do pursue, MORTIFICATION. How soon doth man decay! When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets 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 That dumb inclosure maketh love Unto the coffin that attends his death. When age grows low and weak, Marking his grave, and thawing every year, 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 dressed 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. THOMAS RANDOLPH. THIS poet was the adopted son of Jonson. At an early age his genius and acquirements held forth promises of literary eminence, which were, however, unhappily frustrated by a premature death. In his remains we find traces of true poetic taste, and a fine fancy. He was born in 1605, and died in 1634. AN ECLOGUE. (OCCASIONED BY TWO DOCTORS DISPUTING UPON CORYDON Ho! jolly Thyrsis, whither in such haste? Is't for a wager that you run so fast? THYRSIS. No, Corydon, I heard young Daphnis say, Who best shall sing of shepherd's art and praise: TITYRUS. Alexis, read; what means this mystic thing? ALEXIS. Will you Pan's goodness therefore partial call, |