Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen;

If winter come and greeness then do fade,

A Spring returns and they more youthfull made;

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But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid:

By birth more noble then those creatures all,
Yet seems by nature and by custome curs'd:

No sooner born but grief and care makes fall,

That state obliterate he had at first;

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Nor youth nor strength nor wisdom spring again,

Nor habitations long their names retain,

But in oblivion to the final day remain.

Shall I, then, praise the heavens, the trees, the earth,

Because their beauty and their strength last longer?
Shall I wish there or never to had birth,

135

Because they're bigger, & their bodyes stronger?

Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade, and dye,
And when unmade so ever shall they lye;
But man was made for endless immortality.

140

And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.

While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye,
Which to the long'd for Ocean held its course,

I markt nor crooks nor rubs that there did lye Could hinder ought, but still augment its force: "O happy Flood,” quoth I, “that holds thy race Till thou arrive at thy beloved place,

150

Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace.

"Nor is 't enough that thou alone may'st slide, But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet;

155

So hand in hand along with thee they glide
To Thetis house, where all imbrace and greet:

Thou Emblem true of what I count the best,

O could I lead my Rivolets to rest,

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So may we press to that vast mansion ever blest!

"Ye Fish which in this liquid Region 'bide,

That for each season have your habitation,

Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide
To unknown coasts to give a visitation,

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In Lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry;

So nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You watry folk that know not your felicity.

Look how the wantons frisk to tast the air,
Then to the colder bottome streight they dive;
Eftsoon to Neptun's glassie Hall repair,

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To see what trade they great ones there do drive,
Who forrage o're the spacious sea-green field

And take the trembling prey before it yield,

Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins

their shield."

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While musing thus, with contemplation fed,
And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,

The sweet-tongu'd Philomel percht ore my head,

And chanted forth a most melodious strain;

Which rapt me so with wonder and delight

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I judg'd my hearing better then my sight,

And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight.

"O merry Bird," said I, “that fears no snares,
That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn,
Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares

To gain more good or shun what might thee harm;
Thy cloaths ne're wear, thy meat is every where,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer;
Reminds not what is past, nor whats to come dost
fear.

"The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,
Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument

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And, warbling out the old, begin anew;

And thus they pass their youth in summer season,

Then follow thee into a better Region,

Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion."

Man at the best a creature frail and vain,

In knowledg ignorant, in strength but weak,
Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,

195

Each storm his state, his mind, his body break;

200

From some of these he never finds cessation,

But day or night, within, without, vexation,

Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st
Relation.

And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow;
Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation,

205

In weight, in frequency and long duration,

Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation.

210

The Mariner that on smooth waves doth glide
Sings merrily and steers his Barque with ease,
As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now become great Master of the seas;

But suddenly a storm spoiles all the sport,

215

And makes him long for a more quiet port,

Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,

Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre,

That's full of friends, of honour, and of treasure,

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Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heav'ns bower.

Their names without a Record are forgot,

Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid in th' dust,

Nor wit nor gold nor buildings scape times rust:
But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone

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Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

1678.

A LETTER TO HER HUSBAND

Phœbus, make haste: the day's too long; be gone;
The silent night's the fittest time for moan.

But stay this once, unto my suit give ear,
And tell my griefs in either Hemisphere;
And if the whirling of thy wheels don't drown'd
The woful accents of my doleful sound,

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If in thy swift Carrier thou canst make stay,
I crave this boon, this Errand by the way:

Commend me to the man more lov'd then life;
Shew him the sorrows of his widdowed wife,

ΙΟ

My dumpish thoughts, my groans, my brakish tears,

My sobs, my longing hopes, my doubting fears;

And if he love, how can he there abide ?

My Interest's more then all the world beside.

He that can tell the starrs or Ocean sand,

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Or all the grass that in the Meads do stand,

The leaves in th' woods, the hail or drops of rain,
Or in a corn-field number every grain,
Or every mote that in the sun-shine hops,
May count my sighs and number all my drops.
Tell him the countless steps that thou dost trace
That once a day thy Spouse thou mayst imbrace;
And when thou canst not treat by loving mouth,
Thy rayes afar salute her from the south.
But for one moneth I see no day, poor soul,

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25

Like those far scituate under the pole,

Which day by day long wait for thy arise:

O how they joy when thou dost light the skyes.

O Phœbus, hadst thou but thus long from thine
Restrain'd the beams of thy beloved shine,
At thy return, if so thou could'st or durst,
Behold a Chaos blacker then the first.

30

Tell him here's worse then a confused matter-
His little world's a fathom under water;
Nought but the fervor of his ardent beams

35

Hath power to dry the torrent of these streams.
Tell him I would say more, but cannot well:
Oppressed minds abruptest tales do tell.

Now post with double speed, mark what I say;
By all our loves conjure him not to stay.

LONGING FOR HEAVEN

As weary pilgrim now at rest
Hugs with delight his silent nest,
His wasted limbes now lye full soft
That myrie steps have troden oft,
Blesses himself to think upon

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1678.

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