A whining lover may as well request

A scornful breast

To melt in gentle tears, as woo the world for rest.

Let wit, and all her studied plots effect

The best they can;

Let smiling fortune prosper and perfect
What wit began;

Let earth advise with both, and so project
A happy man;

Let wit or fawning fortune vie their best;
He may be blest

With all the earth can give; but earth can give no rest.

Whose gold is double with a careful hand,
His cares are double;

The pleasure, honour, wealth of sea and land
Bring but a trouble;

The world itself, and all the world's command,
Is but a bubble.

The strong desire of man's insatiate breast
May stand possest

Of all that earth can give ; but earth can give no rest.

The world's a seeming paradise, but her own
And man's tormentor;

Appearing fix'd, yet but a rolling stone
Without a tenter;

It is a vast circumference, where none
Can find a centre.

Of more than earth, can earth make none possest; And he that least

Regards this restless world, shall in this world find rest.

True rest consists not in the oft revying
Of worldly dross

Earth's miry purchase is not worth the buying;
Her gain is loss;

Her rest but giddy toil, if not relying
Upon her cross.

How worldlings droil for trouble! that fond breast
That is possess'd

Of earth without a cross, has earth without a rest.

CASS. in Ps.

The cross is the invincible sanctuary of the humble, the dejection of the proud, the victory of Christ, the destruction of the devil, the confirmation of the faithful, the death of the unbeliever, the life of the just.

DAMASCEN.

The cross of Christ is the key of paradise; the weak man's staff; the convert's convoy; the upright man's perfection; the soul and body's health; the prevention of all evil, and the procurer of all good.

EPIG. 6.

Worldlings, whose whimp'ring folly holds the losses

Of honour, pleasure, health, and wealth such

crosses,

Look here, and tell me what your arms engross, When the best end of what he hugs 's a cross?

Latet hostis, et otia ducis.
1 PETER, V. 8.

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the
devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking
whom he
may devour.

WHY dost thou suffer lustful sloth to creep,
Dull Cyprian lad, into thy wanton brows;
Is this a time to pay thine idle vows
At Morpheus' shrine? Is this a time to steep

Thy brains in wasteful slumbers? up, and rouse Thy leaden spirit: Is this a time to sleep? Adjourn thy sanguine dreams, awake, arise, Call in thy thoughts; and let them all advise, Hadst thou as many heads as thou hast wounded eyes.

Look, look, what horrid furies do await

Thy flatt'ring slumbers! If thy drowsy head But chance to nod, thou fall'st into a bed Of sulph'rous flames, whose torments want a date. Fond boy, be wise, let not thy thoughts be fed With Phrygian wisdom; fools are wise too late : Beware betimes, and let thy reason sever

Those gates which passion clos'd; wake now or never;

For if thou nodd'st thou fall'st; and, falling, fall'st for ever.

Mark, how the ready hands of death prepare:
His bow is bent, and he hath notch'd his dart;
He aims, he levels at thy slumb'ring heart:
The wound is posting, O be wise, beware.
What, has the voice of danger lost the art
To raise the spirit of neglected care?

Well, sleep thy fill, and take thy soft reposes: But know, withal, sweet tastes have sour closes; And he repents in thorns, that sleeps in beds of

roses.