With 'em there hasts, and wildly takes the Alarm,
Of painted Dreams, a busie swarm,

At the first opening of thine eye,

The various Clusters break, the antick Atomes fly.

The guilty Serpents, and obscener Beasts

Creep conscious to their secret rests:

Nature to thee does reverence pay,

Ill Omens, and ill Sights removes out of thy way.

At thy appearance, Grief it self is said,

To shake his Wings, and rowse his Head.
And cloudy care has often took

A gentle beamy Smile reflected from thy Look.

At thy appearance, Fear it self

grows

bold;

Thy Sun-shine melts away his Cold.
Encourag'd at the sight of Thee,

To the cheek Colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

Even Lust the Master of a hardned Face,

Blushes if thou beest in the place,

To darkness' Curtains he retires,

In Sympathizing Night he rowls his smoaky Fires.

When, Goddess, thou liftst up thy wakened Head,
Out of the Mornings purple bed,

Thy Quire of Birds about thee play,

And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

The Ghosts, and Monster Spirits, that did presume
A Bodies Priv❜lege to assume,

Vanish again invisibly,

And Bodies gain agen their visibility.

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All the Worlds bravery that delights our Eyes
Is but thy sev'ral Liveries,

Thou the Rich Dy on them bestowest,

Thy nimble Pencil Paints this Landskape as thou go'st.

A Crimson Garment in the Rose thou wear'st;
A Crown of studded Gold thou bear'st,

The Virgin Lillies in their White,

Are clad but with the Lawn of almost Naked Light.

The Violet, springs little Infant, stands,

Girt in thy purple Swadling-bands:
On the fair Tulip thou dost dote;

Thou cloath'st it in a gay and party-colour'd Coat.

With Flame condenst thou dost the Jewels fix,

And solid Colours in it mix:

Flora her self envyes to see

Flowers fairer then her own, and durable as she.

Ah, Goddess! would thou could'st thy hand withhold,
And be less Liberall to Gold;

Didst thou less value to it give,

Of how much care (alas) might'st thou poor Man relieve!

To me the Sun is more delighful farr,

And all fair Dayes much fairer are.

But few, ah wondrous few there be,

Who do not Gold preferr, O Goddess, ev❜n to Thee.

Through the soft wayes of Heaven, and Air, and Sea,

Which open all their Pores to Thee;

Like a cleer River thou dost glide,

And with thy Living Stream through the close Channels slide.

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But where firm Bodies thy free course oppose,
Gently thy source the Land oreflowes;

Takes there possession, and does make,

Of Colours mingled, Light, a thick and standing Lake.

But the vast Ocean of unbounded Day

In th' Empyræan Heaven does stay.

Thy Rivers, Lakes, and Springs below

From thence took first their Rise, thither at last must Flow.

Abraham Cowley.

On an Houre-glasse.

'Y Life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse

MY

By all those little Sands that thorough passe.
See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed and greatest quicknesse fall.
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their owne weight doe levell it agen.
But when th' have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more.
Just such is man whose houres still forward run,
Being almost finisht ere they are begun ;
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be.
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,

And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!
They creepe on towards us, but flie away.

How stinging are our sorrowes! where they gaine
But the least footing, there they will remaine.
How groundlesse are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!

How reall are our feares! they blast us still,
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
How senselesse are our wishes, yet how great!
With what toile we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,
Like Children crying for some Mercurie.
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed.
This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state.
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold,
And yet how many have been choak't with Gold?
This onely hunts for honour, yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought
With many a sleeplesse night and racking thought?
This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall.
Another boasts strong armes, 'las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave.
These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay,
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay then they.
Poore man, what art! A Tennis ball of Errour,
A Ship of Glasse toss'd in a Sea of terrour,
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe,
Crauling in teares and mourning to the tombe,
How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall,
How art thou Nothing when th' art most of all!

John Hall.

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40

50

The Exequy.

Ccept thou Shrine of my dead Saint,
Instead of Dirges this complaint;

And for sweet flowres to crown thy hearse,
Receive a strew of weeping verse

From thy griev'd friend, whom thou might'st see
Quite melted into tears for thee.

Dear loss since thy untimely fate

My task hath been to meditate

On thee, on thee: thou art the book,

The library whereon I look

Though almost blind. For thee (lov'd clay)
I languish out not live the day,

Using no other exercise

But what I practise with mine eyes :
By which wet glasses I find out
How lazily time creeps about

To one that mourns: this, onely this
My exercise and bus'ness is:
So I compute the weary houres
With sighs dissolved into showres.

thus

Nor wonder if my time go
Backward and most preposterous;
Thou hast benighted me, thy set
This Eve of blackness did beget,
Who was❜t my day, (though overcast
Before thou had'st thy Noon-tide past)
And I remember must in tears,

Thou scarce had'st seen so many years

ΙΟ

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