THE SEARCH. WHITHER, O, whither art thou fled, My searches are my daily bread; My knees pierce th' earth, mine eies the skie: And centre both to me denie That thou art there. Yet can I mark how herbs below As if to meet thee they did know, Yet can I mark how starres above As having keyes unto thy love, I sent a sigh to seek thee out, Deep drawn in pain, Wing'd like an arrow: but my scout I tun'd another (having store) Into a grone, Because the search was dumbe before: Lord, dost thou some new fabrick mold And keeps the present, leaving th' old Where is my God? what hidden place O let not that of any thing: Let rather brasse, Or steel, or mountains be thy ring, And I will passe. Thy will such an intrenching is, To it all strength, all subtilties Thy will such a strange distance is, East and West touch, the poles do kisse, Since then my grief must be as large Thy distance from me; see my charge, O take these barres, these lengths away : Be not Almightie, let me say, Against, but for me. When thou dost turn, and wilt be neare; What point so piercing can appeare For as thy absence doth excell All distance known: So doth thy nearnesse bear the bell, THE QUIP. THE merrie world did on a day First, Beautie crept into a rose; Then came brave Glorie puffing by PEACE. SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave, Let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave, And ask'd, if Peace were there. I did; and going did a rainbow note: This is the lace of Peace's coat: But while I lookt the clouds immediately Then went I to a garden and did spy The crown Imperiall: Sure, said I, But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devoure At length I met a rev'rend good old man; I did demand, he thus began: There was a Prince of old At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase He sweetly liv'd; yet sweetnesse did not save But after death out of his grave. There sprang twelve stalks of wheat: It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse For they that taste it do rehearse, A secret vertue, bringing peace and mirth Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, Make bread of it: and that repose James Shirley. Born 1596. A DISTINGUISHED dramatist, of whom it was said by the Censor that his plays were free from "oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness." He was born in London in 1596, and was designed for holy orders. He officiated as curate at St Albans, but resigned the curacy on becoming a Roman Catholic. He then removed to London, where he became a successful writer for the stage. Thirty-nine plays came successively from his pen, besides a volume of poems. He lost all his property at the great fire of London, and died amid the distress occasioned by it in 1666. DEATH THE CONQUEROR OF ALL. THE glories of our mortal state Are shadows, not substantial things; Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, Early or late They stoop to Fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, See where the victor-victim bleeds: To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom from the dust. Edmund Waller. { Born 1605. Died 1687. AN English Poet, born at Coleshill in 1605. While yet a child he was left heir to an estate of £3000 a year. His mother was a Hampden, and also related to Oliver Cromwell. Waller wrote his first poem in his eighteenth year. His intellectual powers were of the highest order; and being graceful in his manners and sprightly in conversation, he was a general favourite. Waller was at one time a suitor for the hand of the daughter of the Earl of Leicester, and he wrote many poems in praise of "his Sacharissa," but she turned a deaf ear to his addresses. On meeting her long after, when she was advanced in years, she asked him when he would again write such verses upon her, he replied, "When you are as young and as handsome as you were then." Waller was utterly destitute of political principle, siding with the Parliament in the civil war, and seeking to betray them to the King; writing praises on Cromwell when in power; and on Charles II. and James II. after the restoration, and carrying off his apostasy with a flow of sparkling wit which made his peace with all. Charles challenged him for having written a panegyric on him inferior to that on Cromwell; "It is more easy for poets to write fiction than truth," was the reply. Waller was a keen observer of political matters, and is said to have given James II. much good advice. His fame rests chiefly on his short, light, occasional pieces written in "a melodious verse," which made him popular. He died on 21st October 1687, at Beaconsfield. ON LOVE. ANGER, in hasty words or blows, |