A painted cask, but nothing in 't,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure:

Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st

With man; vain man! that thou rely'st

On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure,
To haberdash

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash?

The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou supply'st

Us mortals with? Are these the high'st?

Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou

ly'st.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. Sc. 7.

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly;

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere

folly:

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most frienship is feigning, most loving mere

O HOLY Ether, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and laughter innumerous
Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,
And all-viewing eyelie Sun, I cry on you,—
Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!
Behold, with throe on throe,
How, wasted by this woe,

I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!
Behold, how fast around me

The new King of the happy ones sublime

Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and

bound me!

Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's I cover with one groan. And where is found me A limit to these sorrows?

And yet what word do I say? I have foreknown

Clearly all things that should be; nothing done
Comes sudden to my soul-and I must bear
What is ordained with patience, being aware
Necessity doth front the universe

With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse
Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave
In silence or in speech. Because I gave
Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul
To this compelling fate. Because I stole
The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went
Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent
Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment,
That sin I expiate in this agony,

Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky.
Ah, ah me! what a sound,

What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between, Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her

bound,

To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon ob

tain

Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain!
The god Zeus hateth sore,

And his gods hate again,

As many as tread on his glorified floor,
Because I loved mortals too much evermore.