Kill not her quickening power with surfeitings; Cast not her serious wit on idle things; And when thou thinkest of her eternity, Think not that death against our nature is; Think it a birth, and when thou goest to die, Sing a like song as if thou wentest to bliss. And thou, my soul, which turnest with curious eye, To view the beams of thine own form divine; Know that thou canst know nothing perfectly, While thou art clouded with this flesh of mine. Take heed of over-weening, and compare Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's train; Study the best and highest things that are, But of thyself an humble thought retain. Cast down thyself and only strive to raise Which gives the power to be, and use the same. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, elder brother of Francis Beaumont, the dramatist, was the son of Francis Beaumont, one of the judges of the Court of Common Pleas in the time of Queen Elizabeth; he was born in 1584, and was educated at Oxford. Beside an historical poem styled Bosworth Field, he was the author of The Crown of Thorns, and other poems on sacred subjects, which, though little known, possess great merit. He was created a baronet in 1626, and died in 1628. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE WORLD, A PILGRIM, AND VIRTUE. PILGRIM. WHAT darkness clouds my senses? Hath the day Forgot his season, and the sun his way? Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might, In all his ways can only darkness find. Here must I starve and die, unless some light WORLD. Distressed Pilgrim, let not causeless fear Depress thy hopes, for thou hast comfort near, Clear up thy brows, and raise thy fainting eyes; See how my glittering palace open lies For weary passengers, whose desperate case I pity, and provide a resting place. PILGRIM. Oh thou! whose speeches sound, whose beauties shine, Not like a creature, but some power divine, Teach me thy style, thy worth and state declare, WORLD. I am thine end; Felicity my name; To feed them who with mirth and ease grow old; VIRTUE. Stay, hasty wretch, here deadly serpents swell, Not like the baits which this seducer gives, WORLD. Regard not these vain speeches, let them go : Bold, threadbare Virtue, who dare promise more VIRTUE. Canst thou now make, or hast thou ever made, No, monster, since my words have struck thee dumb, No golden lures on which perdition waits; But when thine eyes the prickly thorns have past, PILGRIM. These things are now most clear, thee I embrace : MICHAEL DRAYTON. THIS poet was born at Harshull, in the county of Warwick, about the year 1563. We can only discover these facts concernings his life-that in boyhood he was placed as page with some honourable person, that he studied at Oxford,-that Sir Henry Gooden, of Polesworth, was his patron,-that in his latter days, Sir Walter Aston, of Tixal, Staffordshire, loved his company, and was his friend ;-and that he was made Laureate, to which office, at that time, there was no emolument attached. His principal works are the Poly-Olbion, The Barons' Wars, England's Heroic Epistles, Legends, and Minor Poems, among which is The Birth and Miracles of Moses, all of which bear abundant proofs of erudition and genius. He died in 1631. MOSES MEETING THE DAUGHTERS OF JETHRO, PRIEST OF MIDIAN. To Midian now his pilgrimage he took, Midian, earth's only paradise for pleasures; Where many a soft rill, many a sliding brook, Through the sweet valleys trip in wanton measures; Where as the curled groves and flowery fields More true delight and choice contentment yields And wandering long he happened on a well, Where the soft winds did mutually embrace In the cool arbours nature there had made, Through the calm cincture of the amorous shade: |