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Then came brave Glorie puffing by
In silks that whistled, who but he!
He scarce allow'd me half an eie:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Yet when the houre of thy designe
To answer these fine things shall come;
Speak not at large, say, I am thine,
And then they have their answer home.

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. A hollow winde did seem to answer, No: Go seek elsewhere.

I did;

and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:
I will search out the matter.

But while I lookt the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden and did spy
A gallant flower,

The crown Imperiall: Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell.

But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devoure
What show'd so well.

At length I met a rev'rend good old man;
Whom when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:

There was a Prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

He sweetly liv'd; yet sweetnesse did not save
His life from foes.

But after death out of his grave.

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat:
Which many wondring at, got some of those
To plant and set.

It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth:

For they that taste it do rehearse,
That vertue lies therein;

A secret vertue, bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sinne.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you;

Make bread of it: and that repose
And peace, which ev'ry where
With so much earnestnesse you do pursue
Is onely there.

James Shirley.

{

Born 1596.

Died 1666.

He was born

A DISTINGUISHED dramatist, of whom it was said by the Censor that his plays were free from "oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness." 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;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings;
Sceptre and crown

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,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at length must yield;
They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to Fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now,

See where the victor-victim bleeds:
All heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom from the dust.

Edmund Caller.

{

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,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow, too, finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief:
So ev'ry passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,

Disordered, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despised,
Where he endeavours to be prized.
For women-born to be controlled-
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest,
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tamed th' unruly horse.
Unwisely we the wiser East

Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrant's force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill ;
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,
All to one female idol bend,

While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.
All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty Love: that conqu'ring look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pitied now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He straight resumes his wonted care;
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, winged with fear, outflies the wind.

THE BRITISH NAVY.

WHEN Britain, looking with a just disdain
Upon this gilded majesty of Spain,

And knowing well that empire must decline
Whose chief support and sinews are of coin,
Our nation's solid virtue did oppose

To the rich troublers of the world's repose.

And now some months, encamping on the main, Our naval army had besieged Spain:

They that the whole world's monarchy designed, Are to their ports by our bold fleet confined, From whence our Red Cross they triumphant see, Riding without a rival on the sea.

Others may use the ocean as their road, Only the English make it their abode, Whose ready sails with every wind can fly, And make a covenant with the inconstant sky: Our oaks secure, as if they there took root, We tread on billows with a steady foot.

AT PENSHURST.

WHILE in this park I sing, the list'ning deer
Attend my passion, and forget to fear;
When to the beeches I report my flame,
They bow their heads, as if they felt the same.
To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers
With loud complaints, they answer me in showers.
To thee a wild and cruel soul is given,

More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heav'n !
Love's foe professed! why dost thou falsely feign
Thyself a Sidney? from which noble strain
He sprung, that could so far exalt the name
Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame;
That all we can of love or high desire,
Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidney's fire.
Nor call her mother who so well does prove
One breast may hold both chastity and love.
Never can she, that so exceeds the spring
In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring
One so destructive. To no human stock
We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock

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