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Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure there was wine

Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn
Before my tears did drown it;
Is the year only lost to me?

Have I no bays to crown it,

No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted,
All wasted?

Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.

Recover all thy sigh-blown age

On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands

Which petty thoughts have made; and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,

While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away! take heed;

I will abroad.

Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy fears:
He that forbears

To suit and serve his need
Deserves his load."

But as I raved, and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,

Methought I heard one calling, "Child";
And I replied, "My Lord".

LOVE.

LOVE

OVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked anything.

"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here":
Love said, "You shall be he".

"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee!"

Love took my hand and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve."

"And know you not," says Love, "Who bore the blame?" "My dear, then I will serve."

"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat.” So I did sit and eat.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

(1592-1644.)

"PHOSPHOR, BRING THE DAY."

From the Emblems, Divine and Moral, 1635. Quarles's Works, edited by Dr. Grosart, are in the Chertsey Worthies Library (3 vols., 1880).

WILL'T ne'er be morning? Will that promised light

Ne'er break, and clear those clouds of night?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day,

Whose conquering ray

May chase these fogs: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

How long, how long shall these benighted eyes
Languish in shades, like feeble flies

Expecting spring? How long shall darkness soil
The face of earth, and thus beguile
Our souls of sprightful action? When, when will day
Begin to dawn, whose new-born ray
May gild the weathercocks of our devotion,
And give our unsouled souls new motion?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day:
The light will fray

These horrid mists: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

Let those whose eyes, like owls, abhor the light—
Let those have night that love the night:
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

How sad delay

Afflicts dull hopes! Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

Alas! my light-in-vain-expecting eyes

Can find no objects but what rise From this poor mortal blaze, a dying spark

Of Vulcan's forge, whose flames are dark,—

A dangerous, dull, blue-burning light,

As melancholy as the night:

Here's all the suns that glister in the sphere
Of earth: Ah me! what comfort's here!
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
Haste, haste away

Heaven's loitering lamp: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

Blow, Ignorance. O thou, whose idle knee

Rocks earth into a lethargy,

And with thy sooty fingers hast benight

The world's fair cheeks, blow, blow thy spite;

Since thou hast puffed our greater taper, do

Puff on, and out the lesser too.

If e'er that breath-exiléd flame return,

Thou hast not blown, as it will burn.
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day:
Light will repay

The wrongs of night: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

HENRY MORE.

(1614-1687.)

THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION.

From Philosophical Poems, 1647; it also appears in the Divine Dialogues, 1668. More's Poems, edited by Dr. Grosart, 1878, are n the Chertsey Worthies Library.

SING aloud! His praise rehearse

Who hath made the universe.

He the boundless heavens has spread,
All the vital orbs has kned;

He that on Olympus high

Tends his flocks with watchful eye,
And this eye has multiplied

Midst each flock for to reside1.

Thus, as round about they stray,
Toucheth each with outstretched ray;
Nimble they hold on their way,
Shaping out their night and day.
Summer, winter, autumn, spring,
Their inclinèd axes bring.
Never slack they; none respires,
Dancing round their central fires.
In due order as they move,
Echoes sweet be gently drove
Thorough heaven's vast hollowness
Which unto all corners press:

1 the suns in their systems.

Music that the heart of Jove
Moves to joy and sportful love;
Fills the listening sailers' ears
Riding on the wandering spheres:
Neither speech nor language is
Where their voice is not transmiss.

God is good, is wise, is strong,
Witness all the creature throng,
Is confessed by every tongue;

All things back from whence they sprung,
As the thankful rivers pay

What they borrowed of the sea.

Now myself I do resign;

Take me whole: I all am thine.
Save me, God, from self-desire,
Death's pit, dark hell's raging fire,
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire;
Let not lust my soul bemire.

Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing,
Loudly sweep the trembling string.
Bear a part, O Wisdom's sons,
Freed from vain religions!

Lo! from far I you salute,

Sweetly warbling on my lute

India, Egypt, Araby,

Asia, Greece, and Tartary,

Carmel-tracts, and Lebanon,

With the Mountains of the Moon,

From whence muddy Nile doth run,

Or wherever else you won1:

Breathing in one vital air,

One we are though distant far.

Rise at once; let's sacrifice:

1 dwell.

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