Look, as the flow'r which ling'ringly doth fade, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, Think on thy home (my soul) and think aright, Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day; Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, And twice it is not given thee to be born. CATHARINE PHILLIPS. 1631-1664. THE INQUIRY. If we no old historian's name Authentic will admit, But think all said of friendship's fame, Yet what's revered by minds so pure Must be a bright idea sure. But as our immortality By inward sense we find, But if truth be in ancient song, Or story we believe; If the inspired and greater throng Have scorned to deceive, There have been hearts whose friendship gave Them thoughts at once both soft and grave. Among that consecrated crew Some more seraphic shade Lend me a favourable clew, Now mists my eyes invade. Why, having fill'd the world with fame, Why is't so difficult to see Two bodies and one mind? And why are those who else agree Hath nature such fantastic art, That she can vary every heart? Why are the bands of friendship tied With so remiss a knot, That by the most it is defied, If friendship sympathy impart, That heart can never meet with heart, Had friendship ne'er been known to men But could it all be here acquired, JAMES SHIRLEY. 1594-1666. DEATH. THE glories of our blood and state 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, 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; To the cold tomb. Only the actions of the just Are sweet, and blossom in the dust. WILLIAM STRODE. 1600-1644. MUSIC. WHEN Whispering strains do softly steal Can scarce deny The soul consists of harmony. Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air, That hath an ear? And slumbering die, And change his soul for harmony. SIMON WASTELL. 1623. MAN. LIKE as the damask rose you see, The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The gourd consumes, and man he dies. Like to the grass that's newly sprung, E'en such is man, who lives by breath, ROBERT HERRICK. 1591. SONG. GATHER the rose-buds while ye may, And this same flower that smiles to-day, The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun, The age is best which is the first, |