A painted cask, but nothing in 't, 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, In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure The height of whose enchanting pleasure 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, I wrestle down the myriad years of Time! 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 With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky. 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! And his gods hate again, As many as tread on his glorified floor, |