In contemplation passing out his days,

And change of holy thoughts to make him merry;
Who, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush,
Where harmless robin dwells with gentle thrush.

NICHOLAS BRETON.

[From "I would and would not," 1614.]

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What I would be.

To tell you truly what I wish to be,
And never would be other if I could,
But in the comfort of the heaven's decree,
In soule and bodie that I ever should :-
Though in the world, not to the world to live,
But to my God my service wholly give.

This would I be, and would none other be,
But a religious servant of my God;

And know there is none other God but He;
And willingly to suffer mercy's rod,
Joy in his grace, and live but in his love,
And seeke my blisse but in the heaven above.

And I would frame a kind of faithfull praier
For all estates within the state of grace,
That carefull love might never know despaire,
Nor servile feare might faithfull love deface:
And this I would both day and night devise
To be my humble spirit's exercise.

Thus would I spend in service of my God
The lingering hours of these few days of mine,
To show how sin and death are overtrod
But by the virtue of the power divine;

Our thoughts but vaine, our substance slime and dust
And only Christ for our eternal trust.

THOMAS LODGE.

BORN ABOUT 1556. DIED 1625.

Author of Promos and Cassandra, Glaucus and Scilla, &c.

SWEET, solitary life, thou true repose,
Wherein the wise contemplate heaven aright;
In thee no dread of war or worldly foes,
In thee no pomp seduceth mortal sight;
In thee no wanton ears to win with words,
Nor lurking toys which city-life affords.

At peep of day, when, in her crimson pride,
The morn bespreads with roses all the way,
When Phoebus' coach, with radiant course, must glide,
The Hermit bends his humble knees to pray;
Blessing that God, whose bounty doth bestow
Such beauties on the earthly things below.

Whether, with solace tripping on the trees,
He sees the citizens of forests sport;
Or, midst the wither'd oak beholds the bees
Intend their labours with a kind consort';
Down drop his tears, to think how they agree
While men alone with hate inflamed be.

Taste he the fruits that spring from Tellus' womb,
Or drink he of the crystal rill that flows,

He thanks his God; and sighs their cursed doom,
That fondly wealth in surfeiting bestows;
And with St. Jerome saith-" The desert is
A paradise of solace, joy and bliss."

Father of Light! Thou maker of the heaven!
From whom my being, and well-being, springs,
Bring to effect this my desired steaven, (a)
That I may leave the thought of worldly things;
Then in my troubles will I bless the time,
My Muse vouchsafed me such a lucky rhyme.

(a) Time or Season,

FRANCIS DAVISON.

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On the Death of a rare Infant, six years old.

[From Person's Varieties, 1635.]

WIT's perfection, Beauty's wonder,
Nature's pride, the Graces' treasure,
Virtue's life, his friends' sole pleasure,
This cold marble-stone lies under,
Which is often moist with teares
For such losse in such young yeares.

Lovely Boy, thou art not dead,
But from earth to heaven fled;
For base earth was far unfit
For such beauty, grace and wit.

Thou, alive on earth, sweet Boy,
Hadst an angel's wit and face;
And now dead, thou dost enjoy
In high heaven an angel's place.

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God my refuge.-Psalm 13.

HEAR, O Lord and God! my cries;
Mark my foes' unjust abusing;
And illuminate mine eies,

Heavenly beams in their infusing.

Lest my woes, too great to bear,

And too infinite in number,

Rocke me soone, 'twixt hope and fear,
Into death's eternal slumber.

Lest my foes their boasting make,
"Spight of right on him we trample;"
And a pride in mischief take
Hearten'd by my sad example.

As for me I'll ride secure
At thy mercy's sacred anchor,
And undaunted will endure

Fiercest storms of wrong and rancour.

These black clouds will overblowe,
Sunshine shall have his returning,
And my grief-wrung heart I know,
Into mirth shall change his mourning.

Therefore I'll rejoice, and sing
Hymnes to God, in sacred measure,
Who to happy passe will bring
My just hopes, at his good pleasure.

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The Lord my Shepherd.-Psalm 23.

GOD, who doth all nature hold

In his fold,

Is my Shepherd kind and heedful;
Is my Shepherd, and doth keep
Me his sheep,

Still supplied with all things needful.

He feeds me in fields, which been

Fresh and green,

Mottled with spring's flowery painting;

Through which creep, with murmuring crooks,

Chrystal brooks,

To refresh my spirit fainting.

When my soul, from heaven's way,

Went astray,

With earth's vanities seduced,

For his name's sake kindly He,

Wandering me

To his holy fold reduced.

Though I stray thro' death's dark vale,

Where his pale

Shades on every side enfold me,
Dreadless, having Thee for guide,
Should I 'bide,

For thy rod and staffe uphold me.

Thou, my board with messes large,
Dost surcharge;

My bowles full of wine Thou pourest,
And before mine enemies'

Envious eyes,

Balm upon mine head Thou showerest.

Neither 'dures thy bounteous grace
For a space,

But it knows nor bound, nor measure:
So my days, to my life's end,

Shall I spend

In thy courts with heavenly pleasure.

LORD HARRINGTON,

BARON OF EXETER.

[From "Verses to the living Memory of the late and last Sir Thomas Rowe.” 16**.]

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To his Mother and Sisters.

RATHER than tell how good he was, I will
Persuade you to forget;-yet weep your fill;
For such a sonne, O Death! and such a Brother,
Is rare as heaven's great eye, which hath no other.

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To Religion.

WHAT hast thou lost, O sacred mysterie!

Thy nurse and yet thy childe, he did not die