To thee; of all the rest he was, alive,

Thy martyr; and, now dead, he doth more thrive
In thee:-Oh! no; his state takes no increase,
Full of the joyes of God, he lives in peace.

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To Death.

POOR, uncreated nothing! to contend

To make all things like thee, yet misse thy end;
Canst thou hold him one hour, O envious Death!
Or touch his last, yet everlasting breath?

Oh! no; that fled where Thou shalt never come,
Though here a while thou triumph on his tomb.

ARTHUR WARWICK.

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"This mortal shall put on immortality,”—written a few days before the Author's decease.

[From "Spare Minutes, or resolved Meditations," &c. 1636.]

THE world is but a walk of pain,
That has only end with death;
Life is war, in which we gain
Conquest by the loss of breath;

Who would not warfare end, and travels cease,
To live at home in rest, and rest at home in peace.

What's the earth when trimmest drest
To that crystal-spangled dwelling?
Yet the Saint, in glory least,

Is in glory far excelling:

Glorious Redeemer, let this earth of mine

Thy glorious body see, and in thy glory shine.

COLLINS.

Oft I see the darksome night
To a beauteous day returning;

Oft doth sleep entomb my sight,

Yet I wake again at morning:

's night

Bright Sun, return, when sleep hath spent death's
That these dim eyes of mine may in thy light see ligh

ANNE COLLINS.

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Happiness not to be found in the Creature.

[From "Divine Songs and Meditations," 1653.]

SUCH is the force of each created thing
That it no solid happiness can bring,

Which to our minds may give contentment sound;
For, like as Noah's dove no succour found,
Till she return'd to him that sent her out,
Just so, the soul in vain may seek about
For rest or satisfaction any where,

Save in his presence who hath sent her here;
Yea though all earthly glories should unite
Their pomp and splendour to give such delight,
Yet could they no more sound contentment bring
Than star-light can make grass or flowers spring.

INS

The Desire of the Heart.

[From "Schola Cordis," in forty-seven Emblems: 1647.]

IE merchant sends his heart to sea,
ad there, together with his ship, 'tis tost;
this by chance miscarry, that is lost;

is confidence is cast away;

He hangs the head,

As he were dead.

'he plowman furrows up his land,

the Cand sowes his heart together with his seed, Which both, alike earth-born, on earth do feed, And prosper or are at a stand;

He and his field

Like fruit do yield.

ent The broker and the scrivener have

The usurer's heart in keeping, with his bands;
His soule's dear sustenance lies in their hands,
And if they break, their shop's his grave;
His interest is

His only bliss.

The money-hoarder, in his bags,

Binds up his heart, and locks it in his chest;
The same key serves to that and to his breast,
Which of no other heaven brags,

Nor can conceit

A joy so great.

Poor wretched muck-wormes, wipe your eyes,
Uncase those trifles that beset you so;
Your rich-appearing wealth is reall woe,

Your death in your desires lies;

Your hearts are where

You love and feare.

Oh! think not, then, the world deserves
Either to be beloved or fear'd by you;
Give heaven these affections as its due,
Which always what it hath preserves
In perfect blisse,
That endlesse is.

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The Heart enlarged.

WHAT a blessed change I find,
Since I entertain'd this guest!
Now, methinks, another mind
Moves and rules within my breast;
Surely I am not the same
That I was before He came;
But I then was much to blame.

All the ways of righteousnesse
I did think were full of trouble ;
I complain'd of tediousnesse,
And each duty seemed double ;
While I served Him but from feare,
Every minute did appeare

Longer far than a whole yeare.

But the case is alter'd now;
He no sooner turnes his eye,
But I quickly bend and bow,
Ready at his feet to lie;
Love hath taught me to obey
All his precepts, and to say
Not" to-morrow" but "to-day."

[From "A Survey of the World :” 1661.]

THE Oake beares fruite, though blossome it beares

none;

The Just beares fruite, though oft it is not known.

THE Margarite's (a) composed of heavenly dew,
Heaven is the Pearle that is prepared for few.

THE Worme lives in his grave;-do what he can
He's but a worme;-No muck-worme is a man.

PRIDE cannot see itself by noon-day light;
The Peacock's tail is farthest from his sight.

THE Swallow's a quick arrowe, that may shew
With what an instant swiftnesse life doth flow.

LET devout prayer cast me to the ground,
So shall I yet to heaven be nearer found.

RELIGION, thou on Sinai's top dost sit,
Higher than Horeb,-empresse of all wit.

THE Moralist, with skill scarce more profound,
Dresses the mind than others dress the ground.

WHAT's true is therefore good; and thus we know
All goodnesse else doth from this goodnesse flow.