Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives;
But tho' the whole world turn to a coal,
Then chiefly lives.

I MADE a posy, while the day ran by:
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.

But time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
And wither'd in my hand.

Farewell, dear flowers! sweetly your time ye spent,
Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures.

I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if
It be as short as yours.

wwwww

The Quip.

THE merry world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together, where I lay,
And all in sport to jeer at me.

First, Beauty crept into a Rose;
Which when I pluckt not, Sir, said she,
Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came, and chinking still,
What tune is this, poor man? said he
I heard in music you had skill.

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by,
In silks that whistled, who but he?
He scarce allow'd me half an eye.
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration.
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet when the hour of thy design
To answer these fine things shall come;
Speak not at large, say, I am thine,
And then they have their answer home.

wwwww

Peace.

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave, Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd if peace were there, A hollow wind did seem to answer, No; Go, seek elsewhere.

I did; and going, did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:
I will search out the matter;

But while I look'd, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,

The Crown Imperial: Sure said I,
Peace at the root must dwell;

But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour
What shew'd so well.

At length I met a reverend good old man :
Whom, when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:

There was a Prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes,

But after death out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;

Which many wondering at, got some of those
To plant and set.

It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth:

For they that taste it do rehearse,
That virtues lie therein;

A secret virtue, bringing Peace and Mirth
By flight of sin.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you:

Make bread of it; and that repose
And Peace, which every where
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there.

wwww

The Pilgrimage.

I TRAVEL on, seeing the hill, where lay
My expectation:

A long it was and weary way.
The gloomy cave of desperation
I left on the' one, and on the other side
The rock of pride.

And so I came to Fancy's meadows, strow'd
With many a flower:

Fain would I here have made abode,

But I was quicken'd by my hour.

So to Care's copse I came, and there got through
With much ado.

That led me to the wild of Passion; which
Some call the world;

A wasted place, but sometimes rich :
Here I was robb'd of all my gold,
Save one good angel, which a friend had ty'd
Close to my side.

At length I got into the gladsome hill,
Where lay my hope;

Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
When I had gain'd the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.

With that abash'd, and struck with many a sting,
Of swarming fears,

I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King!

Can both the way and end be tears?
Yet taking heart, I rose, and then perceived
I was deceived.

My hill was further: so I slung away,
Yet heard a cry,

Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives; if that be all, said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,
And but a chair.

wwwwwww.

The Flower.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,

As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivell'd heart Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone Quite under ground, as flowers depart

To see their mother-root, when they have blown;

Where they together,

All the hard weather,

Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amiss,

This or that is:

Thy word is all, if we could spell.

GEORGE SANDYS.

BORN 1577. DIED 1643.

Principal Works:-Travels, Translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, Paraphrases of Psalms, Ecclesiastes, &c. His Psalms are incomparably the most poetical in the English language, and yet they are scarcely known.

GOD is my Saviour, my cleare light:
Who then can my repose affright?
Or what appeare
Worth such a feare?

My life protected by his might:
Vaine hatred, vaine their powre,
That would my life devoure.

These fell, when they against me fought:
The wicked suffer'd what they sought.
Though troops of foes

At once inclose,

Of feare I would not lodge a thought,
Should armies compasse me;

So confident in Thee.