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Peace, the lovers are asleep!

They, sweet turtles, folded lie

In the last knot that Love could tie.
And though they lie as they were dead,
Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead :
(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm)
Love made the bed; they'll take no harm ;
Let them sleep: let them sleep on,

Till this stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn
And they wake into a light,

Whose Day shall never sleep in Night.

-:0:

Death's Lecture and the Funeral of a Young

Gentleman.

DEAR relics of a dislodged soul, whose lack
Makes many a mourning paper put on black!
O stay a while, ere thou draw in thy head,
And wind thyself up close in thy cold bed.
Stay but a little while, until I call

A summons worthy of thy funeral.

Come then, Youth, Beauty, and Blood, all ye soft powers, Whose silken flatteries swell a few fond hours

Into a false eternity. Come man ;

Hyperbolised nothing! know thy span !

Take thine own measure here, down, down, and bow

Before thyself in thine idea; thou

Huge emptiness! contract thy bulk; and shrink
All thy wild circle to a point. O sink

Lower and lower yet; till thy small size,
Call Heaven to look on thee with narrow eyes.
Lesser and lesser yet; till thou begin

To show a face, fit to confess thy kin,
Thy neighbourhood to Nothing!
Proud looks, and lofty eyelids, here put on
Yourselves in your unfeign'd reflection;

Here, gallant ladies! this unpartial glass
(Through all your painting) shows you your true face.
These death-seal'd lips are they dare give the lie
To the loud boasts of poor Mortality;

These curtain'd windows, this retired eye
Out-stares the lids of large-look'd Tyranny:
This posture is the brave one; this that lies
Thus low, stands up (methinks) thus, and defies
The World. All-daring dust and ashes! only you
Of all interpreters read Nature true.

Temperance.

OF THE CHEAP PHYSICIAN, UPON THE TRANSLATION

OF LESSIUS.

Go now, with some daring drug,

Bait thy disease, and while they tug,
Thou, to maintain their cruel strife
Spend the dear treasure of thy life :
Go take physic, doat upon
Some big-named composition,-
The oraculous doctors' mystic bills,
Certain hard words made into pills;
And what at length shalt get by these?
Only a costlier disease.

Go poor man, think what shall be

Remedy 'gainst thy remedy.

That which makes us have no need

Of physic, that's physic indeed.

Hark hither, Reader: wouldst thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Wouldst see a man all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health?
A man, whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well?
Her garments that upon her sit,
(As garments should do) close and fit?

A well-clothed soul, that's not oppress'd

Nor choked with what she should be dress'd?
Whose soul's sheath'd in a crystal shrine,

Through which all her bright features shine?

As when a piece of wanton lawn,

A thin aerial veil is drawn,

O'er Beauty's face; seeming to hide,

More sweetly shews the blushing bride :

A soul, whose intellectual beams

No mists do mask, no lazy steams?

A happy soul, that all the way

To Heaven, hath a Summer's day?

Wouldst see a man whose well-warm'd blood

Bathes him in a genuine flood?

A man, whose tuned humours be

A set of rarest harmony?

Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile

Age? Wouldst see December smile?

Wouldst see a nest of roses grow

In a bed of rev'rend snow?

Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
Winter's self into a Spring?

In sum, wouldst see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest, and most leaden hours
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers;

And when Life's sweet fable ends,

His soul and body part like friends:

No quarrels, murmurs, no delay :
A kiss, a sigh, and so away ?

This rare one, Reader, wouldst thou see,
Hark hither and thyself be he!

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hope.

Hope, whose weak being ruin'd is
Alike, if it succeed, or if it miss!
Whom ill and good doth equally confound,
And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound.
Vain shadow; that dost vanish quite
Both at full noon, and perfect night!
The stars have not a possibility
Of blessing thee.

If things then from their end we happy call,
'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Hope, thou bold taster of delight!
Who instead of doing so, devour'st it quite.
Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor
By clogging it with legacies before.

The joys which we entire should wed,
Come deflowr'd virgins to our bed.

Good fortunes without gain imported be,
Such mighty custom's paid to thee;

For joy, like wine kept close, doth better taste;
If it take air before his spirits waste.

Hope, Fortune's cheating lottery,

Where, for one prize, an hundred blanks there be.
Fond archer, Hope! who tak'st thine aim so far,
That still, or short, or wide, thine arrows are;
Thin empty cloud which th' eye deceives

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