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IVE me my scallop-fhell of quiet,

GMy staff of faith to walk upon;

My scrip of joy, immortal diet;
My bottle of salvation;

My gown of glory (hope's true gage),
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's only balmer
Whilft my soul, like a quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven;
No other balm will there be given.

Sir Walter Raleigh. 1522-1618.

UT what, or who are we [alas]

B That we in giving are so free!

Thine own before our offering was,
And all we have we have from thee.
For we are guests and strangers here,
As were our fathers in thy fight;
Our days but shadow-like appear,
And suddenly they take their flight.

George Wither.


In vain do men

The heavens of their fortunes' fault accuse, Sith they know beft what is the best for them; For they to each such fortune do diffuse.

As they do know each can most aptly use.

For not that which men covet moft is beft,

Nor that thing worst which men do most refuse;

But fitteft is, that all contented reft

With that they hold; each hath his fortune in his breast.

It is the mind that maketh good or ill,

That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor;
For some that hath abundance at his will,

Hath not enough; but wants in greater store ;
And other, that hath little, asks no more,
But in that little is both rich and wise;

For wisdom is moft riches: fools therefore
They are which fortune do by vows devise,
Sith each unto himself his life may fortunize.

Spenser. 1553-1599.


S ere I down am couchéd there,

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Where now I hope to rest,

I first from what I daily wear,
Begin to be undreft;

So in my grave ere I shall be

In bleft reposure laid,

Of many rags yet worn by me
I must be disarray'd.

My fruitless hopes, my foolish fears,
My luft, my lofty pride,

My fleshly joys, my needlefs cares,
Muft quite be laid afide.

Yea, that self-love which yet I wear
More near me than my skin,
Muft off be pluck'd ere I shall dare
My last long fleep begin.

Of these and all such rags as these,
When I am disarray'd,

My soul and body shall have ease,
Wherever I am laid:

Nor fears of death, nor cares of life,
Shall then disquiet me;

Nor dreaming joys, nor waking grief,
My fleep's disturbance be.

Therefore inftru&t Thou me, O God!
And give me grace to heed

With what vain things ourselves we load,
And what we rather need.

Oh, help me tear those clouts away,

And let them so be loathed : That I on my last rising day With glory may be clothed.

And now when I am naked laid,
Vouchsafe me so to arm,

That nothing make my heart afraid,
Or do my body harm.

And guard me so when down I lie,
And when I rise again;

That fleep or wake, or live or die,

I ftill may safe remain.

George Wither. 1588-1667.




ILL love appear, we live in anxious doubt;
smoke will vanish when that flame breaks
This is the fire that would consume our drofs,
Refine and make us richer by the lofs.
Could we forbear dispute and practise love,
We should agree as angels do above.
Where love prefides, not vice alone does find
No entrance there, but virtues stay behind.
Both Faith and Hope, and all the meaner train
Of moral virtues, at the door remain ;
Love only enters as a native there,
For, born in heaven, it does but sojourn here.
Weak though we are, to love is no hard task,
And love for love is all that Heaven does afk.
Love, that would all men juft and temperate make,
Kind to themselves and others, for his sake.
'Tis with our minds as with a fertile ground,
Wanting this love, they muft with weeds abound:
Unruly paffions, whose effects are worse


Than thorns and thiftles springing from the curse. Edmund Waller. 1605-1687.

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