I’ll water now with tears my dying bed, Before the Lord my sad complaint I’ll spread, And if He will vouchsafe to pardon me, To die and leave this world I could be free. False world! false world, farewell! farewell! adieu! I find, I find, there is no trust in you! For when upon a dying bed we lie, Your gilded baits are nought but misery. My youthful son and loving daughter dear, Take warning by your dying father here; Let not the world deceive you at this rate, For fear a sad repentance comes too late. Sweet babes, I little thought the other day, I should so suddenly be snatched away By Death, and leave you weeping here behind; But life’s a most uncertain thing, I find. When in the grave my head is lain full low, Pray let not folly prove your overthrow; Serve ye the Lord, obey his holy will, That he may have a blessing for you still. [Having saluted them, he turned aside, These were the very words before he died]: A painful life I ready am to leave, Wherefore, in mercy, Lord, my soul receive. A DIALOGUE BETWIXT AN EXCISEMAN AND DEATH. [TRANSCRIBED from a copy in the British Museum, printed in London by J. C[larke]., 1659. The idea of Death being employed to execute a writ, recalls an epitaph which we remember to have seen in a village church-yard at the foot of the Wrekin, in Shropshire, commencing thus:— ‘The King of Heaven a warrant got, And sealèd it without delay, And he did give the same to Death, For him to serve straightway,’ &c.] UPON a time when Titan’s steeds were driven To drench themselves beneath the western heaven; And sable Morpheus had his curtains spread, And silent night had laid the world to bed; ’Mongst other night-birds which did seek for prey, A blunt exciseman, which abhorred the day, Was rambling forth to seek himself a booty ’Mongst merchant’s goods which had not paid the duty; But walking all alone, Death chanced to meet him, And in this manner did begin to greet him. DEATH. Stand, who comes here? what means this knave to peep And skulk abroad, when honest men should sleep? Speak, what’s thy name? and quickly tell me this, Whither thou goest, and what thy business is? EXCISEMAN. Whate’er my business is, thou foul-mouthed scold, I’d have you know I scorn to be controlled By any man that lives; much less by thou, Who blurtest out thou know’st not what, nor how; I go about my lawful business; and I’ll make you smart for bidding of me stand. DEATH. Imperious coxcomb! is your stomach vexed? Pray slack your rage, and hearken what comes next: I have a writ to take you up; therefore, To chafe your blood, I bid you stand, once more. EXCISEMAN.