But little did the infant dream That all the treasures of the world were by: And that himself was so the cream And crown of all which round about did lie. Yet thus it was: the Gem, The Diadem, The ring enclosing all That stood upon this earthly ball, The Heavenly eye, Much wider than the sky, Wherein they all included were, The glorious Soul, that was the King Made to possess them, did appear A small and little thing! Thomas Flatman. 1637-1688 407. The Sad Day O THE sad day! When friends shall shake their heads, and say Of miserable me-- 'Hark, how he groans! Look, how he pants for breath! See how he struggles with the pangs of death!' When they shall say of these dear eyes-- 'How hollow, O how dim they be! Mark how his breast doth rise and swell Against his potent enemy!' When some old friend shall step to my bedside, Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide. But--when his next companions say 'How does he do? What hopes?'--shall turn away, Answering only, with a lift-up hand-- 'Who can his fate withstand?' Then shall a gasp or two do more Than e'er my rhetoric could before: Persuade the world to trouble me no more! Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 1638-1706 408. Song Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the night before an Engagement. TO all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la. For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea-- With a fa, la, la, la, la. Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day-- With a fa, la, la, la, la. The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old: But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs-- With a fa, la, la, la, la. Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind?-- With a fa, la, la, la, la. Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who 's our friend, or who 's our foe-- With a fa, la, la, la, la. To pass our tedious hours away We throw a merry main, Or else at serious ombre play; But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone when we left you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.