Growne elder I admired Our Poets as from heaven inspired What Obeliskes decreed I fit For _Spencers_ Art, and _Sydnyes_ wit? But waxing sober soone I found Fame but an Idle sound. Then I my blood obey'd And each bright face an Idoll made: Verse in an humble Sacrifice, I offer'd to my Mistresse eyes, But I no sooner grace did win But met the devill within. But growne more polliticke I tooke account of each state tricke: Observ'd each motion, judg'd him wise, Who had a conscience fit to rise. Whome soone I found but forme and rule And the more serious foole. But now my soule prepare To ponder what and where we are How fraile is life, how vaine a breath Opinion, how uncertaine death: How onely a poore stone shall beare Witnesse that once we were. How a shrill Trumpet shall Us to the barre as traytors call. Then shall we see too late that pride Hath hope with flattery bely'd And that the mighty in command Pale Cowards there must stand. _Recogitabo tibi omnes annos meos._ ISAY. Time! where didst thou those years inter Which I have seene decease? My soules at war and truth bids her Finde out their hidden Sepulcher, To give her troubles peace. Pregnant with flowers doth not the Spring Like a late bride appeare? Whose fether'd Musicke onely bring Caresses, and no Requiem sing On the departed yeare? The Earth, like some rich wanton heire, Whose Parents coffin'd lye, Forgets it once lookt pale and bare And doth for vanities prepare, As the Spring nere should dye. The present houre, flattered by all Reflects not on the last; But I, like a sad factor shall T' account my life each moment call, And onely weepe the past. My mem'ry trackes each severall way Since Reason did begin Over my actions her first sway: And teacheth me that each new day Did onely vary sin. Poor banckrout Conscience! where are those Rich houres but farm'd to thee? How carelessely I some did lose, And other to my lust dispose As no rent day should be? I have infected with impure Disorders my past yeares. But Ile to penitence inure Those that succeed. There is no cure Nor Antidote but teares. _Cupio dissolvi._ PAULE. The soule which doth with God unite, Those gayities how doth she slight Which ore opinion sway? Like sacred Virgin wax, which shines On Altars or on Martyrs shrines How doth she burne away? How violent are her throwes till she From envious earth delivered be, Which doth her flight restraine? How doth she doate on whips and rackes, On fires and the so dreaded Axe, And every murd'ring paine?