[Line: 73 'Than' for 'then' is much rarer than the converse, though we have it once _supra_. It is odd too here, for 'then' would have done just as well.] [Line: 90 'Their' = Origen and the Priscillianists.] [Line: 93 Posidippus? But the thing was a commonplace.] [Line: 94 Side-note in orig.: _Non nasci, aut quam citissime mori._] _The Dirge._ What is th' existence of Man's life But open war, or slumber'd strife? Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements; And never feels a perfect peace, Till Death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm, where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood; And each loud passion of the mind Is like a furious gust of wind, 10 Which beats his bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave. It is a flower, which buds and grows, And withers as the leaves disclose; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, Like fits of waking before sleep: Then shrinks into that fatal mould, Where its first being was enroll'd. It is a dream, whose seeming truth Is moraliz'd in age and youth: 20 Where all the comforts he can share As wand'ring as his fancies are; Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away. It is a dial, which points out The sun-set as it moves about: And shadows out in lines of night The subtile stages of Time's flight, Till all obscuring earth hath laid The body in perpetual shade. 30 It is a weary interlude Which doth short joys, long woes include. The World the stage, the Prologue tears, The Acts vain hope, and varied fears; The Scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no Epilogue but Death. [_The Dirge._] An obvious extension-variation of _Sic Vita_.] [Line: 8 _MS._ 'Vies rages with'--rather well.] [Line: 12 _MS._ 'cast'--perhaps better.] [Line: 26 _MS._ 'His sun-set'.] [Lines: 27-8 These run in _MS._: Whilst it demonstrates Time's swift flight In the black lines of shady night. ] [Line: 30 The] _MS._ 'His'.] [Line: 35 _MS._ '_in_ loss'.] _An Elegy, occasioned by the loss of the most incomparable Lady Stanhope, daughter to the Earl of Northumberland._ [Died November 29, 1654.] Light'ned by that dim torch our sorrow bears, We sadly trace thy coffin with our tears; And though the ceremonious rites are past Since thy fair body into earth was cast, Though all thy hatchments into rags are torn, Thy funeral robes and ornaments outworn; We still thy mourners, without show or art, With solemn blacks hung round about our heart, Thus constantly the obsequies renew, Which to thy precious memory are due. 10