52 Yet must these pleasures feel, though innocent, The sickness of extremes, and cannot last; For power, love's shunned impediment, has sent To tell the Duke his monarch is in haste: 53 And calls him to that triumph which he fears So as a saint forgiven, whose breast does all Heaven's joys contain, wisely loved pomp forbears, Lest tempted nature should from blessings fall. 54 He often takes his leave, with love's delay, And bids her hope he with the King shall find, By now appearing forward to obey, A means to serve him less in Rhodalind. 55 She weeping to her closet window hies, Where she with tears doth Rhodalind survey; As dying men, who grieve that they have eyes, When they through curtains spy the rising day. DR HENRY KING. Of this poetical divine we know nothing, except that he was born in 1591, and died in 1669,--that he was chaplain to James I., and Bishop of Chichester,--and that he indited some poetry as pious in design as it is pretty in execution. SIC VITA. Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood: Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to-night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entombed in autumn lies; The dew dries up, the star is shot: The flight is past--and man forgot. SONG. 1 Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, Which like growing fountains rise To drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooks Would better flow in furrowed looks: Thy lovely face was never meant To be the shore of discontent. 2 Then clear those waterish stars again, Which else portend a lasting rain; Lest the clouds which settle there Prolong my winter all the year, And thy example others make In love with sorrow, for thy sake. LIFE. 1 What is the existence of man's life But open war or slumbered 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. 2 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, Which beats the bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave. 3 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 enrolled. 4 It is a dream--whose seeming truth Is moralised in age and youth; Where all the comforts he can share As wandering as his fancies are, Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away.