And yet, as though he knew it not, His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign; They make his life a constant blot, And all the blood of God to run in vain. Ah, wretch! what verse Can thy strange ways rehearse? Indeed, at first man was a treasure, A box of jewels, shop of rarities, A ring whose posy was ‘my pleasure’; He was a garden in a Paradise; Glory and grace Did crown his heart and face. But sin hath fooled him; now he is A lump of flesh, without a foot or wing To raise him to a glimpse of bliss; A sick-tossed vessel, dashing on each thing, Nay, his own shelf: My God, I mean myself. JAMES SHIRLEY 1596–1666 EQUALITY THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death’s purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. ANONYMOUS _Circa_ 1603 LULLABY WEEP you no more, sad fountains; What need you flow so fast? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven’s sun doth gently waste. But my sun’s heavenly eyes View not your weeping, That now lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets; Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at eve he sets? Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes, Melt not in weeping, While she lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT 1605–1668 MORNING THE lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn. EDMUND WALLER 1605–1687 THE ROSE