Shun delayes, they breed remorse, Take thy time while time doth serve thee, Creeping snayles have weakest force, Flie their fault, lest thou repent thee. Good is best when soonest wrought, Lingering labours come to nought. Hoyse up sayle while gale doth last, Tide and winde stay no man's pleasure; Seek not time when time is past, Sober speede is wisdome's leasure. After-wits are dearely bought, Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought. Time weares all his locks before, Take thou hold upon his forehead; When he flies, he turnes no more, And behind his scalpe is naked. Workes adjourned have many stayes, Long demurres breed new delayes. Seeke thy salve while sore is greene, Festered wounds aske deeper launcing; After-cures are seldome seene, Often sought, scarce ever chancing. Time and place gives best advice. Out of season, out of price. Crush the serpent in the head, Breake ill eggs ere they be hatched: Kill bad chickens in the tread; Fledged, they hardly can be catched: In the rising stifle ill, Lest it grow against thy will. Drops do pierce the stubborn flint, Not by force, but often falling; Custome kills with feeble dint. More by use than strength prevailing: Single sands have little weight, Many make a drowning freight. Tender twigs are bent with ease, Aged trees do breake with bending; Young desires make little prease, Growth doth make them past amending. Happie man that soon doth knocke, Babel's babes against the rocke. ROBERT SOUTHWELL. * * * * * THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY. Dear, secret greenness! nurst below Tempests and winds and winter nights! Vex not, that but One sees thee grow; That One made all these lesser lights. What needs a conscience calm and bright Within itself, an outward test? Who breaks his glass, to take more light, Makes way for storms into his rest. Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch Till the white-winged reapers come! HENRY VAUGHAN. * * * * * PATIENCE. She hath no beauty in her face Unless the chastened sweetness there, And meek long-suffering, yield a grace To make her mournful features fair:-- Shunned by the gay, the proud, the young, She roams through dim, unsheltered ways; Nor lover's vow, nor flatterer's tongue Brings music to her sombre days:-- At best her skies are clouded o'er, And oft she fronts the stinging sleet, Or feels on some tempestuous shore The storm-waves lash her naked feet. Where'er she strays, or musing stands By lonesome beach, by turbulent mart, We see her pale, half-tremulous hands Crossed humbly o'er her aching heart!