I

Life

MADE a posy while the day ran by:
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.

But time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away
And wither'd in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part
Time's gentle admonition,

Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,
Yet sug'ring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent,

Fit, while ye

liv'd, for smell and ornament,

And after death for cures;

I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if
It be as short as yours.

S

Peace

WEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd, if Peace were there.

A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:
Go seek elsewhere.

I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:

I will search out the matter,

But while I look'd, the clouds immediately

Did break and scatter.

Then went I into a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,

The Crown Imperial: Sure, said I,

Peace at the root must dwell;

But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour
What show'd so well.

At length I met a rev'rend good old man:

Whom when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:

There was a Prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who liv'd with good increase

Of flock and fold.

He sweetly liv'd; yet sweetness did not save

His life from foes;

But after death out of His grave

Is shorter made,

That earth may lessen to our eyes.

Oh, be not careless then and play
Until the star of peace

Hide all his beams in dark recess.
Poor pilgrims needs must lose their
When all the shadows do increase.

way

John Milton (1608-1674)

Lycidas

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas MDCXXXVII. And by occasion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.

Y

ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sear

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.