The winds they know not Æolus, There is no Jupiter but He; And all your gods, both great and small, But, sons of light, ye know the truth; Obey his voice, for He is kind; LV 65 70 OF MY DEAR SON GERVASE BEAUMONT. Can I, who have for others oft compiled The songs of death, forget my sweetest child, Which, like the flower crusht, with a blast is dead, Sir John Beaumont. LVI DIRGE. Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Fear no more the frown o' the great, To thee the reed is as the oak: Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone e; Thou hast finished joy and moan: No exorciser harm thee! Quiet consummation have And renowned be thy grave! LVII William Shakespeare. ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Mortality behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones; 5 ΤΟ 15 20 Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands, With the richest royallest seed Since the first man died for sin : Here the bones of birth have cried, 'Though gods they were, as men they died !' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. Francis Beaumont. LVIII DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. Victorious men of earth, no more Proclaim how wide your empires are; As night or day, Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey, And mingle with forgotten ashes, when Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, Death's servile emissaries are; Each able to undo mankind, Nor to these alone confined, He hath at will More quaint and subtle ways to kill; A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. James Shirley. of English Poetry. LIX THE SAME. The glories of our blood and state Death lays his icy hand on kings: Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. And plant fresh laurels where they kill: They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath 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. LX James Shirley. LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain : The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun; The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung ; I sought my death, and found it in my womb; Chidiock Tychborn. LXI SONNET. TO PRINCE HENRY. God gives not kings the style of gods in vain, King James the First. 5 10 |