Death's Final Conquest.

THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate-
Death lays his icy hands 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!
All heads must come

To the cold tomb

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

The Bride.

FROM A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

THE maid, and thereby hangs a tale,
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale
Could ever yet produce:

No

grape that 's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring—
It was too wide a peck;
And, to say truth-for out it must-
It looked like the great collar-just-
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light;

But O, she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy makes comparison;

Who sees them is undone;

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that 's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin.
Some bee had stung it newly;

But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break,

That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,

They came as good as ours, or better,

And are not spent a whit.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

Ye Gentlemen of England.

YE gentlemen of England
That live at home at ease,
Ah! little do you think upon
The dangers of the seas.
Give ear unto the mariners,

And they will plainly show
All the cares and the fears

When the stormy winds do blow.

If enemies oppose us

When England is at war With any foreign nation,

We fear not wound or scar; Our roaring guns shall teach 'em Our valor for to know,

Whilst they reel on the keel,

And the stormy winds do blow.

Then courage, all brave mariners,
And never be dismay'd;
While we have bold adventurers,
We ne'er shall want a trade:
Our merchants will employ us

To fetch them wealth, we know;

Then be bold-work for gold,

When the stormy winds do blow.

MARTYN PARKER

Zong.

LOVE still has something of the sea,
From whence his mother rose;

No time his slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.

They are becalmed in clearest days,
And in rough weather tossed;

They wither under cold delays,
Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port,
Then straight into the main
Some angry wind, in cruel sport,
The vessel drives again.

At first disdain and pride they fear,
Which if they chance to 'scape,
Rivals and falsehood soon appear,
In a more cruel shape.

By such degrees to joy they come,
And are so long withstood;
So slowly they receive the sun,
It hardly does them good.

"T is cruel to prolong a pain;
And to defer a joy,
Believe me, gentle Celemene,
Offends the winged boy.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears,
Perhaps, would not remove;

And if I gazed a thousand years,

I could not deeper love.

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

My Dear and Only Love.

PART FIRST.

My dear and only love, I pray,
This noble world of thee

Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchie.

For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhore,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone,

My thoughts shall evermore disdain

A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,

That puts it not unto the touch,
To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.

But 'gainst my battery if I find

Thou shun'st the prize so sore As that thou set'st me up a blind, I'll never love thee more.

If in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,
Another do pretend a part,

And dares to vie with me;
Or if committees thou erect,
And go on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,
And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;