The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The workydays are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear.

Man had straightforward gone To endless death: but thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on One, Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still; Since there is no place so alone, The which He doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are,

On which heaven's palace archèd lies:
The other days fill up
the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare,

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife—

More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for His;

That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those
Who want herbs for their wound

The rest of our creation
Our great Redeemer did remove
With the same shake, which at His passion
Did the earth and all things with it move.
As Sampson bore the doors away,

Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,

And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at His expense,
Whose drops of blood paid the full price
That was required to make us gay,
And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:

And where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:

O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heaven!

Sir John Suckling.

THE BRIDE.

(From "The Ballad upon a Wedding.")

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 look'd 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 fear'd the light;
But oh! 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 bears comparison

(Who sees them is undone), For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine 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.

Robert Herrick.

GATHER THE ROSE-BUDS.

GATI

ATHER rose-buds as ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;

ye

And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

The age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Time still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

CHERRY RIPE.

CHER

'HERRY ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones-come and buy; If so be you ask me where They do grow ?—I answer, There, Where my Julia's lips do smileThere's the land, or cherry-isle; Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.

TO DAFFODILS.

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon:

As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run

But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or any thing.

We die,

your hours do, and drv
Away

Like to the Summer's rain;

As

Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again.

TO BLOSSOMS.

AIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,

FA

But you may stay yet here awhile

To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.