Of water-cress,

Which of thy kindness thou hast sent:

And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That soils my land:

And giv❜st me, for bushel sown,

my

Twice ten for one:

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay

Her egg each day :

Besides my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year :

The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine.

All these, and better, thou dost send
Me to this end:

That I should render, for my part
A thankful heart,

Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly thine :

But the acceptance that must be,

My Christ, by thee.

HENRY KING.

1592-1669.

LXXXVII.

L

ON THE LIFE OF MAN.

IKE to the falling of a star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood :
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

LXXXVIII.

George Herbert,

1593-1633.

VIRTUE.

WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

LXXXIX.

H

MAN'S MEDLEY.

ARK how the birds do sing,

And woods do ring :

All creatures have their joy, and man hath his.

Yet if we rightly measure,

Man's joy and pleasure

Rather hereafter than in present is.

To this life things of sense

Make their pretence;

In the other angels have a right by birth:

Man ties them both alone,

And makes them one,

With the one hand touching heaven, with the other earth.

In soul he mounts and flies,

In flesh he dies;

He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round,

But trimmed with curious lace,

And should take place

After the trimming, not the stuff and ground.

Not that he may not here

Taste of the cheer:

But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head,

So must he sip and think

He

may

Of better drink

attain to after he is dead.

But as his joys are double,

So is his trouble;

He hath two winters, other things but one:
Both frosts and thoughts do nip
And bite his lip;

And he of all things fears two deaths alone.

Yet even the greatest griefs

May be reliefs,

Could he but take them right and in their ways. Happy is he whose heart

Hath found the art

To turn his double pains to double praise.

XC.

A'

BITTER-SWEET.

H! my dear angry Lord,

Since thou dost love, yet strike,

Cast down, yet help afford;

Sure I will do the like.