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Thy anger comes, and I decline.
What frost to that? What pole is not the zone

Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,

And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age age I bud again,

After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,

And relish versing. O my only light,
It cannot be

That I am he

On whom thy tempests fell all night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide.
Who would be more,

Swelling through store,
Forfeit their paradise by their pride.

Virtue

Sweet 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.

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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.

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10

FRANCIS QUARLES

The Introduction and Notes are at page 1022
FROM Argalus and Parthenia, 1629

Hos ego versiculos

Like to the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had:
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and out, and so is done.

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, and man he dies.

Like to the blaze of fond delight,
Or like a morning clear and bright,
Or like a frost, or like a shower,
Or like the pride of Babel's tower,
Or like the hour that guides the time,
Or like to beauty in her prime:
Even such is man, whose glory lends
His life a blaze or two, and ends.

Delights vanish, the morn o'ercasteth,
The frost breaks, the shower hasteth,
The tower falls, the hour spends,

The beauty fades, and man's life ends.

FROM Divine Fancies, 1632

A good-night

Close now thine eyes and rest secure;
Thy soul is safe enough, thy body sure;
He that loves thee, he that keeps

And guards thee, never slumbers, never sleeps.
The smiling conscience in a sleeping breast
Has only peace, has only rest;

The music and the mirth of kings

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Are all but very discords, when she sings;

Then close thine eyes and rest secure;

No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.

FROM Emblems, 1635

[False world, thou ly'st]

Proverbs xxiii. 5

Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is not? for riches make them

selves wings, they fly away as an eagle.

False world, thou ly'st; thou canst not lend

The least delight;

Thy favors cannot gain a friend,

They are so slight;

Thy morning pleasures make an end

To please at night;

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,

And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st

With heaven. Fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

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Alas, fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

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Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coined treasure,

A paradise that has no stint,

No change, no measure;
A painted cask, but nothing in 't,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure;

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Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st

With man; vain man! that thus rely'st

On earth; vain man, thou dot'st, vain earth, thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure

To haberdash

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure

Is dross and trash?

The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou supply'st

Us mortals with? are these the high'st?

Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou ly'st.

[Oh, whither shall I fly?]

Job xiv. 13

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Oh, that thou wouldst hide me in the grave, that thou wouldst keep me

secret until thy wrath be past!

Oh, whither shall I fly, what path untrod

Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?

Where shall I sojourn, what kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? where shall I abide
Until his flames be quenched or laid aside?

What if my feet should take their hasty flight
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas, no shades can blind the God of light.

What if my soul should take the wings of day
And find some desert? if she spring away
The wings of vengeance clip as fast as they.

What if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul? Can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of justice, and not cleave in twain?

Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
Where flame-eyed fury means to smite, can save.

The seas will part, graves open, rocks will split,
The shield will cleave, the frighted shadows flit;
Where justice aims, her fiery darts must hit.

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No, no, if stern-browed vengeance means to thunder,
There is no place above, beneath, nor under,
So close but will unlock, or rive in sunder.

'Tis vain to flee; 'tis neither here nor there
Can 'scape that hand until that hand forbear;
Ah me! where is he not, that's everywhere?

'Tis vain to flee; till gentle mercy show
Her better eye, the farther off we go,
The swing of justice deals the mightier blow.

Th' ingenious child, corrected, does not fly
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.

Shadows are faithless, and the rocks are false;
No trust in brass, no trust in marble walls;
Poor cots are even as safe as princes' halls.

Great God, there is no safety here below;
Thou art my fortress, though thou seem'st my foe;
'Tis thou that strik'st the stroke must guard the blow.

Thou art my God; by thee I fall or stand;
Thy grace hath given me courage to withstand
All tortures, but my conscience and thy hand.

I know thy justice is thyself; I know,
Just God, thy very self is mercy too;
If not to thee, where? whither should I go?

Then work thy will; if passion bid me flee,
My reason shall obey; my wings shall be
Stretched out no further than from thee to thee.

[Oh, how my will is hurried]

Romans vii. 23

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I see another law in my members warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin.

Oh, how my will is hurried to and fro,
And how my unresolved resolves do vary!
I know not where to fix; sometimes I go
This way, then that, and then the quite contrary;
I like, dislike, lament for what I could not;

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