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Is the Pacific Sea my home? or are
The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem,
Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar?

All straights, and none but straights are ways to them,

Whether where Japheth dwelt, or Cham, or Sem.

We think that Paradise and Calvary,

Christ's cross and Adam's tree, stood in one place; Look, Lord! and find both Adams met in me: As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face, May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.

So in his purple wrapp'd receive me, Lord!
By these his thorns give me his other crown;
And as to others' souls I preach'd thy word,
Be this my text, my sermon to mine own;
Therefore, that he may raise, the Lord throws down.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

BORN 1568-DIED 1639.

SIR HENRY WOTTON, an elegant writer, was born in Kent, and enjoyed several public offices in the reign of Elizabeth, but fell into disgrace along with Essex, and lived abroad till the accession of James I. when he was appointed ambassador to Venice. His writings display a pious and amiable mind.

A MEDITATION.

O THOU great Power! in whom we move,
By whom we live, to whom we die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
Whilst on this couch of tears I lie,
And cleanse my sordid soul within
By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.

No hallowed oils, no gums I need,
No new-born drams of purging fire;
One rosy drop from David's seed

Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire:
O precious ransom! which once paid,
That Consummatum est was said.

And said by him, that said no more,
But seal'd it with his sacred breath;
Thou then, that hast dispurged our score,
And dying wert the death of death,
Be now, whilst on thy name we call,
Our life, our strength, our joy, our all!

FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE
WORLD.

FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles;
Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;
Fame's but a hollow echo; gold, pure clay;
Honour the darling but of one short day;
Beauty (th' eye's idol), but a damask'd skin;
State, but a golden prison, to live in

And torture free-born minds; embroider'd trains,
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins ;

1

And blood allied to greatness is alone
Inherited, not purchased, nor our own.

Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,

Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.

I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill:

I would be high, but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke:
I would be rich, but see men too unkind,
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind:
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free:
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud :
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass :
Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor;
Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envy'd

more.

I have wish'd all; but now I wish for neither, Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair: poor I'll be rather.

Would the world now adopt me for her heir;
Would beauty's queen entitle me the fair;
Fame speak me fortune's minion; could I vie
Angels with India; (a) with a speaking eye
Command bare heads, bow'd knees; strike justice
dumb,

As well as blind and lame; or give a tongue

(a) An angel was a piece of coin, value ten shillings.

great master'

To stones by epitaphs; be called '
In the loose rhymes of every poetaster!
Could I be more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives :
Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,
Than ever fortune would have made them mine;
And hold one minute of this holy leisure
Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

Welcome, pure thoughts; welcome ye silent groves; These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves.

Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring:
A prayer-book, now, shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares,
No broken-vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears;
Then here I'll sit, and sigh.my hot love's folly,
And learn t' affect a holy melancholy :

And if contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again.

BEN JONSON.

BORN 1574-DIED 1637.

BEN JONSON, an eminent poet and dramatist, was born in London. He derived his descent from the Johnstones of Annandale, from which district his grandfather had removed to Carlisle. Though his hymns are not the finest effusions of his versatile genius, they are highly poetical;

and it is pleasing to perceive that minds the most highly gifted have done homage to religion, though even in trivial instances,

ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER,

HERE lies to each her parents ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth:

Yet all heav'n's gifts, being heaven's due,
It makes the father less to rue.

At six months end she parted hence

With safety of her innocence;

Whose soul heav'n's queen (whose name she bears),
In comfort of her mother's tears,

Hath plac'd among her virgin-train :
Where, while that sever'd doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth;
Which cover lightly, gentle earth.

EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. WOULD'ST thou hear what man can say In a little? reader, stay.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die :
Which in life did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live.

If, at all, she had a fault,

Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth,

Th' other let it sleep with death;

Fitter, where it died, to tell,

Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.

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