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GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of truth to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, —immortal diet, —
My bottle of salvation;
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I 'll take my pilgrimage,
While my soul, like a quiet palmer,
Travelleth toward the land of heaven.

Sir Walter Raleigh



HOW happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill;

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,

Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,

Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumors freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend,

And entertains the harmless day,
With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands,

And having nothing, yet hath all.

Sir Henry Walton


IT is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make men better be;
Or standing long an oak three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere;
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

Ben Jonson


LORD, with what care hast thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us: then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws; they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers.

Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,

Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes, Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,

Bibles laid open, millions of surprises.

Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;

Without, our shame, — within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.

Yet all these fences, and their whole array,
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.

C. Herbert



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,
Makes 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.

G. Herbert

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SLOWLY fashioned, link by link,
Slowly waxing strong,
Till the spirit never shrink,
Save from touch of wrong.

Holy habits are thy wealth,

Golden, pleasant chains; Passing earth's prime blessing — health,

Endless, priceless gains;

Holy habits give thee place

With the noblest, best,
All most Godlike, of thy race,

And with seraphs blest;

Holy habits are thy joy,

Wisdom's pleasant ways, Yielding good without alloy,

Lengthening, too, thy days.

Seek them, Christian, night and morn,

Seek them noon and even; Seek them till thy soul be born

Without stains — in Heaven.

T. Davis

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