Imágenes de páginas

Sometimes Death, puffing at the door,

Blows all the dust about the floor:

But while he thinks to spoil the room, he sweeps.

Blest be the Architect, whose art
Could build so strong in a weak heart.


LORD, how can man preach thy eternal word?
He is a brittle crazy glass:

Yet in thy Temple thou dost him afford

This glorious and transcendent place,
To be a window, through thy grace.

But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story,
Making thy life to shine within
The holy Preachers, then the light and glory

More reverend grows, and more doth win;
Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin,

Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one

When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and awe: but speech alone
Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
And in the ear, not conscience ring.


LORD, who hast form'd me out of mud,
And hast redeem'd me through thy blood,
And sanctified me to do good;

Purge all my sins done heretofore
For I confess my heavy score,
And I will strive to sin no more.

Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me,
With faith, with hope, with charity;
That I may run, rise, rest with thee.


PEACE, muttering thoughts, and do not grudge to keep
Within the walls of your own breast.
Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep,
Can on another's hardly rest.

Gad not abroad at every quest and call
Of an untrained hope or passion.
To court each place or fortune that doth fall,
Is wantonness in contemplation.

Mark how the fire in flints doth quiet lie,
Content and warm to itself alone :
But when it would appear to other's eye,
Without a knock it never shone.

Give me the pliant mind, whose gentle measure
Complies and suits with all estates;

Which can let loose to a crown, and yet with pleasure
Take up within a cloister's gates.

This soul doth span the world, and hang content
From either pole unto the centre:

Where in each room of the well-furnish'd tent
He lies warm, and without adventure.


The brags of life are but a nine days' wonder:
And after death the fumes that spring

From private bodies, make as big a thunder
As those which rise from a huge King.

Only thy Chronicle is lost and yet

Better by worms be all once spent,
Than to have hellish moths still gnaw and fret
Thy name in books, which may not vent.

When all thy deeds, whose brunt thou feel'st alone, Are chaw'd by others' pens and tongue,

And as their wit is, their digestion,

Thy nourish'd fame is weak or strong.

Then cease discoursing, soul, till thine own ground;
Do not thyself or friends importune.

He that by seeking hath himself once found,
Hath ever found a happy fortune.


My God, a verse is not a crown ;
No point of honour, or gay suit,
No hawk, or banquet, or renown,
Nor a good sword, nor yet a lute:

It cannot vault, or dance, or play ;
It never was in France or Spain;
Nor can it entertain the day
With a great stable or domain.

It is no office, art, or news;
Nor the Exchange, or busy Hall:
But it is that, which while I use,
I am with thee, and Most take all.


I SAW the Virtues sitting hand in hand
In several ranks upon an azure throne,

Where all the beasts and fowls, by their command,
Presented tokens of submission.

Humility, who sat the lowest there

To execute their call,

When by the beasts the presents tender'd were,

Gave them about to all.

The angry Lion did present his paw,

Which by consent was given to Mansuetude.
The fearful Hare her ears, which by their law
Humility did reach to Fortitude.

The jealous Turkey brought his coral chain,

That went to Temperance.

On Justice was bestow'd the Fox's brain,

Kill'd in the way by chance.

At length the Crow, bringing the Peacock's plume
(For he would not), as they beheld the grace
Of that brave gift, each one began to fume,
And challenge it, as proper to his place,

Till they fell out; which when the beasts espied,

They leapt upon the throne;

And if the Fox had lived to rule their side,

They had deposed each one.

Humility, who held the plume, at this

Did weep so fast, that the tears trickling down.
Spoil'd all the train: then saying, Here it is,

For which ye wrangle, made them turn their frown
Against the beasts: so jointly bandying,

They drive them soon away;

And then amerced them, double gifts to bring
At the next Session-day.


LORD, in my silence how do I despise
What upon trust

Is styled honour, riches, or fair eyes ;
But is fair dust!

I surname them gilded clay,
Dear earth, fine grass, or hay;

In all, I think my foot doth ever tread
Upon their head.

But when I view abroad both Regiments,

The world's, and thine;

Thine clad with simpleness, and sad events;
The other fine,

Full of glory and gay weeds,

Brave language, braver deeds:

That which was dust before, doth quickly rise,

And prick mine eyes.

O brook not this, lest if what even now

My foot did tread,

« AnteriorContinuar »