Or the writings of this once popular poet, the principal are, "The Shepherd's Hunting," "Emblems," "Songs of the Church." He also published numerous minor productions, the greater part of which were called forth either by the public events of the calamitous times in which he lived, or by his personal sufferings in the cause of the church and monarchy. With the exception of a passage or two of extraordinary beauty, familiar to the lovers of old English verse, his works have long passed into unmerited obscurity; nor is it likely their reputation will ever be retrieved; the brilliant gems which occasionally relieve their general mediocrity, being too few to induce republication in a fastidious age.
I SHOULD not care how hard my fortunes were,
Might still my hopes be such, as now they are,
Of help divine; nor fear how poor I be,
If thoughts yet present still may bide in me;
For they have left assurance of such aid,
That I am of no dangers now afraid.
Yea, now I see, methinks, what weak and vain
Supporters I have sought, to help sustain
My fainting heart; when some injurious hand
Would undermine the station where I stand.
Methinks I see how scurvy, and how base
It is, to scrape for favours and for grace
To men of earthly minds, and unto those
Who may, perhaps, before to-morrow, lose
Their wealth, or their abus'd authority,
And stand as much in want of help as I.
Methinks, in this new rapture I do see
The hand of God from heaven supporting me,
Without those rotten aids for which I whin'd
When I was of my other, vulgar mind;
And if in some one part of me it lay,
I now could cut that limb of me away.
Still might I keep this mind, there were enough
Within myself (beside that cumbrous stuff
We seek without) which, husbanded aright,
Would make me rich in all the world's despite;
And I have hopes, that had she quite bereft me
Of those few rags and toys, which yet are left me,
I should on God alone so much depend,
That I should need nor wealth, nor other friend.
FEAR OF DEATH A WEAKNESS.
POOR feeble spirits, would you ne'er away,
But dwell for ever in a piece of clay?
What find you here, wherein you take delight,
Or what's to seeing that is worth the sight?.
What do the heavens thy endeavours bless,
And wouldst thou therefore live still to possess
The joy thou hast ? Seek't not; perhaps to-morrow
Thou'lt wish to have died to-day, to 'scape the sorrow
Thou then shalt see: for shame, take stronger
And add more courage to your better parts;
For Death's not to be fear'd, sith 'tis a friend
That of your sorrows makes a gentle end.
But here a quality I call to mind,
That I amongst the common people find;
This 'tis, a weak one too :-When they perceive
A friend near death, and ready now to leave
This wretched life; and if they hear him say
Some parting words, as if he might not stay:
"Nay, say not so," (these comforters reply ;)
"Take heart-your time's not come-you shall not
What, man! and grace of God, you shall be
And live, no doubt, yet many a fair day longer.
Think not on death,"-with many
Such as their understanding best affords.
But where is now become these people's wit?
What do their knowledges esteem more fit
Than death to think on-chiefly when men be
About to put off their mortality?
Methinks they rather should persuade them then,
Fearless to be resolved to die like men;
For, want of such a resolution stings
At point of death, and dreadful horror brings
Ev'n to the soul; 'cause, wanting preparation,
She lies despairing of her own salvation.
Yea, and moreover, this full well know I,
He that's at any time afraid to die,
Is in weak case; and, whatsoe’er he saith,
Hath but a wavering and a feeble faith.
WHEN with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marigold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk,
Still bending tow'rds him her small slender stalk;
How, when he down declines, she droops and
Bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, till he returns;
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