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Judge not the preacher, for he is thy Judge:

If thou mislike him, thou conceivest him not.

God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge

To pick out treasures from an earthen pot.

The worst speaks something good: if all want sense,

God takes a text and preaches patience.

He that gets patience and the blessing which

Preachers conclude with, hath not lost his pains.

He that by being at church escapes the ditch

Which he might fall in by companions, gains.

He that loves God's abode, and to combine

With saints on earth, shall one day with them shine.

The Quip.

THE merry world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together, as I lay,
And all in sport to jeer at me.

First Beauty crept into a rose,
Which when I pluckt not, 'Sir,' said she,
'Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?'
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came, and chinking still
'What tune is this, poor man?' said he:
'I heard in music you had skill.'
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by,
In silks that whistled, who but he!
He scarce allowed me half an eye;
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, made an oration:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet, when the hour of Thy design
To answer these fine things shall come,
Speak not at large: say, I am Thine,
And then they have their answer home.


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.


SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
Sweet dews 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.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows you have your closes,

And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But when the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

William Habington.

Born 1605. Died 1654.

FIX me on some bleak precipice,
Where I ten thousand years may stand:
Made now a statua of ice,
Then by the summer scorched and tanned.

Place me alone in some frail boat
'Mid th' horrors of an angry sea:
Where I, while time shall move, may float,
Despairing either land or day:

Or under earth my youth confine
To th' night and silence of a cell:
Where scorpions may my limbs entwine,
O God! so thou forgive me Hell.

Eternity! when I think thee,
(Which never any end must have,
Nor knew'st beginning,) and foresee
Hell is designed for sin a grave;

My frighted flesh trembles to dust,
My blood ebbs fearfully away:
Both guilty that they did to lust
And vanity, my youth betray.

My eyes, which from such beauteous sight
Drew spider-like black venom in:
Close like the marigold at night
Oppressed with dew to bathe my sin.

My ears shut up that easy door
Which did proud fallacies admit:
And vow to hear no follies more;
Deaf to the charms of sin and wit.

My hand (which when they touched some fair
Imagined such an excellence,
As th' ermine's skin ungentle were)
Contract themselves, and lose all sense.

But you bold sinners! still pursue
Your valiant wickedness, and brave
Th' Almighty justice; he 'll subdue
And make you cowards in the grave.

Then when he as your judge appears,
In vain you 'll tremble and lament,
And hope to soften him with tears,
To no advantage penitent.

Then you will scorn those treasures, which
So fiercely now you doat upon:
Then curse those pleasures did bewitch
You to this sad illusion.

The neighb'ring mountains which you shall
Woo to oppress you with their weight,
Disdainful will deny to fall;
By a sad death to ease your fate.

In vain some midnight storm at sea
To swallow you, you will desire:
In vain upon the wheel you 'll pray
Broken with torments to expire.

Death, at the sight of which you start,
In a mad fury then you 'll court:
Yet hate th' expressions of your heart,
Which only shall be sighed for sport.

No sorrow then shall enter in

With pity the great judge's ears.

This moment's ours. Once dead, his sin

Man cannot expiate with tears.


Probably of the Seventeenth Century.

It Is Not Beauty I Demand.

IT is not beauty I demand,
A crystal brow, the moon's despair.
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.

Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips, that seem on roses fed,

Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed,—

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