XXXVI. GEOFFREY WHITNEY.

ALL FLESH IS HAY.

All life is grass and withereth like the hay;
To-day man laughs, to-morrow lies in clay.
Then let him mark the frailty of his kind,
For here his term is like a puff of wind:
Like bubbles small that on the waters rise;
Or like the flowers whom Flora freshly dyes,
Yet in one day their glory all is gone;
So worldly pomp which here we gaze upon;
Which warneth all that here their pageants play,
How well to live, but not how long to way.
XXXVII. SAMUEL DANIEL.

1. GREATNESS OF SOUL.

He that of such an height hath built his mind,
And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame

Of his resolvéd powers; nor all the wind
Of enmity, or malice pierce to wrong

His settled peace; or to disturb the same;
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey!
And with how free an eye doth he look down
Upon these lower regions of turmoil ?

Where all the storms of passion mainly beat
On flesh and blood;where honours, power, renown,
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil; ⚫

Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet
As frailty doth; and only great doth seem
To little minds, who do it so esteem.
Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks
Of tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow

Of power, that proudly sits on other's crimes,
Charg'd witn more crying sins than those he checks.
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow

Up in the present for the coming times,

Appal not him, that hath no side at all,
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall.

2. ULYSSES AND THE SIREN.

Siren. Come, worthy Greek, Ulysses, come,
Possess these shores with me,
The winds and seas are troublesome,
And here we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toil,
That travail in the deep,
Enjoy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleep.

Ulysses. Fair nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attained with ease,
Then I would come and rest with thee,
And leave such toils as these:
But here it dwells, and here must I
With danger seek it forth!
To spend the time luxuriously
Becomes not man of worth.

Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceived
With that unreal name:

This honour is a thing conceived
And rests on others' fame.

Begotten only to molest

Our peace, and to beguile

(The best thing of our life) our rest,
And give us up to toil.

Llysses. Delicious nymph, suppose there were
Nor honour nor report,

Yet manliness would scorn to wear
The time in idle sport:

For toil doth give a better touch
To make us feel our joy;

And ease finds tediousness, as much
As labour yields annoy.

Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore,
Whereto tends all your toil;

Which you forego to make it more,
And perish oft the while.

N

Who may disport them diversely,
Find never tedious day;

And ease may have variety,
As well as action may.

Ulysses. But natures of the noblest frame
These toils and dangers please;

And they take comfort in the same,
As much as you in ease.

And with the thought of actions past
Are recreated still:

When pleasure leaves a touch at last
To show that it was ill.

Siren. That doth opinion only cause,
That's out of custom bred;
Which makes us many other laws
Than ever nature did.

No widows wail for our delights,
Our sports are without blood;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.

Ulysses. But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest,

And these great spirits of high desire
Seem born to turn them best:

To

purge the mischiefs, that increase
And all good order mar:

For oft we see a wicked peace

To be well changed for war.

Siren. Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
I shall not have thee here;
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.
I must be won that cannot win:
Yet lost were I not won,

For beauty hath created been,
To undo or be undone.

XXXVIII. BEN JONSON.

1. EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.
Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death, ere thou hast kill'd another,
Fair and learn'd and good as she
Time shall throw his dart at thee,

2.

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;

The other let it sleep with death,

Fitter where it died to tell,

Than that it lived at all:

Farewell!

3. ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

More swift than lightning can I fly

About this aëry welkin soon,

And in a minute's space descry

Each thing that's done below the moon:
There's not a hag

Or ghost shall wag,

This is generally read as follows:
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much virtue as could die,
Which, when alive, did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live,

Or cry,

"Ware goblin!" where I go:
But Robin I

Their feats will spy,

And send them home with Ho! ho! ho!
Whene'er such wanderers I meet,

As from their night sports they trudge home : With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call on them with me to roam Through woods, through lakes, Through bogs, through brakes; Or else unseen with them I go, All in the nick,

To play some trick,

And frolick it with Ho! ho! ho!

Sometimes I meet them like a man;

Sometimes an ox, sometimes an hound,
And to a horse I turn me can,

And trip and trot about them round:
But if to ride,

My back to stride,

Ι

More swift than wind away I go;
O'er hedge and lands,
Through pools and ponds,

I whirry, laughing Ho! ho! ho!
When lads and lasses merry be
With possets and rich juncates fine,
Unseen of all the company

I eat their cakes and sip their wine.
And to make sport,

I puff and snort,
And out the candle I do blow ;
And maids I kiss,

They shriek-who's this?

I answer naught but Ho! ho! ho!

Let now and then, the maids I please,
At midnight I card their wool;
And while they sleep and take their ease,

up

With wheel to threads their flax I pull.