But in this vale where tears of grief abound,
He oft with tears of joy his friends hath drown'd.
Man, what desir'st thou wouldst thou purchase
health,
Great honour, perfect pleasure, peace, and wealth?
All these are here, and in their glory reign:
In other things these names are false and vain.
True wisdom bids us to this banquet haste,
That precious nectar may renew the taste
Of Eden's dainties, by our parents lost
For one poor apple, which so dear would cost,
That ev'ry man a double death should pay;
But mercy comes the latter stroke to stay,
And (leaving mortal bodies to the knife
Of justice) strives to save the better life.
No sovereign med'cine can be half so good
Against destruction, as this angels' food;
This inward illustration, when it finds
A seat in humble and indifferent minds.
If wretched men contemn a sun so bright,
Dispos'd to stray and stumble in the night,
And seek contentment where they oft have known
By dear experience, that there can be none;
They would much more neglect their God, their
If aught were found whereon they might depend,
Within the compass of the general frame;
Or if some sparks of this celestial flame
Had not engraved this sentence in their breast:
In him that made them is their only rest.
AGAINST INORDINATE LOVE OF CREATURES.
AH! who would love a creature? who would place
His heart, his treasure in a thing so base?
Which time consuming, like a moth, destroys,
And stealing death will rob him of his joys.
Why lift we not our minds above this dust?
Have we not yet perceived that God is just,
And hath ordain'd the objects of our love
To be our scourges, when we wanton prove?
Go, careless man, in vain delights proceed,
Thy fancies, and thine outward senses feed;
And bind thyself, thy fellow-servants' thrall :
Love one too much, thou art a slave to all.
Consider when thou follow'st seeming good,
And drown'st thyself too deep in flesh and blood,
Thou, making suit to dwell with woes and fears,
Art sworn their soldier in the vale of tears:
The bread of sorrow shall be thy repast;
Expect not Eden in a thorny waste,
Where grow no fair trees, no smooth rivers swell,
Here only losses and afflictions dwell.
These thou bewail'st with a repining voice,
Yet knew'st before that mortal was thy choice.
Admirers of false pleasures must sustain
The weight and sharpness of ensuing pain.
AN EPITAPH UPON MY DEAR BROTHER,
FRANCIS BEAUMONT.
ON death, thy murd'rer, this revenge I take :-
I slight this terror, and just question make,
Which of us two the best precedence have,
Mine to this wretched world, thine to the grave :
Thou shouldst have follow'd me, but death to
Miscounted years, and measur'd age by fame.
So dearly hast thou bought thy precious lines,
Their praise grew swiftly; so thy life declines:
Thy muse, the hearer's queen, the reader's love,
All ears, all hearts, but death's, could please and
ON MY DEAR SON, GERVASE BEAUMONT.
CAN I, who have for others oft compil'd
The songs of death, forget my sweetest child;
Which like a flow'r crush'd with a blast, is dead,
And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,
Expecting with clear hope to live anew,
Among the angels fed with heavenly dew?
We have this sign of joy, that many days,
While on the earth his struggling spirit stays,
The name of Jesus in his mouth contains
His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains.
O may that sound be rooted in my mind,
Of which in him such strong effect I find!
Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love
To me was like a friendship, far above
The course of nature, or his tender age;
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage:
Let his pure soul-ordain'd seven years to be
In that frail body, which was part of me-
Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show
How to this port at every step I go.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LEARNED AND
RELIGIOUS FREDINANDO PULTON, ESQ.
As at a joyful marriage, or the birth
Of some long-wished child; or when the earth Yields plenteous fruit, and makes the ploughman sing;
Such is the sound, and subject of my string:
Ripe age, full virtue need no funeral song;
Here mournful tunes would grace and nature wrong.
Why should vain sorrow follow him with tears,
Who shakes off burdens of declining years?
Whose thread exceeds the usual bounds of life,
And feels no stroke of any fatal knife?
The destinies enjoin their wheels to run,
Until the length of his whole course be spun.
No envious cloud obscures his struggling light,
Which sets contented at the point of night:
Yet this large time no greater profit brings,
Than ev'ry little moment whence it springs;
Unless employ'd in works deserving praise,
Most wear out many years, and live few days.
Time flows from instants, and of these each one
Should be esteem'd, as if it were alone
The shortest space, which we so lightly prize
When it is coming, and before our eyes:
Let it but slide into the eternal main,
No realms, no worlds can purchase it again :
Remembrance only makes the footsteps last,
When winged time, which fixt the prints, is past.
This he well knowing, all occasions tries
To enrich his own and others' learned eyes.
This noble end, not hope of gain, did draw
His mind to travail in the knotty law;
That was to him by serious labour made
A science, which to many is a trade;
Who purchase lands, build houses by their tongue,
And study right, that they may practise wrong.
His books were his rich purchases; his fees
That praise which fame to painful works decrees:
His mem'ry hath a surer ground than theirs
Who trust in stately tombs or wealthy heirs,
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