Two harmless lambs are butting one the other; Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother: And wounds are never found,

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.

Here are no false entrapping baits,
To hasten too-too hasty Fates;
Unless it be

The fond credulity

Of silly fish, which, worldling-like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook:
Nor envy, unless among

The birds, for prize of their sweet song.

Go! let the diving negro seek

For gems hid in some forlorn creek;
We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass;
And gold ne'er here appears,

Save what the yellow Ceres bears.

Blest, silent groves! O may ye be
For ever mirth's best nursery !
May pure contents

For ever pitch their tents

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains,

And

peace still slumber by these purling fountains! Which we may every year

Find when we come a-fishing here.

IGNOTO.

XVII.

A FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES

OF THE WORLD.1

(Author uncertain.)

AREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles!

Farewell, ye honoured rags, ye glorious
bubbles!

Fame's but a hollow echo; gold pure clay;
Honour the darling but of one short day;
Beauty, the eyes' idol, but a damasked skin;
State but a golden prison to live in,

And torture free-born minds; embroidered trains
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins;
And blood allied to greatness is alone
Inherited, not purchased, nor our own:

Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.

1 Walton's "Complete Angler," p. 311, edit. Nicolas; in the first two editions as "some say written by Dr. D.," but afterwards as 66 some say written by Sir Harry Wotton." In MS. Ashm. 38 it is entitled "Doctor Donn's Valediction to the world." In "Wit's Interpreter," 1671, p. 269, it is ascribed to Sir Kenelm Digby. Sir H. Nicolas, without any authority that I know of, says that "these verses are also said to have been written by Sir W. Raleigh, when a prisoner in the Tower, shortly before his execution." Archbishop Sancroft gives them anonymously with the title, "An hermit in an arbour, with a prayer-book in his hand, his foot spurning a globe, thus speaketh;" MS. Tann. 465, fol. 59.

I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill;

I would be high, but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke;
I would be rich, but see men too unkind
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind;
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free;
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud;
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass:
Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorned, if poor;
Great, feared; fair, tempted; high, still envied

more:

I have wished all, but now I wish for neither,
Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair; poor I'll be rather.

Would the world now adopt me for her heir;
Would Beauty's queen entitle me the fair;
Fame speak me Fortune's minion; could I vie
Angels with India; with a speaking eye

Command bare heads, bowed knees, strike Justice dumb,

As well as blind and lame; or give a tongue
To stones by epitaphs; be called great master
In the loose rhymes of every poetaster;
Could I be more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives;
Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,
Than ever Fortune would have made them mine;
And hold one minute of this holy leisure

Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent groves! These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly. loves :

Now the winged people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring;
A Prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears;
Then here I'll sit and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn to affect an holy melancholy;
And if contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it, but in heaven, again.

XVIII.

IMITATIO HORATIANE ODES IX. "DONEC GRATUS ERAM TIBI."-LIB. III.

A DIALOGUE BETWIXT GOD AND THE SOUL.1

(Author unknown.)

Soul.

HILST my soul's eye beheld no light, But what streamed from Thy gracious sight,

W

To me the world's greatest King

Seemed but some little vulgar thing.

"Rel. Wotton."

Raleigh by Brydges.

Claimed without authority for Sir W.

God. Whilst thou proved'st pure, and that in thee
I could glass all my Deity;

How glad did I from heaven depart,

To find a lodging in thy heart!

Soul. Now fame and greatness bear the sway;
"Tis they that hold my prison's key:

For whom my soul would die, might she
Leave them her immortality.

God. I and some few pure souls conspire,
And burn both in a mutual fire,
For whom I'ld die once more, ere they
Should miss of heaven's eternal day.
Soul. But, Lord, what if I turn again,
And, with an adamantine chain,
Lock me to Thee? What if I chase
The world away to give Thee place?
God. Then, though these souls, in whom I joy,

Are seraphims,-thou but a toy,

A foolish toy,-yet once more I

Would with thee live, and for thee die.

IGNOTO.

XIX.

DOCTOR BROOKE OF TEARS.1

HO would have thought there could have

been

Such joy in tears wept for our sin?

Mine eyes have seen, my heart hath

proved,

"Rel. Wotton." as "Doctor B. of Tears." The full name was obtained from a MS. belonging to Mr. J. P.