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Kill not her quickening power with surfeitings ;

Mar not her sense with sensuality : Cast not her serious wit on idle things;

Make not her free-will slave to vanity.

And when thou thinkest of her eternity,

Think not that death against our nature is; Think it a birth, and when thou goest to die,

Sing a like song as if thou wentest to bliss.

And thou, my soul, which turnest with curious eye,

To view the beams of thine own form divine; Know that thou canst know nothing perfectly,

While thou art clouded with this flesh of mine.

Take heed of over-weening, and compare

Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's train; Study the best and highest things that are,

But of thyself an humble thought retain.

Cast down thyself and only strive to raise

The glory of thy Maker's sacred name;
Use all thy powers that blessed Power to praise,

Which gives the power to be, and use the same. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT.

Sir John BEAUMONT, elder brother of Francis Beaumont, the dramatist, was the son of Francis Beaumont, one of the judges of the Court of Common Pleas in the time of Queen Elizabeth; he was born in 1584, and was educated at Oxford. Beside an historical poem styled Bosworth Field, he was the author of The Crown of Thorns, and other poems on sacred subjects, which, though little known, possess great merit. He was created a baronet in 1626, and died in 1628.




What darkness clouds my senses ? Hath the day
Forgot his season, and the sun his way?
Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might,
And works no more with his fair creature-light,
While heaven and earth for such, alas! complain,
And turn to rude unformed heaps again?
My paces with entangling briers are bound,
And all this forest in deep silence drowned ;
Here must my labour and my journey cease,
By which, in vain, I sought for rest and peace;
But now perceive that man's unquiet mind
In all his ways can only darkness find.
Here must I starve and die, unless some light
Point out the passage from this dismal night.


Distressed Pilgrim, let not causeless fear
Depress thy hopes, for thou hast comfort near,
Which thy dull heart with splendour shall inspire,
And guide thee to thy period of desire.

Clear up thy brows, and raise thy fainting eyes ;
See how my glittering palace open lies
For weary passengers, whose desperate case
I pity, and provide a resting place.


Oh thou! whose speeches sound, whose beauties shine,
Not like a creature, but some power divine,
Teach me thy style, thy worth and state declare,
Whose glories in this desert hidden are.


I am thine end; Felicity my name;
The best of wishes, pleasures, riches, fame,
Are humble vassals, which my throne attend,
And make you mortals happy when I send :
In my left hand delicious fruits I hold,
To feed them who with mirth and ease grow old;
Afraid to lose the fleeting days and nights,
They seize on time, and spend it in delights.
My right hand with triumphant crowns is stored,
Which all the kings of former times adored:
These gifts are thine: then enter where no strife,
No grief, no pain, shall interrupt thy life.


Stay, hasty wretch, here deadly serpents swell,
And thy next step is on the brink of hell:
Wouldst thou, poor weary man, thy limbs repose ?
Behold my house, where true contentment grows;
Not like the baits which this seducer gives,
Whose bliss a day, whose torment ever lives.


Regard not these vain speeches, let them go :
This is a poor worm, my contemned foe,

Bold, threadbare Virtue, who dare promise more
From empty bags, than I from all my store;
Whose counsels make men draw unquiet breath,
Expecting to be happy after death.


Canst thou now make, or hast thou ever made,
Thy servants happy in those things that fade?
Hear this my challenge: One example bring
Of such perfection ; let him be the king
Of all the world, fearing no outward check,
And finding others by his voice or beck;
Yet shall this man at every moment find
More gall than honey in his restless mind.
No, monster, since my words have struck thee dumb,
Behold this garland, whence such virtues come,
Such glories shine, such piercing beams are thrown
As make thee blind, and turn thee to a stone.
And thou, whose wandering feet were running down
The infernal steepness, look upon this crown:
Within these folds lie hidden no deceits,
No golden lures on which perdition waits ;
But when thine eyes the prickly thorns have past,
See in the circle boundless joys at last.


These things are now most clear, thee I embrace :
Immortal wreath, let worldlings count thee base;
Choice is thy matter, glorious is thy shape,
Fit crown for them who tempting dangers 'scape.


This poet was born at Harshull, in the county of Warwick, about the year 1563. We can only discover these facts concernings his life:--that in boyhood he was placed as page with some honourable person,-that he studied at Oxford,—that Sir Henry Gooden, of Polesworth, was his patron,--that in his latter days, Sir Walter Aston, of Tixal, Staffordshire, loved his company, and was his friend ;-and that he was made Laureate, to which office, at that time, there was no emolument attached. His principal works are the Poly-Olbion, The Barons' Wars, England's Heroic Epistles, Legends, and Minor Poems, among which is The Birth and Miracles of Moses, all of which bear abundant proofs of erudition and genius. He died in 1631.



To Midian now his pilgrimage he took,

Midian, earth's only paradise for pleasures;
Where many a soft rill, many a sliding brook,

Through the sweet valleys trip in wanton measures ;

Where as the curled groves and flowery fields

To his free soul so peaceable and quiet,
More true delight and choice contentment yields

Than Egypt's braveries and luxurious diet:

And wandering long he happened on a well,

Which he by paths frequented might espy,
Bordered with trees where pleasure seemed to dwell,

Where, to repose him easily, down doth lie:
Where the soft winds did mutually embrace

In the cool arbours nature there had made,
Fanning their sweet breath gently in his face,

Through the calm cincture of the amorous shade:

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