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(For virtues, turtle-like, do single sit, · But, troops of vices still in squadrons meet,)
A boon companion, to his liquor given, Came thither, with his neighbours, to be shriven. “Stephen” (quoth friar), for's Christian name was
Stephen, “ What sins hast done to grieve the Lord of heaven? “ Speak freely, man! and it is ten to seven “ But by due penance I will make all even. “ Confession is the way, when man is driven “ Into despair, that guides him into heaven."
“ I have been drunk last day, and this day too, “ And may be next day too for aught I know; “ Tell me then, holy friar, directly, how • Or in what sort I may my penance do ?" “ Drunk?” (quoth the friar)“ now by the faith I owe, “ I know not what it means ! nor, as I trow, “ Under confession had I it e'er till now! " Yet, come next day, thou'lt hear what thou
" shalt do.” . .
Meanwhile, the friar would not neglect his time
For upsefreese" he drank from four to nine,
Upward and downward it did work so sore,
Stephen kept his steaven, and, to the time he gave, Came to demand what penance he should have? “ What penance?” (quoth the friar) “ I'll tell thee
“knave; " I think it fit this penance to receive. “ Go and be drunk again! for if it have “ Th' effect with thee it had with me, I'd crave “ No sharper penance for the sinfull'st slave: “ For soon it would possess me of my grave !"
· Quære, Vpsefreese?
TExtracted out of “ Alcilia. Philoparthen's loving Folly," &c.
By J. C. (quære if J. Cook ?) London, second impression, 4to. 1628.]
What thing is beauty, nature's dearest minion ?
The snare of youth ; like the inconstant moon, Waxing and waning: error of opinion ;
A morning's flower that withereth ere noon; A swelling fruit, no sooner ripe than rotten; Which sickness makes forlorn, and time forgotten.
In looking back unto my follies past,
While I the present with times past compare, And think how many hours I then did waste, .
Painting on clouds, and building in the air, I sigh within myself, and say in sadness, “ This thing, which fools call love, is nought but
How vain is youth, that, cross'd in his desire,
Doth fret and fume, and inwardly repine, As though 'gainst heav'n itself he would conspire,
And with his frailty 'gainst his fate combine :
Who of itself continues constant still,
Thy large smooth forehead wrinkled shall appear;
Vermilion hue to pale and wan shall turn; Time shall deface what youth hath held most dear; Yea, those clear eyes, which once my heart did
burn, Shall in their hollow circles lodge the night, And yield more cause of terror than delight.
Lo, here the record of my follies past,
The fruits of wit unstaid, and hours mis-spent! Full wise is he that perils can forecast,
And so, by others' harms, his own prevent.