Urged, hurried forth, and hurld

Upon the affrighted world;
Fire, famine, and fell fury met,

And all on utmost ruin set :
As, could they but life's miseries foresee,
No doubt all infants would return like thee.

THE EPODE, OR STAND.

For what is life, if measured by the space,

Not by the act ?
Or maskéd man, if valued by his face,

Above his fact?
Here's one outlived his peers,

And told forth fourscore years :
He vexéd time, and busied the whole state;

Troubled both foes and friends;

But ever to no ends :
What did this stirrer but die late ?
How well at twenty had he fallen or stood!
For three of his fourscore he did no good.

II.

THE STROPHE, OR TURN. He entered well by virtuous parts,

Got up, and thrived with honest arts, He purchased friends, and fame, and honours then And had his noble name advanced with men :

But weary of that flight,

He stooped in all men's sight
To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,

And sunk in that dead sea of life,
So deep, as he did then death's waters sup,
But that the cork of title buoyed him up.

THE ANTISTROPHE, OR COUNTER-TURN Alas! but MORISON fell young :

He never fell, thou fall'st, my tongue.
He stood a soldier to the last right end,
A perfect

patriot and a noble friend ;
But most, a virtuous son.

All offices were done
By him, so ample, full, and round,

In weight, in measure, number, sound,
As, though his age imperfect might appear,
His life was of humanity the sphere.

THE EPODE, OR STAND.
Go now, and tell our days summed up with fears.

And make them years ;
Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage,

Tó swell thine age :
Repeat of things a throng,

To show thou hast been long,
Not lived ; for life doth her great actions spell,

By what was done and wrought

In season, and so brought To light : her measures are, how well Each syllabe answered, and was formed, how fair ; These make the lines of life, and that's her air !

III,

THE STROPHE, OR TURN.
It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make men better be ;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear :

A lily of a day,

Is fairer far, in May,
Although it fall and die that night;

It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures, life may perfect be.

THE ANTISTROPHE, OR COUNTER-TURN.
Call, noble LUCIUS, then, for wine,

And let thy locks with gladness shine :
Accept this Garland, plant it on thy head,
And think, nay know, thy MORISON 's not dead.

He leaped the present age,

Possest with holy rage,
To see that bright eternal day ;

Of which we priests and poets say
Such truths, as we expect for happy men :
And there, he lives with memory, and BEN.

THE EPODE, OR STAND.
JONSON, who sung this of him, ere he went,

Himself, to rest,
Or taste a part of that full joy he meant

To have exprest,

In this bright asterism !

Where it were friendship's schism,
Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,

To separate these twi

Lights, the Dioscuri; And keep the one half from his Harry. But fate doth so alternate the design, Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine, -

IV.

THE STROPHE, OR TURN.
And shine as you exalted are ;

Two names of friendship, but one star:
Of hearts the union, and those not by chance
Made, or indenture, or leased out t advance

The profits for a time.

No pleasures vain did chime, Of rhymes, or riots, at your feasts,

Orgies of drink, or feigned protests : But simple love of greatness and of good : That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.

THE ANTISTROPHE, OR COUNTER-TURN.
This made you first to know the why

You liked, then after, to apply
That liking; and approach so one the t other,
Till either grew a portion of the other;

Each styled by his end,

The copy of his friend.
You lived to be the great sir-names,

And titles, by which all made claims
Unto the Virtue : nothing perfect done,
But as a Cary or a MORISON.

THE EPODE, OR STAND.
And such a force the fair example had,

As they that saw
The good, and durst not practise it, were glad

That such a law
Was left yet to mankind;

Where they might read and find
Friendship, indeed, was written not in words:

And with the heart, not pen,

Of two so early men
Whose lines her rolls were, and records :
Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin,
Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY.

WEEP with me, all you that read

This little story :
And know, for whom a tear you shed

Death's self is sorry.
'Twas a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,
As heaven and nature seem'd to strive

Which owned the creature.
Years he numbered scarce thirteen

When fates turned cruel,
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been

The stage's jewel ;
And did act, what now we moan,

Old men so duly,
As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,

He played so truly.
So, by error to his fate,

They all consented;
But viewing him since, alas, too late !

They have repented;
And have sought, to give new birth,

In baths to steep him ;
But being so much too good for earth,

Heaven vows to keep him.

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 !

SONG.

THAT WOMEN ARE BUT MEN'S SHADOWS.

FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you,
Seem to fly it, it will pursue :
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?

At morn and even shades are longest ;
At noon they are or short or none :
So men at weakest, they are strongest,

But grant us perfect, they 're not known.
Say are not women truly, then,

Styled but the shadows of us men?

ODE TO SIR WILLIAM SIDNEY ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

Now that the hearth is crowned with smiling fire, And some do drink, and some do dance,

Some ring,
Some sing,

And all do strive to advance

The gladness higher;

Wherefore should I
Stand silent by,

Who not the least,

Both love the cause, and authors of the feast?

Give me my cup, but from the Thespian well,
That I may tell to SIDNEY what