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Will increase our joy: and so Events, the which we cannot know, We magnify, and are (in sum) Enamour'd of the time to come.

Well, the next day comes, and then
Another next, and so to ten,
To twenty we arrive, and find
No more before us than behind
Of solid joy; and yet haste on
To our consummation :

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SIR KENELM DIGBY.

This celebrated English philosopher, whose life is to be

found in all our Biographical Dictionaries, was born in 1803, and died in 1665. His works are carefully enumerated by Wood, (Ath. Vol. II. p. 351) who calls him the magazine of all arts." The poem from which the following lines are extracted, is attributed to him in a miscellany called “ Wit's Interpreter,” 16*1.

Fame, honour, beauty, state, trains, blood and

birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
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 out the bowels of the richest mine.
I would be wise ; but that the fox I see
Suspected guilty, while the ass goes free.
I would be fair; but see that champion proud,
The bright sun, often setting in a cloud.

I would be poor; but see the humble grass
Trampled upon by each unworthy ass.
Rich, hated; wise, suspected ; scorn'd, if poor;
Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envied more.

JASPER MAYNE,

Was born in 1604, entered a servitor at Christ Church 1023,

afterwards chosen student; and made D. D. 1646, as a
reward (says Wood, Ath.Vol. II. p. 507) for having preached
before the king and his parliament at Oxford, early in the
Rebellion. He was much admired on account of his learn-
ing, his wit, and his loyalty; in consequence of which he
was promoted, after the Restoration, to a canonry of Christ
Church, and to the archdeaconry of Chichester. He died
in 1672. In his youth he composed two plays, viz.
“ The City-match" (1639), and the “ Amorous War”
(1648). From the latter the following specimen is extracted.

SONG.

Time is a feather'd thing;

And, whilst I praise

The sparklings of thy looks, and call them rays,
Takes wing;
Leaving behind him, as he flies,
An unperceived dimness in thine eyes.

His minutes, whilst they're told,
Do make us old,

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And every sand of his fleet glass,
Increasing age as it doth pass,
Insensibly sows wrinkles there,
Where flowers and roses did appear.

Whilst we do speak, our fire
Doth into ice expire ;
Flames turn to frost,

And ere we can
Know how our crow turns swan,
Or how a silver snow

Springs there where jet did grow, Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.

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