DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

HE glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hands on kings. Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon death's purple altar now,

See where the victor victim bleeds.

All heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

James Shirley.

If it

CONSTANCY.

UT upon it. I have loved
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings

Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me:

Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen dozen in her place.

Sir John Suckling.

HY dost thou say I am forsworn,
Since thine I vow'd to be?
Lady, it is already morn;

It was last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Yet have I loved thee well, and long;
A tedious twelve-hours' space!
I should all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Did I still dote upon that face.

[3 st.

Richard Lovelace.

THE EPICURE.

ILL the bowl with rosy wine,
Around our temples roses twine,
And let us cheerfully awhile

Like the wine and roses smile.

Crown'd with roses we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.

To-day is ours, what do we fear?
To-day is ours, we have it here.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish at least with us to stay.

Let's banish business, banish sorrow,

To the gods belongs to-morrow.

Abraham Cowley.

When wine runs high, wit's in the prime,

Drink and stout drinkers are true joys;

Odd sonnets, and such little toys

Are exercises fit for boys.

The whining lover that doth place

His fancy on a painted face,

And wastes his substance in the chase,

Would ne'er in melancholy pine

Had he affections so divine

As once to fall in love with wine.

Then to our liquor let us sit;

Wine makes the soul for action fit.

Who drinks most wine hath the most wit:

The gods themselves do revels keep,
And in pure nectar tipple deep
When slothful mortals are asleep:

The gods then let us imitate,
Secure from carping care and fate;
Wine, wit and courage both create.
In wine Apollo always chose
His darkest oracles to disclose,
'Twas wine gave him his ruby-nose.

Who dares not drink's a wretched wight,
Nor do I think that man dares fight

All day, that dares not drink at night:
Come fill my cup until it swim

With foam, that overlooks the brim.

Who drinks the deepest?

Sobriety and Study breeds

Here's to him.

Suspicion in our acts and deeds;

The downright drunkard no man heeds.
Give me but sack, tobacco store,

A drunken friend-I'll ask no more.

John Cleveland.

THE RAINBOW.

OOK how the rainbow doth appear
But in one only hemisphere;
So likewise after our decease,

No more is seen the arch of peace.
That cov'nant's here, the under-bow,
That nothing shoots but war and woe.

Robert Herrick.

THE SHADOW.

IFE a right shadow is ;

For if it long appear,

Then is it spent, and death's long night draws

near;

Shadows are moving, light,

And is there aught so moving as is this?

When it is most in sight

It steals away, and none knows how or where,
So near our cradles to our coffins are.

William Drummond.

ANACREONTIC.

¡NVEST my head with fragrant rose, That on fair Flora's bosom grows! Distend my veins with purple juice, That mirth may through my soul diffuse. 'Tis wine and love, and love in wine Inspires our youth with flames divine.

Thus, crown'd with Paphian myrtle, I
In Cyprian shades will bathing lie;
Whose snows if too much cooling, then
Bacchus shall warm my blood again.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine
Inspires our youth with flames divine.

Life's short and winged pleasures fly;
Who mourning live, do living die.