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I STRUCK the board, and cried, “ No more!

I will abroad.
What! shall I ever sigh and pine ?
My lines and life are free-free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store ;
Shall I be still in suit ?
Have I no harvest, but a thorn
To let my blood ; and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit ?

Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn
Before my tears did drown it ;
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no bays to crown it ?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted ?

All wasted ?
Not so, my heart ! but there is fruit

And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-flown age
On double pleasures : leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit and not : forsake thy cage,

Thy rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable to enforce and draw,

And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see:

Away! take heed !

I will abroad,
Call in thy death's head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,

Deserves his load.”
But as I raved, and grew more fierce and wild

At every word,
Methought I heard one calling, “ Child !"

And I replied, “My Lord !"

VIRTUE.

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky, The dew shall weep thy fall to night ;

For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in the grave;

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows you have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul

Like seasoned timber never gives ;
But though the whole world turn to a coal,

Then chiefly lives.

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The merry world did on a day

With his train-bands and mates agree To meet together where I lay,

And all in sport to jeer at me.

First Beauty crept into a rose,
Which when I plucked not, “ Sir,” said she,

, • Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those ?”

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

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Then Money came : and, chinking still,

“What tune is this, poor man?” said he; “I heard in music

you

had skill:"
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

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Then came brave Glory puffing by,

In silks that whistled “who but he ?” He scarce allowed me half an eye:

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversation,

And he would needs a comfort be;
And, to be short, make an oration :

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet when the hour of thy design

To answer these fine things shall come, Speak not at large; say, I am thine ;

And then they have their answer home.

BUSINESS.

Canst be idle, canst thou play

Foolish soul, who sinned to-day?
Rivers run, and springs each one
Know their home, and get them gone :
Hast tbou tears, or hast thou none ?

If, poor soul, thou hast no tears,
Wouldst thou had no fault or fears !
Who hath those, those ills forbears!

Winds still work, it is their plot
Be the season cold or hot :
Hast thou sighs, or hast thou not ?

If thou hast no sighs or groans,
Would thou hadst no flesh and bones :
Lesser pains 'scape greater ones.

But if yet thou idle be,

Foolish soul, who died for thee?
Who did leave his Father's throne,

To assume thy flesh and bone ?
Had He life, or had He none ?

If He had not lived for thee
Thou hadst died most wretchedly;
And two deaths had been thy fee.

He so far thy good did plot,
That his own self He forgot-
Did He die, or did He not ?

If He had not died for thee
Thou hadst lived in misery-
Two lives worse than two deaths be.

And hath any space of breath

'Twixt his sins and Saviour's death?
He that loseth gold, though dross,
Tells to all he meets, his cross-
He that hath sins, hath he no loss?

He that finds a silver vein
Thinks on it, and thinks again-
Brings thy Saviour's death no gain ?

Who in heart not ever kneels,
Neither sin nor Saviour fee's.

PEACE.

Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave

Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,

And asked if peace were there,
A hollow wind did seem to answer, “ No!

Go seek elsewhere."

I did ;—and going, did a rainbow note :

Surely, thought I,
This is the lace of Peace's coat:

I will search out the matter.
But while I looked, the clouds immediately

Did break and scatter.

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Then went I to a garden, and did spy

A gallant flower,
The crown imperial.

Sure,” said I,
“ Peace at the root must dwell.”
But when I digged I saw a worm devour

What showed so well.

At length I met a reverend good old man ;

Whom when for peace
I did demand, he thus began :

“ There was a prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase

Of flock and fold.

He sweetly lived ; yet sweetness did not save

His life from foes,
But after death out of his

grave
There
sprang

twelve stalks of wheat: Which many wond’ring at, got some of those

To plant and set.

“ It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse

Through all the earth;
For they that taste it do rehearse,

That virtues lie therein ;
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,

By flight of sin.

“Take of this grain which in my garden grows,
And
grows

for you:
Make bread of it; and that repose,

And peace which everywhere
With so much earnestness you do pursue,

Is only there.”

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