Vicissitude plaies all the game;
Nothing that stirrs,

Or hath a name,

But waits upon this wheel;

Kingdomes too have their physick, and for steel
Exchange their peace and furrs.

Thus doth God key disorder'd man,
Which none else can,

Tuning his brest to rise or fall;
And by a sacred, needfull art
Like strings, stretch ev'ry part,
Making the whole most musicall.

THE TEMPEST.

How is man parcell'd out? how every hour
Shews him himself, or something he should see!
This late long heat may his instruction be;
And tempests have more in them than a showr.

When nature on her bosome saw
Her infants die, .

And all her flowres wither'd to straw,
Her brests grown dry;

She made the earth, their nurse and tomb,
Sigh to the sky,

'Till to those sighes fetch'd from her womb
Rain did reply:

So in the midst of all her fears

And faint requests,

Her earnest sighes procur'd her tears
And fill'd her brests.

O that man could do so! that he would hear
The world read to him! all the vast expence
In the creation shed, and slav'd to sence

Makes

up but lectures for his eie and ear.

Sure mighty love, foreseeing the descent

Of this poor creature, by a gracious art

Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, And layd surprizes in each element.

All things here shew him heaven; waters that fall, Chide and fly up; mists of corruptest foam Quit their first beds, and mount; trees, herbs, flowres, all

Strive upwards still, and point him the way home.

How do they cast off grossness? only earth,
And man like Issachar in lodes delight,
Water's refin'd to motion, aire to light,
Fire to all three, but man hath no such mirth.

Plants in the root with earth do most comply,

Their leafs with water and humiditie,

The flowres to air draw neer and subtiltie, And seeds a kindred fire have with the sky, Light, motion, heat.

All have their keyes and set ascents; but man Though he knows these, and hath more of his

own,

Sleeps at the ladder's foot: alas! what can These new discoveries do, except they drown?

Thus, groveling in the shade and darkness, he
Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all
He sees, like pyramids, shoot from this ball,
And less'ning still grow up invisibly,

Yet hugs he still his durt; the stuffe he wears, And painted trimming takes down both his eies; Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, And money better musick than the spheres.

Life's but a blast; he knows it; what? shall straw And bulrush-fetters temper his short hour? Must he nor sip nor sing? grows ne'r a flowr To crown his temples? shall dreams be his law?

O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight?
How is it that the sun to thee alone

Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread a stone? Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light?

Lord! thou didst put a soul here. If I must

Be broke again, for flints will give no fire
Without a steel, O let thy power cleer
Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust!

RETIREMENT.

I.

WHO on yon throne of azure sits,
Keeping close house

Above the morning starre,

Whose meaner showes

And outward utensils these glories are,
That shine and share

Part of his mansion; he one day,
When I went quite astray,

Out of meer love,

By his mild Dove,

Did shew me home, and put me in the way.

II.

Let it suffice at length thy fits

And lusts, said he,

Have had their wish and way;

Presse not to be

Still thy own foe, and mine; for to this day
I did delay,

And would not see, but chose to wink;
Nay, at the very brink

And edge of all,

When thou wouldst fall,

My love-twist held thee up, my unseen link.

III.

I know thee well; for I have fram'd,

And hate thee not;

Thy spirit, too, is mine;

I know thy lot,

Extent, and end, for my hands drew the line
Assigned thine.

If, then, thou would'st unto my seat,
'Tis not the applause and feat
Of dust and clay

Leads to that way,

But from those follies a resolv'd retreat.

IV.

Now here below, where yet untam'd
Thou dost thus rove,

I have a house as well

In it my name and honour both do dwell,
And shall untill

I make all new; there, nothing gay

In perfumes or array,

Dust lies with dust,

And hath but just

Where dead men preach, who can turn feasts and

To funerals and Lent.