Old Poets.

Ambition is a vulture vile, That feedeth on the heart of pride, And finds no rest, when all is tried, For worlds cannot confine the one Th' other lists and bounds hath none And both subvert the mind, the state, Procure destruction, envy, hate.

In this great temple richly beautified, Pav'd all with stars, dispers'd on Sapphire flower, The clerk is a pure angel sanctified, The Judge our High Messiah full of power, The Apostles his assistants every hour, The jury saints, the verdict innocent, The sentence, come ye blessed to my tent. The spear that pierc'd his side, the writing pen, Christ's blood the ink, red ink for prince's name, The vailes great breach, the miracles for men, The sight is show of them that long dead came From their old graves, restored to living fame. And that last, signet passing all the rest, Our souls discharg'd by consummatum est. Here endless joy is their perpetual cheer Their exercise, sweet songs of many parts. Angels their choir, whose symphony to hear Is able to provoke conceiving hearts To misconceive of all enticing art The ditty praise, the subject is the Lord, That times their gladsome spirit to this accord.

Is't not God's deed whatever thing is done In heaven and earth? Did not he all create To die again? all ends that were begun; Their times in his eternal books of fate Are written sure, and have their certain date, Who then can strive with strong necessity, That holds the world in his still changing state? Or shun the death ordain'd by destiny, When hour of death is come, let none ask whence or why.

Fraud showed in comely clothes a lovely look, An humble cast of eye, a sober pace; And so sweet speech, a man might her have took For him that said "Hail Mary full of grace;" But all the rest deformedly did look. As full of filthiness and foul disgrace; Hid under long, large garments that she wore, Under the which, a poisoned knife she bore.

What one art thou thus in torn weeds yclad? Virtue, in price, whom ancient sages had— Why poorly clad? for fading goods past care— Why double fac'd? I mark each fortunes rare; This bridle, what? mind's rages to restrain— Why bear you tools? I love to take great pain— Why wings? I teach above the stars to fly— Why tread your death? I only cannot die.

Of all God's works which doth this world adorn, There is none more fair and excellent Than is man's body, both for power and form, Whilst it is kept in sober government, But none than it more foul and indecent, Distempered through misrules and passions base, It grows a monster and incontinent, Doth lose his dignity and native grace.

Never have unjust pleasures been complete In joys entire: but still fear kept the door. And held back something from that hell of sweet, To intersour unsure delights the more For never did all circumstances meet With those desires that were conceiv'd before, Something must still be left to cheer our sin, And give a touch of what should not have been.

He that compar'd man's body to a host Said that the hands were scouts discovering harms, The feet were horsemen thundering on the coast, The breast and stomach foemen, huge in swarms, But for the head in sovereignty did boast, It captain was, director of alarms, Whose rashness if it hazarded any ill, Not he alone, but all the host did spill.

Sweet solitary life thou true repose, Wherein the wise contemplate heaven aright, In thee no dread of war or worldly foes, In thee no pomp seduceth mortal sight. In thee no wanton cares to win with words, Nor lurking toys which silly life affords.

What so strong But wanting rest, will also want of might? The sun that measures heaven all day long, At night doth bathe his steeds th' ocean waves among.

A stronger hand restrains our wilful powers. A will must rule above the will of ours, Not following what our vain desires do woo, For virtue's sake, but what we only do.

He only lives most happily That's free and far from majesty— Can live content although unknown— He fearing none, none fearing him— Meddling with nothing but his own— While gazing eyes at crowns grow dim.

Content feeds not on glory nor on pelf, Content can be contented with herself.