Old Poets.

I had a friend that lov'd me; I was his soul; he liv'd not but in me; We were so close within each other's breast, The rivets were not found that join'd us first. That does not reach us yet; we were so mix'd, As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost. We were one mass, we could not give or take, But from the same: for He was I; I He; Return my better half, and give me all myself, For thou art all! If I have any joy when thou art absent, I grudge it to myself; methinks I rob Thee of thy part.

As good and wise; so she be fit for me, That is, to will, and not to will the same; My wife is my adopted self, and she As me, to what I love, to love must frame. And when by marriage both in one concur, Woman converts to man, not man to her.

What do you think of marriage? I take't, as those that deny purgatory; It locally contains or heaven or hell; There's no third place in it.

Nor stand so much on your gentility, Which is an airy, and mere borrow'd thing, From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours, Except you make, or hold it.

Heav'n is a great way off, and I shall be Ten thousand years in travel, yet 'twere happy If I may find a lodging there at last, Though my poor soul get thither upon crutches.

Dazzled with the height of place, While our hopes our wits beguile, No man marks the narrow space Between a prison and a smile. Then since fortune's favours fade, You that in her arms do sleep, Learn to swim and not to wade, For the hearts of kings are deep. But if greatness be so blind, As to trust in tow'rs of air, Let it be with goodness joyn'd, That at least the fall be fair.

An honest soul is like a ship at sea, That sleeps at anchor upon the occasion's calm; But when it rages, and the wind blows high, She cuts her way with skill and majesty.

O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness! O how much do I like your solitariness! Here nor reason is hid, vailed in innocence, Nor envy's snaky eye, finds any harbour here. Nor flatterer's venomous insinuations. Nor coming humourist's puddled opinions, Nor courteous ruin of proffer'd usury, Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance, Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance, Nor trifling titles of vanity dazzleth us, Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise. Here wrong's name is unheard; slander a monster is, Keep thy sprite from abuse, here no abuse doth haunt, What man grafts in a tree dissimulation.

Each state must have its policies: Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters. Ev'n the wild outlaw, in his forest walk, Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline. For not since Adam wore his verdant apron, Hath man with man in social union dwelt, But laws were made to draw that union closer.