OLD POETS.

Riches of children pass a prince's throne Which touch the father's heart with secret joy, When without shame he saith, "These be mine own." SIR P. SIDNEY

Then came they to the foul and loathsome lake. Dark, deep, and miry, of a dreadful hue, Where was the aged man that never stinted To carry bundles of the names imprinted. This was the man, whom (as I told before) Nature and custom so swift of foot had made, He never rested, but ran evermore. And with his coming he did use his trade; A heap of names within his cloak he bare, And in the river did them all unlade; Or, to say truth, away he cast them all Into this stream, which Lethe we do call. This prodigal old wretch no sooner came Unto this cursed river's barren bank, But desperately, without all fear of blame, Or caring to deserve reward or thank, He hurl'd therein full many a precious name Where millions soon unto the bottom sank: Hardly in every thousand one was found That was not in the gulf quite lost and drown'd; Yet all about great store of birds there flew, As vultures, carrion crows, and chattering pies, And many more of sundry kinds and hue, Making lewd harmony with their loud cries: These, when the careless wretch the treasure threw Into the stream, did all they could devise, What with their talons some, and some with beak, To save these names, but found themselves too weak. For ever as they thought themselves to raise, To bear away those names of good renown, The weight of them so heavy downward weighs, They in the stream were driven to cast them down, Only two swans sustained so great a prize, In spite of him who sought them all to drown: These two did still take up whose names they list, And bare them safe away, and never miss'd. Sometime all under the foul lake they dived, And took up some that were with water cover'd, And those that seem'd condemned they reprived. And often as about the bank they hovered, They caught them, ere they to the stream arrived, Then went they with the names they had recovered, Up to a hill that stood the water nigh, On which a stately church was built on high. This place is sacred to immortal fame, And evermore a nymph stands at the gate, And took the names wherewith the two swans came, Whether they early come, or whether late. Then all about the church she hang'd the same, Before that sacred image in such rate As they might then be well assured for ever, Spite of that wretch, in safety to persever. SIR J. HARRINGTON.

All as the painful ploughman plies his toil With shear and coulter shearing through the soil, That costs him dear and ditches it about, Or crops his hedge to make it undersprout, And never stays to ward it from the weed, But most respects to sow therein good seed; To th' end when summer decks the meadows plain, He may have recompense of costs and pain. Or like the maid who careful is to keep The budding flower, that first begins to peep Out of the knop and waters it full oft, To make it seemly show the head aloft, That it may (when she draws it from the stocks) Adorn her gorget white and golden locks. So wise Merari all his study styl'd To fashion well the manners of his child. HUDSON.

——How soever things in likelihood dissent In birth, life, death, our God is first, the middle, and event. And not what he can do he will, but what he will be can, And that he do or do it not, behoves us not to to scan. WARNER.

Now from the fresh, the soft, and tender bed, Of her still mother gentle Night outflew The fleeting balm on hills and dales she shed, With honey drops of pure and precious dew, And on the verdure of green forests spread, The virgin primrose and the violet blue; And sweet breath Zephyr on his spreading wings Sleep, ease, repose, rest, peace and quiet brings. The thoughts and troubles of broad waking day They softly dip in mild oblivion's lake. FAIRFAX.

Now the world's comforter with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west; The owl (Night's herald) shrieks; 'tis very late, The sheep are gone to fold, the birds to nest, The cool black clouds that shadow heaven's light Do summon us to part and bid good night. SHAKSPEARE.

The wit the pupil of the soul's clear eye, And in man's world the only shining star, Looks in the mirror of the phantasy, Where all the gathering of the senses are, From thence this power the shape of things abstracts, And them within her passive part receives, Which are enlightened by that part which acts, And so the form of single things receives; But after by discoursing to and fro, Anticipating and comparing things, She doth all universal natures know And all effects into their causes bring. Our wit is given Almighty God to know, Our will is given to love him being known, But God could not be known to us below But by his works, which through the sense are known. DAVIS.