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O That thou wouldst hide me in the Grave, that thou wouldft keep me in fecret until thy wrath be past.

PSALMS.

AH! whither fhall I fly? what path untrod

Shall I feek out to 'fcape the flaming rod

Of my offended, of my angry God?

Where fhall I fojourn? what kind fea will hide
My head from thunder? where fhall I abide,
Until his flames be quench'd or laid afide?

What if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And feek protection in the fhades of night?
Alas! no fhades can blind the God of Light.

What if my foul fhould take the wings of day,
And find fome defert; if the fpring away,
The wings of Vengeance clip as fast as they.

What if fome folid rock fhould entertain
My frighted foul? can folid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain?

Nor fea, nor fhade, nor fhield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor filent deferts, nor the fullen grave,
Where flame-ey'd fury means to fmite, can fave.

'Tis vain to flee; 'till gentle Mercy fhew
Her better eye; the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow,

Th'

Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not flie
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.

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Great God! there is no fafety here below;
Thou art my fortrefs, thou that seem'ft my foe,
Tis thou that strik'st the stroke, muft guard the blow.

Quarles Emblems.

ALL THINGS ARE VAINE.

ALTHOUGH the purple morning, brages in brightness of

the funne

As though he had of chafed night, a glorious conqueft

wonne :

The time by day, gives place againe to force of drowfy night, And every creature is constrain'd to change his lufty plight. Of pleasure all that here we taste;

We feele the contrary at laste.

In fpring, though pleafant Zephirus hath frutefull earth

infpired,

And Nature hath each bufh, each branch, with bloffomes brave attired:

Yet fruites and flowers, as buds and blomes ful quickly withered be,

When stormie Winter comes to kill, the Sommers jollitie.
By time are got, by time are loft,

All thinges wherein we pleasure most.

3

Although

Although the Seas fo calmely glide, as daungers none ap

peare,

And dout of stormes, in skie is none, king Phoebus fhines fo

cleare:

Yet when the boiftrous windes breake out, and raging waves do fwel,

The feely barke now heaves to heaven, now finkes againe to hel,

Thus change in ever thing we see,

And nothing constant seemes to be.

Who floweth most in worldly wealth of wealth is most unfure, And he that cheefely tastes of joy, doth sometime woe endure: Who vaunteth most of numbred freendes, foregoe them all he

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The fairest flesh and liveliest bloud, is turn'd at length to duft. Experience gives a certain ground,

That certen here, is nothing found.

Then truft to that which aye remaines, the bliffe of heavens

above,

Which Time, nor Fate, nor Wind, nor Storme, is able to remove,

Truft to that fure celeftiall rocke, that refts in glorious

throne,

That hath bene, is, and must be stil, our anker hold alone.

The world is but a vanitie,

In heaven feeke we our furetie.

The Paradife of Daynty Devises.
Fol. 18, 44. figned F. K.

CHURCH

CHURCH MONUMENTS.

WHILE that my Soul repairs to her devotion,

Here I intomb my flesh, that it betimes

May take acquaintance of this heap of duft;
To which the blast of Death's inceffant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last, therefore I gladly trust

My body to the School, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and finds his birth
Written in dufty herauldry and lines.
Which diffolution fure doth best discern,
Comparing duft with duft, and earth with earth.
Thefe laugh at jeat, and marble put for figns,

To fever the good fellowship of dust,

And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust ?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent: that when thou shalt grow fat,

And

And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
That flesh is but the glass which holds the dust
That meaufures all our time; which alfo fhall
Be crumbled into duft, mark here below,
How tame these ashes are, how free from luft,
That thou may'st fit thyself against thy fall.

The Temple, by G. Herbert,
Edit. 1709, P 56.

AGAINST FOREIGN LUXURY.

ND now ye British fwaines (whofe harmeleffe fheepe
Then all the worlds befide I joy to keepe)

Which spread on every plaine, and hilly would,
Fleeces no leffe esteem'd then that of gold,
For whose exchange one Indy jems of price,
The other gives you of her choicest spice,
And well the may; but we unwife, the while,
Leffen the glory of our fruitfull Ifle:
Making those nations thinke we foolish are,
For bafer drugs to vent our richer ware,
Which (fave the bringer) never profit man,
Except the Sexten and Phyfitian.

And whether change of clymes, or what it be,
That proves our marainers mortalitie,

Such

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