XXIX.

JOHN DAVIES.

STANZAS,

From "The Triumph of Death.”

LONDON now smokes with vapors that arise
From his foule sweat, himselfe he so bestirres :
"Cast out your dead!" the carcase-carrier cries,
Which he by heapes in groundlesse graves in-

terres.

Now like to bees in summer's heate from hives,
Out flie the citizens, some here, some there;
Some all alone, and others with their wives:
With wives and children some flie, all for feare!
Here stands a watch, with guard of partizans,
To stoppe their passages, or to or fro,
As if they were not men, nor Christians,

But fiends or monsters, murdering as they go. Each village, free, now stands upon her guard, None must have harbour in them but their owne; And as for life and death all watch and ward,

And flie for life (as death) the man unknowne! Here crie the parents for their children's death, There howle the children for the parents' losse, And often die as they are drawing breath

To crie for their but now inflicted crosse.

The last survivor of a familie

Which yesterday, perhaps, were all in health, Now dies to beare his fellowes companie,

And for a grave for all gives all their wealth.

The London lanes (thereby themselves to save)
Did vomit out their undigested dead,
Who by cart-loads are carried to the grave;

For all these lanes with folke were overfed.

The king himselfe (O wretched times the while!) From place to place himselfe did flie,

Which from himselfe himselfe did seek t'exile, Who (as amaz'd) not safe knew where to lie. For hardly could one man another meete

That in his bosom brought not odious death; It was confusion but a friend to greet,

For, like a fiend, he banned with his breath.
Now fall the people unto publike fast,
And all assemble in the church to pray;
Early and late their soules there take repast,
As if preparing for a later day.

The pastors now steep all their words in brine,
With "
woe, woe, woe,”—and nought is heard
but woe:

"Woe and alas!" (they say) "the powers divine "Are bent mankind, for sinne, to overthrow ! "Repent, repent," (like Jonas, now they crie) Ye men of England! O repent, repent, To see if ye maie move pittie's eye

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To look upon you ere you quite be spent." And oft while he breathes out these bitter words, He drawing breath draws in more bitter bane; For now the aire no aire, but death affords, And lights of art (for helpe) were in the wane. The ceremonie at their burialls

Is "ashes but to ashes, dust to dust;"

Nay, not so much; for strait the pitman falls (If he can stand) to hide them as he must.

But if the pitman have not so much sense

To see nor feele which way the winde doth sit, To take the same, he hardly comes from thence, But for himself, perhaps, he makes the pit.

For look how leaves in autumn from the tree With wind do fall, whose heaps fill holes in ground;

So might ye with the plague's breath people see Fall by great heaps and fill up holes profound. No holy turf was left to hide the head

Of holiest men; but most unhallow'd grounds, Ditches, and highwaies, must receive the dead,

The dead (ah, woe the while!) so o'er abound. Time never knew, since he begunne his houres, (For aught we reade) a plague so long remaine In any citie as this plague of ours;

For now six yeares in London it hath laine.

But thou in whose high hand all hearts are held,
Convert us, and from us this plague avert;
So sin shall yield to grace, and grace shall yield
The giver glory for so dear desert.

In few, what should I say? the best are nought That breathe, since man first breathing did rebell:

The best that breathe are worse than may be thought

If thought can thinke, the best can do but well: For none doth well on earth but such as will Confesse, with griefe, they do exceeding ill.

STANZAS,

From "The Holy Roode."

To thee, my God, my Lord, my Jesus Christ,
Will I ascribe all glory, pow'r and grace;
Thee will I serve, say pagans what they list,
And with the arms of love thee still embrace;
That for my love in love dost deigne to die
This death of shame, my life to glorifie.
None other booke but thy unclasped side,
Wherein's contain'd all skills angelical;
None other lesson but "Christ crucified,"
Will I ere learne: for that is all in all;
Wherein selfe curiositie may find

Matter to please the most displeased mind.
Here, by our Master's nakedness, we learne
What weeds to weare: by his thorn-crowned head
How to adorne us and we may discerne
By his most bitter gall how to be fed :
How to revenge, by praying for his foes;
And lying on his crosse, how to repose.
O work without example! and O grace
Without deserving! Love, O largest love,
Surmounting measure, that for wormes so base,
And basely bad, such hels of woes doth prove!
Had we been friends what would he then have
done,

That, being his foes, no woes for us doth shun?

XXX.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

THE PURPLE ISLAND.

CANTO XI.

THE early morn lets out the peeping day,
And strewed his path with golden marygolds;
The moon grows wanne, and starres flie all away,
Whom Lucifer locks up in wonted folds,

Till light is quencht, and heav'n in seas hath
flung

The headlong day: to th' hill the shepherd's throng,

And Thirsil now began to end his task and song. Who now, alas! shall teach my humble vein,

That never yet durst peep from covert glade ; But softly learnt for fear to sigh and plain, And vent his griefs to silent myrtils' shade? Who now shall teach to change my oaten quill

For trumpets' 'larms, or humble verses fill With gracefull majestie, and loftie rising skill? Ah, thou dread spirit! shed thy holy fire,

Thy holy frame into my frozen heart; Teach thou my creeping measures to aspire, And swell in bigger notes and higher art:

Teach my low muse thy fierce alarums to ring, And raise my soft strain to high thundering: Tune thou my loftie song; thy battels must I sing: Such as thou wert within the sacred breast

Of that thrice famous poet, shepherd, king,