Heere saw he others that did keepe the sword
Of office and authority, in peace,
Compacted in a knot, not to accord
Or set at unity, strifes but increase;

Wounding or sparing with a watchfull hand,

As some superiour person should commaund.

LXXXV.

WILLIAM LITHGOW.

LINES,

From "The Pilgrim's Farewell.”

THIS worthlesse honour, that desert not reares, Is but as fruitlesse showes, which bloome, then perish :

Where merite buildes not, that foundation teares. There's nought but trueth that can man's standing cherish :

This great experience dayly now appeares,

What one upholdes, another he downe casts,
This gentle blood doth suffer many blasts.

I smyle to see some bragging gentle-men,
That clayme their discent from king Arthur great;
And they will drinke, and sweare, and roare: what
then?

Would make their betters foote-stooles to their

feet,

And stryve to bee applaus'd with print and pen; And were hee but a farmer, if hee can

But keepe an hound,—O there's a gentle-man! But, foolish thou, looke to the grave, and learne How man lies there deform'd, consum'd in dust; And in that mappe thy judgement may discearne How little thou in birth and blood shouldst trust. Such sightes are good,-they doe thy soule con

cerne.

Wer'st thou a kinglie sonne, and vertue want, Thou art more brute than beastes which desarts hant.

And more, vaine worlde, I see thy great trans

gression,

Each day new murther, blood-shed, craft, and thift, Thy lovelesse law, and lawlesse proude oppression,

Thy stiffeneckt crew their heads ov'r saincts they lift,

And, misregarding God, fall in degression:

The widdow mournes, the proude the poore

oppresse,

The rich contemne the silly fatherlesse:

And rich men gape, and, not content, seeke more,
By sea and land, for gaine, run manie miles;
The noblest strive for state, ambition's glore,
To have preferment, landes, and greatest stiles,
Yet nev'r content of all, when they have store;
And from the sheepheard to the king, I see,
There's no contentment for a worldlie eye.

O! is hee poore, then faine he would bee rich; And rich, what tormentes his great griede doth feele:

And is hee gentle, hee strives moe hightes t' touch;
If hee unthrives, hee hates another's weele;
His eyes pull home what his handes dare not fetch.
A quiet minde, who can attaine that hight,
But either slaine by griede or envie's spright?
Man's naked borne, and naked hee returnes,
Yet whiles hee lives God's providence mistrustes;
Hee gapes for pelfe, and still in avarice burnes ;
And, having all, hath nothing but his lustes,
Insatiate still, backe to his vomite turnes.

Vilde dust and earth, believ'st thou in a shadow, Whose high-tun'd prime falles like a new-mowne medow?

I grieve to see the world and worldling playing: The wretch, puft up, is swell'd with hellish griede; The worlde deceives him with a swift assaying; And as hee stands, hee cannot take good heede, But for small trash must yeelde eternal paying: And dead, another enjoyes what hee got,

And spendes up all, whiles hee in grave doeth rot.

LXXXVI.

JOHN WEEVER.

STANZAS,

From "An Agnus Dei."

Now Pontius Pilate on the iudgment-seate,
His wife sends to him, fairely to entreate
That in no wise with Jesus he would mell,
For in a sleep strange things to her befell
Concerning him: he Jesus would haue quit,
But none would grant which on the bench did sit.
He puts
al to the people's choice: they choose
Jesus for death, and Barrabas let loose.
Prevailing not, then Pontious Pilate stands
Before them all, took water, washt his hands,
Appealing both to heuens and to the earth
That he was guiltlesse of this iust man's death.
Then answered the destraughted multitude-
Vpon us and our children bee his blood."

CHARLES FITZGEFFREY.

THE BLESSED BIRTH-DAY,

CELEBRATED IN SOME SANCTIFIED MEDITATIONS ON THE ANGELS' ANTHEM.

LUKE II. 14.

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men.

WHY should not we with joy resound and sing
The blessed natals of our heavenly King?
Why should not we with mirth salute the morn
Of his birth-day by whom we are new born?
See how each creature in his kind rejoyces,
And shall not we lift up melodious voices?
Hark how the angels sing!—shall we be sad?
The greatest good is ours-be we most glad.
Hark how the star-enamel'd heavens rebound
With echos of angelick anthems' sound!

It is for us that they those joyes expresse;
And shall not we shew forth some thankfulnesse?
Joyn we in consort these sweet quires among,
In sundry voices sing we all one song,

Glory to God on high, on earth be peace,

And let good-will towards Christians never

cease.