HENRY KING.

  [7] Claimed for Francis Beaumont by some authorities.

DEATH THE LEVELLER.

[These verses are said to have “chilled the heart” of Oliver Cromwell.]

The glories of our blood and state
  Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate;
  Death lays his icy hand on kings: 
    Sceptre and crown
    Must tumble down. 
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
  And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
  They tame but one another still: 
    Early or late,
    They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
  Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death’s purple altar now
  See where the victor-victim bleeds: 
    Your heads must come
    To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

VIRTUE IMMORTAL.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
  For thou must die. 
Sweet Rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
  And all must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
Thy musick shows ye have your closes,
  And all must die.

Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world, turn to coal,
  Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

MAN’S MORTALITY.

  Like as the damask rose you see,
  Or like the blossom on the tree,
  Or like the dainty flower in May,
  Or like the morning of the day,
  Or like the sun, or like the shade,
  Or like the gourd which Jonas had,—­
  E’en such is man; whose thread is spun,
  Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.—­
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes,—­and man he dies!

  Like to the grass that’s newly sprung,
  Or like a tale that’s new begun,
Or like the bird that’s here to-day,
  Or like the pearled dew of May,
  Or like an hour, or like a span,
  Or like the singing of a swan,—­
  E’en such is man; who lives by breath,
  Is here, now there, in life and death.—­
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew’s ascended. 
The hour is short, the span is long,
The swan’s near death,—­man’s life is done!