English

Day shall succeed to night no more,
No spring shall winter's waste restore,
The moon and stars shall fade away;
And ev'n the sun himself decay;
Whate'er we see, the earth, the sky,
Shall in one gen'ral ruin ly;
From nothing all arose, and all
Again shall into nothing fall:
Secure of death, the soul sublime
Alone defies the wrecks of time,
And, 'midst the ruins of its frame,
From changes free, remains the same.
Man know, howe'er defac'd by sin
Thou hast a spark of God within,
A spark of the eternal fire,

What holde in hope, or trust to fayre allure,
Shee that my sweetest yeares beguylde can tell:
By whome I learne there is no way so sure,
Ne speedier meane to guyde a man to hell.
Loe, he that liste such fayned hope to prooue,
Shall subiect liue, and nere raigne ouer loue.

The pleasure of her piercing eyes methought,
Should be the lightes that leade to happinesse:
Alas I was to bolde, but she more nought,
To false suche fayth, and meaning nothing lesse,
What heauen is hid in loue, who seekes to see,

Day yields to night and night to day,
Alternate, light and darkness sway;
And varied seasons still appear
Till winter terminate the year:
The sun, at mid day plac'd on high,
At eve sinks in the western sky;
The moon with borrow'd radiance shines,
And likewise in her turn declines;
Thus in each object of thy state
Behold, O man! thy mortal state.
Morn gives back splendour to the day,
Spring makes the gloom of winter gay;
Again the sun his course pursues,
Again the moon her light renews:

Where as thy minde I see doth mounte,
to buylde thy nest on hye:
I thinke it good in meaner sorte,
thy wings thou guyde to flye.
For loftie trees on Mountayne toppes,
with euery blustering blaste
Are shaken sore, when trees belowe
doe stande both firme and faste.
The Bee whose force but feeble is,
to Beastes of bigger powre:
Hir selfe doth feede with Hony sweete,
when greater taste things sowre.
Which prooues the meane with minde content,
more happy lyfe we see:
Than is to taste the sowre, and sitte

In vain, with unremitting care,
In quest of joy we roam,
In vain we seek it ev'ry where, —
'Tis only found at home.

Dear home! of ev'ry joy the seat,
When all our toils are past,
We in thy undisturb'd retreat
Find happiness at last.

Yet, ah! how sew who prize the bliss
Domestic scenes bestow,
Prefer to ceremony ease,
And happiness to show,

To fashion's arbitrary rules
We sacrifice our ease;
To gain the suffrages of fools
Neglect ourselves to please.

All ye who would wish to be happy for life,
Your happiness seek in the arms of a wife;
When Adam was made still something he wanted,
But his bliss was complete, when the woman was granted.

Our dangers she sweetens, our labours she shares,
Our pleasures enhances, and lessens our cares,
To health and success gives the relish to please,
But comforts misfortune, and softens disease.

But since, when once marry'd, you're marry'd for life,
Let prudence and love guide your choice of a wife,

Sleep! ruler of the midnight hour,
Thy courted influence shed,
With gentle, but resistless, pow'r
Upon thy vot'ry's head:

Fancy, with soothing dreams inspire,
To give repose its charms,
And bring the nymph I most admire,
My Delia, to my arms.

What ask I more? Let dreams like these
Arise to Delia's view,
And I her sleeping fancy please,
That she may wish them true.

Others your charms may value more,
Your sense and worth I prize,
For, though to me unknown before,
I read them in your eyes.

Would you, my friend, for-e'er remove
From all the pangs of hopeless love?
Go — take the lover's leap, and break
At once your passion, and your neck.

Say, why your kisses thus bestow,
On one who can't their value know?
Ah! lavish not that bliss in vain,
Which I would gladly die to gain.