'Tis still observ'd, that Fame ne'er sings
The order, but the sum of things.

'T IS something from that tangle to have won;
'T is something to have matched the wild-bird's flight;
'T is something to have soared and touched the sun.
What though the lashing billows roar beneath?
Better than death in life is life in death: —

'Tis said the Gods lower down that Chain above,
That tyes both Prince and Subject up in Love;
And if this Fiction of the Gods be true,
Few , Mary-Land, in this can boast but you:
Live ever blest, and let those Clouds that do
Eclipse most States, be alwayes Lights to you;
And dwelling so, you may for ever be
The only Emblem of Tranquility.

'Tis sad to see the sons of learning
In everlasting Hellfire burning
While he that never read a line
Doth in eternal glory shine.

'Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend
Him, as He is, is labour without end.

Tired and thirsty, weary of the way,
I seek the forest-inn that is my own;
Rifle and cap upon a bench I lay,
Beside the water pail my dog lies prone.
The inn's young mistress in the dying day
Stands still as one from whom all joy has flown;
Then she smiles shyly and half turns away —
The guests departure leaves us soon alone.

A tiny moon as small and white as a single jasmine flower
Leans all alone above my window, on night's wintry bower,
Liquid as lime-tree blossom, soft as brilliant water or rain
She shines, the first white love of my youth, passionless and in vain

Time that bringes all things to light,
Doth hide this thinge out of sight,
Yet fame hath left behinde a story,
A hopefull race to shew the glory:
For underneath this heape of stones,
Lieth a percell of small bones,
What hope at last can such impes have,
That from the wombe goes to the grave.

Time promises, should I in that confide?
As for its threats, I am not terrified
Time sometimes makes a cripple walk again
Sometimes cuts down a strong man in his pride.
Not apt to curse the times of our disasters
Nor to applaud when fate brings happiness,
It's like the wayward wind that either brings
Sorrow or joy still blowing purposeless.

TIME

Time has no flight—'t is we who speed along;
 The days and nights are but the same as when
The earth awoke with the first rush of song,
 And felt the swiftly passing feet of men.