Subjects can find no fortress but their graves,
ON THE
When servants sway, and sovereigns are slaves.' LOSS OF A GARRISON MEDITATION.
'Cause I'll not sign, nor give consent unto
Those lawless actions that you've done and do, Another city lost! Alas, poor king!
Nor yet betray my subjects, and so be Still future griefs from former griefs do spring. As treacherous to them, as you to me; The world's a seat of change : kingdoms and kings, Is this the way to mould me to your wills, Though glorious, are but sublunary things. To expiate former crimes by greater ills? Crosses and blessings kiss ; there's none that be Mistaken fools ! to think my soul can be So happy, but they meet with misery.
Grasp'd or infring'd by such low things as ye! He that ere wbile sat center'd to his throne, Alas! though I'm immur'd, my mind is free, And all did homage unto him alone;
I'll make your very jail my liberty. Who did the sceptre of his power display
Plot, do your worst, I safely shall deride, From pole to pole, while all this rule obey, In my crown'd soul, your base inferior pride, From stair to stair now tumbles, tumbles down, And stand unmov'd; tho’all your plagues you bring, And scarce one pillar doth support bis crown. I'll die a martyr, or I'll live a king. Town after town, field after field, This turns, and that perfidiously doth yield : He's banded on the traitorous thought of those That, Janus like, look to him and his foes.
ON THE DEATH OF KING CHARLES. In vain are bulwarks, and the strongest hold, If the besiegers' bullets are of gold.
How! deąd! nay, murder'd! not a comet seen! My soul, be not dejected: would'st thou be Nor one strange prodigy to intervene ! From present trouble or from danger free? I'm satisfi’d: Heav'n had no sight so rare, Trust not in rampires, nor the strength of walls, Nor so prodigious, as his murderers are, The town that stands to day, to morrow falls. Who at this in itant had not drawn the air, Trust not in soldiers, though they seem so stout; Had they not been preserv'd b’his funeral pray'r. Where sin's within, vain is defence without.
And yet who looks aright, may plainly spy Trust not in wealth, for in this lawless time, The kingdom's to itself a prodigy; Where prey is penalty, there wealth is crime. The scattered stars have join'd themselves in one, Trust not in strength or courage: we all see And have thrown Phoebus headlong from his throne. The weak'st of times do gain the victory.
They'd be the Sun themselves, and shine, and so Trust not in honour: honour's but a blast,
By their joint blaze infame the world below, Quickly begun, and but a while doth last.
Which b'imitation does t'a chaos fall, They that to day to thee " Hosanna” cry,
And shake itself t an earthquake general. To morrow change their note for “ Crucify." And 'tis the height of miracle that we Trust not in friends, for friends will soon deceive Live in these wonders, yet no wonders see. thee;
Thus those that do enjoy a constant day, They are in nothing sure, but sure to leave thee. Do scarce take notice of that wondrous ray. Trust not in wit: who run from place to place, Nature groan'd out her last, when he did fall Changing religion, as Chance does her face, Whose influence gave quicking to us all. In spite of cunning, and their strength of brain, His soul was anthem'd out in prayers, and those They're often catch, and all their plots are vain. Angelic hallelujahs sung in prose : Trust not in counsel : potentates, or kings,
David the second ! we no difference knew All are but frail and transitory things.
Between th’old David's spirit and the new. Since neither soldiers, castles, wealth, or wit, In him grave wisdom so with grace combines, Can keep off harm from thee, or thee from it; As Solomon were still in David's loins : Since neither strength nor honour, friends nor lords, And had we lived in king David's tiine, Nor princes, peace or happiness affords,
H' had equall'd him in all things but his crime. Trust thou in God, ply bin with prayers still, Now since you're gone, great prince, this care, Be sure of help; for he both can, and will.
we'll have, Your books shall never find a death or grave: By whose diviner fiame the world must be
Purged from its dross, and chang'd to purity, UPON THE KING'S IMPRISONMENT.
Which neither time nor treason can destroy,
Nor ign'rant errour, that's more fell than they. IMPRISON me, you traitors! must I be
A piece like some rare picture, at remove, Your fetter'd slave, while you're at liberty Shows one side eagle, and the other dore. Tusurp my sceptre, and to make my power Sometimes the reason in it soars so high, Gnaw its own bowels,' and itself devour?
It shows affliction quells not majesty; You glorious villains ! treasons that have been
Yet still, crown, dignity, and self deny'd, Done in all ages, are done o'er again!
It helps to bear up courage, though not pride: Expert proficients, that have far out-done
Trodden, humility in robes of state, Your tutor's presidents, and have out-run Meekly despising all the frowns of Fate. (fior The practice of all times, whose acts will be
Your grandsire king, that show'd what good did Thought legendary by posterity.
From the tall cedar to the shrub below,
Was't not enough you made me bear the wrong By violent faine to ashes though calcin'd,
Of a rebellious sword, and vip'rous tongue, His soul int you we transmigrated find;
To lose my state, my children, crown, and wife, Whose leaves shall like the Sybils' be ador'd,
But must you take my liberty and life?
When time shall open each prophetic word:
And shall like scripture be the rule of good
To those that shall survive the flaming flood:
Whose syllables are libraries, and can
Make a small volume turn a Vatican.
So th' hunted bezar, when he's sure to die,
Bequeathes his cordials to his enemy.
Rest, royal dust! and thank the storms that Against its will, you to your haven above. [drove, They have but freed you from those waves that curl'd
Their bloody pow'r to drown this boisterous world. They've but chang'd throne for throne, and crown for crown;
You took a glorious, laid a thorny down.
You sit among your peers with saints and kings,
View how we shoot for sublunary things,
And labour for our ruin: you did fall,
Just like our Saviour, for the sins of all,
And for your own; for in this impious time
Virtue's a vice, and piety's a crime.
The sum of all whose faults being understood,
Is this, we were too bad, and you too good.
ON THE KING'S DEATH.
WHAT means this sadness? why does every eye
Wallow in tears? what makes the low'ring sky
Look clouded thus with sighs? Is it because
The great defender of the faith and laws
Is sacrificed to the barbarous rage
Of those prodigious monsters of our age?
A prey to the insatiate will of those
That are the king's and kingdom's cursed foes!
'Tis true, there's cause enough each eye should be
A torrent, and each man a Niobe.
To see a wise, just, valiant, temperate man,
Should leave the world, who either will or can
Abstain from grief? To see a father die,
And his half-self, and orphans weeping by:
To see a master die, and leave a state
Unsettled, and usurpers gape to ha't:
To see a king dissolve to's mother dust,
And leave his headless kingdom to the lust
And the ambitious wills of such a route,
Which work its end, to bring their own about:
'Tis cause of sorrow; but to see these slain,
Nay, murder'd too, makes us grieve o'er again.
But to be kill'd by servants, or by friends,
This will raise such a grief as never ends.
And yet we find he, that was all these things,
And more, the best of Christians and of kings,
Suffer'd all this and more, whose sufferings stood
So much more great than these, as he more good.
Yet 'tis a vain thing to lament our loss;
Continued mourning adds but cross to cross.
What's pass'd can't be recall'd. our sadness may
Drive us to him, but can't bring him away;
Nor can a kingdom's cries restate the crown
Upon his head, which their sins tumbled down.
Rest then, my soul, and be contented in
Thy share of sufferings, as well as sin.
I see no cause of wonder in all this,
But still expect such fruits of wickedness.
Kings are but earth refin'd; and he that wears
A crown, but loads himself with griefs and fears.
The world itself to its first nothing tends;
And things that had beginnings, must have ends.
Those glorious lamps of Heav'n, that give us light,
Must at the last dissolve to darkness quite.
If the celestial architectures go
To dissolution, so must earthy too.
If ruin seize on the vast frame of Nature,
The little world must imitate the greater.
I'll put no trust in wealth, for I do see
Fate can take me from it, or it from me.
Trust not in honour, 'tis but people's cry, [high,
Who'll soon throw down whate'er they mounted
Nor trust in friends: he that's now hedg'd about,
In time of need can hardly find one out.
Nor all in strength or power; for sin will be
The desolation of my strength and me.
Nor yet in crowns and kingdoms: who has all,
Is expos'd to a heavy though a royal fall.
Nor yet in wisdom, policy, or wit:
It cannot keep me harmless, or Iit.
He that had all man could attain unto,'
He that did all that wit or power could do,
Or grace or virtue prompt, could not avoid
That sad and heavy load our sins have laid
Upon his innocent and sacred head, but must
Submit his person to bold rebels' lust,
And their insatiate rage, who did condemn
And kill him, while he pray'd and dy'd for them.
Our only trust is in the King of kings,
To wait with patience the event of things:
He that permits the father's tumbling down,
Can raise, and will, the son up to the crown.
He that permits those traitors' impious hands
To murther his anointed, and his lands
To be usurp'd, can, when he sees it fit,
Destroy those monsters which he did permit ;
And by their headlong and unpitied fall,
Make the realm's nuptial of their funeral.
Meantime that sainted martyr, from his throne,
Sees how these laugh, and his good subjects groan;
And hugs his blessed change, whereby he is
Rob'd into a crown, and murder'd into a bliss.
A FUNERAL ELEGY ON MR. AUBREY.
GONE are those halcion days, when men did dare
Do good for love, undrawn by gain or fear!
Gone are our heroes, whose vast souls did hate
Vice, though't were cloth'd in sanctity or state!
Gone is our Aubrey, who did then take's time
To die, when worthy men thought life a crime!
One whose pure soul with nobleness was fill'd,
And scorn'd to live, when Peace and Truth were
kill'd.
One, who was worthy by descent and birth,
Yet would not live a burthen on the Earth,
Nor draw his honour from his grandsire's name,
Unless his progeny might do the same.
No gilded Mammon, yet had enough to spend,
To feed the poor, and entertain his friend.
No gaping miser, whose desire was more
T' enrich himself, by making's neighbour poor,
Than to lay out himself, his wealth and health,
To buy his country's good and commonwealth.
Religion was his great delight and joy,
Not, as 'tis now, to plunder and destroy:
His lean' on those two pillars, faith and reason,
Not false hypocrisy, nor headlong treason.
His piety was with him bred and grown;
He'd build ten churches, ere he'd pull down one.
Constant to's principles; and though the times› ›
Mlade his worth sin, and his pure virtues crimes,
He stood unmov'd spite of all troubles hurl'd,
And durst support but not turn with the world.
Call'd to the magistracy, he appear'd
One that desir'd more to be lov'd than fear'd;
Justice and mercy on him mingled so,
That this flew not too high, not that too low :
His mind could not be carved worse or better,
By mean men's flattery, nor by great men's letter:
Nor sway'd by bribes, though proffer'd in the dark,
He scorn'd to be half justice and half clerk;
But all his distributions ev'nly ran,
Both to the peasant and the gentleman.
He did what Nature had design'd him to
In his due time, while he had strength to do.
And when decay and age did once draw nigh,
He'd nothing left to do but only die.
And when he felt his strength and youth decline,
His body's loss strengthen'd his soul's design:
And as the one did by degrees decay,
T'other ran swifter up the milky way.
Freed from those sicknesses that are the pages
Attending Nature's sad decay and ages,
His spotless soul d d from his body fly,
And hover in the heav'nly galaxy,
Whence he looks down, and lets the living see, What he was once, and what we ought to be.
PON THE DEATH OF THAT REVEREND AND LEARNED
TUSH, tush! he is not dead; I lately spy'd
One smile at's first-born son's birth; and a bride
Into her heart did entertain delight
At the approach of her wish'd wedding night.
All which delights (if he were dead) would turn
To grief; yea mirth itself be forc'd to mourn.
Inspired poets would forget to laugh,
And write at once his and mirth's epitaph.
Sighs would engross our breath, there would appear
Anthems of joy, limbeck'd into a tear:
Fach face would be his death-bed; in each eye
"Twere easy then to read his elegy;
Each soul would be close mourner, each tongue tell
Stories prick'd out to th' tune o'th' passing bell;
The world redrown'd in tears, each heart would be
A marble stone, each stone a Niobe.
But he, alas, is gone, nor do we know, To pay for loss of him, deserving woe; Like bankrupts in our grief, because we may Not half we owe him give, we'll nothing pay. For should our tears like the ocean issue forth, They could not swell adequate to his worth: So far his worth's above our knowledge that We only know we've lost, we know not what. The mourning Heaven, beholding such a dearth Of tears, show'rs rain to liquify the Earth, That we may see from its adulterate womb, If it be possible, a second come. Till then 'tis our unhappiness, we can't Know what good dwelt in him, but by the want. He was no whirligig lect'rer of the times, That from a heel block to a pulpit climbs, And there such stuff among their audience break, They seem to have mouth, and words, yet cannot Nor such as into pasquil pulpits come [speak. With thundering nonsense, but to beat the drum To civil wars, whose texts and doctrines run As if they were o'th' separation;
And by their spiritual law have marri'd been
Without a ring, because they were no kin.
Knowledge and zeal in him so sweetly meet,
His pulpit seem'd a second Olivet,
Where from his lips he would deliver things
As though some seraphim bad clapp'd his wings
His painful sermons were so neatly dress'd,
As if an anthem were in prose express'd;
Divinity and art were so united,
As if in him both were hermaphrodited.
O what an excellent surgeon has he been
To set a conscience (out of joint by sin)!
He at one blow could wound and heal; we all
Wond'red to see a purge a cordial.
His manna-breathing sermons often have
Given all our good thoughts life, our bad a grave,
Satan and sin were never more put to't [Shute.
Than when they met with their still-conquering
His life was the use of's doctrine; so 'twas known
That Shute and saint, were convertible grown:
He did live sermons; the profane were vext
To see his actions comments on his text.
So imitable his virtues did appear,
As if each place to him a pulpit were.
He was himself a synod, our's had been
Void (had be liv'd) or but an idle din :
His presence so divine, that Heaven might be
(If it were possible) more heavenly.
And now we well perceive with what intent
Death made his soul become non-resident.
'Twas to make him (such honours to him given)
Regius professor to the King of Heaven;
By whom he's prelated above the skies,
And the whole world's his seat t' episcopise ;
So that (methinks) one star more doth appear
In our horizon since his being there.
Death's grown tyrannical by imitation:
'Cause he was learned, by a sequestration
He took his living; but for's benefice
He is rewarded with eternal bliss.
Let's all prepare to follow him, for he's
But gone to Glory's school, to take degrees
TO THE MEMORY OF DOCTOR HEARN,
WHO DIED SEPTEMBER 15, 1644.
SAD spectacle of grief! how frail is man!
Whose self's a bubble, and his life a span!
Whose breath's like a careering shade, whose sus
Begins to set, when it begins to run.
Lo this man's sun sets i'th'meridian,
And this man's sun, speaks him the sun of man
Among the rest that come to sacrifice
To's memory the torrents of their eyes,
I, though a stranger, and though none of those
That weep in rhyme, though I oft mourn in prose,
Sigh out some grief, and my big-belli'd eyes
Long for delivery at his obsequies.
For he that writes but truth of him, will be,
Though without art, slander'd with poesy.
And they that praise him right in prose or verse,
Will by the most be thought idolaters.
Men are s' incredulous; and yet there's none
Can write his worth in verse, but in his own.
He needs no other monument of fame,
But his own actions, to blaze out his name.
He was a glory to the doctor's gown,
Help to his friends, his country, and his town,
The Atlas of our health, who oft did groan
For others' sickness, e'er he felt his own.
Hippocrates and Galen in his brain
Met as in Gemini; it did contain
A library of skill, a panoply,
A magazine of ingenuity.
With every art his brain so well was mated,
As if his fancy had been calculated
For that meridian; he none would follow
But was in skill the Britanish Apollo.
His parents grow impatient, and the fear
Of death, limbeck'd their bodies into tears.
The widow'd Muses do latent his death;
Those that wrote mirth, do now retract their breath,
And breathe their souls in sighs; each strives to be
No more Thalia, but Melpomene.
He stood a champion in defence of health,
And was a terrour to death's commonwealth.
His Esculapius' art revok'd their breath,
And often gave a non-suit unto death.
Now we've a rout, death kill'd our general,
Our griefs break forth, grow epidemical.
Now we must lay down arms, and captives turn
To death; man has no rampire but an urn.
In him death gets an university;
Happy the bodies that so near him lie,
To hear his worth and wit, 'tis now no fear
To die, because we meet a Hearne there.
Earthquakes and comets usher great men's fall,
At this we have an earthquake general;
Th' ambitious vallies do begin t' aspire,
And would confront the mountains, nay be higher;
Inferior orbs aspire, and do disdain
Our Sol; each bear would ride in Charles his wain.
Our Moon's eclips'd, and th' occidental Sun
Fights with old Aries for his horizon.
Each petty slave gets horses, and would be
All Sols, and join to make a prodigy.
All things are out of course, which could not be,
But that we should some special death foresee.
Yet let's not think him dead who ne'er shall die,
Till time be gulf'd in vast eternity.
'Tis but his shadow that is past away;
While he's eclips'd in Earth, another day
His better part shall pierce the skies, and shine
In glory 'bove the Heavens chrystalline.
He is but freed from troubles that are hurl'd
Upon this small enchiridion of the world.
We could not understand him, he's gone higher
To read a lecture to an angel's choir.
He is advanc'd up a higher story,
To take's degrees i'th' upper form of glory.
He is our prodrome, gone before us whither
We all must go, though all go not together:
Dust will dissolve to dust, to earth; earth we're
all men;
[when. And must all die, none knows how, where, nor
ON THE DEATH OF HIS SCHOOLMASTER, MR. W. H.
MUST he die thus? has an eternal sleep
Seiz'd on each Muse that it can't sing nor weep?
Had he no friends? no merits? or no purse
To purchase mourning? or had he that curse
Which has the scraping worldling still frequented,
To live unlov'd, and perish unlamented?
No, none of these; but in this Atlas' fall
Learning for present found its funeral.
Nor was't for want of grief, but scope and vent;
Not sullenness, but deep astonishment;
Small griefs are soon wept out; but great ones
With bulk, and strike the straight lamenters dumb,
This was the schoolmaster that did derive,
From parts and piety's prerogative,
The glory of that good, but painful art;
Who had high learning yet an humble heart..
The Drake of grammar learning, whose great pain
Circled that globe, and made that voyage plain.
Time was, when th' artless pedagogue did stand
With his vimineous sceptre in his hand,
Raging like Bajazet o'er the tugging fry,
Who though unhors'd were not of th' infantry;
Applying, like a glister, hic hæc hoc,
Till the poor lad's beat to a whipping block;
And school'd so long to know a verb and noún,
Till each had Propria maribus of his own:
As if not fit to learn As in præsenti,
But legally, when they were one and twenty.
Those few that went to th' universities then,
Went with deliberation, and were men.
Nor were our academies in those days
Fill'd with chuck-farthing batchelors and boys;
But scholars with more beard and age went hence.
Than our new lapwing-lectures skip from thence.
By his industrious labour now we see
Boys coated, borne to th' university,
Who suck'd in Latin, and did scorn to seek
Their scourge and top in English, but in Greek.
Hebrew the general puzzler of old heads, [reads,
Which the gray dunce with pricks and comments
And dubs himself a scholar by it, grew
As natural t' him as if he'd been a Jew,
But above all he timely did inspire
His scholars' breasts with an etherial fire.
And sanctifi'd their early learning so,
That they in grace, as they in wit did grow:
Yet nor his grace nor learning could defend him
From that mortality that did attend him;
Nor can there now be any difference known,
Between his learned bones and those with none.
For that grand lev'ler death huddles to one plac
Rich, poor, wise, foolish, noble and the base.
This only is our confort and defence,
He was not immaturely ravish'd hence.
But to our benefit, and to his own,
Undying fame and honour let aloue
Till he had finish'd what he was to do,
Then naturally split himself in two,
And that's one cause he had so few moist eyes,
He made men learned, and that made them wise,
And over-rule their passions, since they see
Tears would but show their own infirmity.
And 'tis but loving madness to deplore
The fate of him, that shall be seen no more,
But only I cropp'd in my tender years,
Without a tongue, or wit, but sighs and tears;
And yet I come to offer what is mine,
An immolation to his honour'd shrine;
And retribute what he conferr'd on me,
Either to's person or his memory.
Rest pious soul, and let that happy grave
That is entrusted with thy relics, have
This just inscription, that it holds the dust
Of one that was wise, learned, pious, just,
Ir beauty, birth, or friends, or virtue could
Preserve from putrefaction flesh and blood,
This lady had still liv'd; who had all those,
And all that Nature, art, or grace bestows.
But death regards not bad nor good;
All that's mortal is his food.
Only here our comfort lies:
Though death does all sorts confound,
Her better part surmounts the skies,
While her body sleeps i'th' ground.
Her soul returns to God, from whom it came,
And her great virtues do embalm her name.
AN EPITAPH ON MRS. G. WHOEVER knows or hears whose sacred bones Rest here within these monumental stones, How dear a mother and how sweet a wife, If he has bowels, cannot for his life
But on her ashes inust some tears distil, For if men will not weep, this marble will,
UPON THE FIRST CHAPTER OF ECCLESIASTES..
THUS said the royal Preacher, who did spring
"From holy David, Israck's blessed king;
All things are vain, most vain, nay vanity,
Yea vanity of vanities they be.
See how the industrious mortals toil and care!
Look how they travel, how turmoil'd they are!
When their work's ended, and their race is run,
What profit gain they underneath the Sun?
This generation that appears to day,
To morrow vanisheth and fleets away:
In whose unstable mansion there comes
The next, to fill their predecessor's rooms:
And these but come and go; but this vast frame
Th' Earth still remains, though not the very same:
The glorious heavenly charioteer new drest,
Riseth in burnish'd glory in the east,
And circles this vast globe with constant race,
Till it returns to its first rising place.
Th' unconstant wind that now doth southward blow,
Anon to th' north, from whence it came, will go:
It whirleth still about, yet in its change
It still returns from whence it first did range.
The posting river, though about it wanders,
Curling itself in intricate meanders,
Yet with a greedy, and a head-strong motion,
It runs to its original the ocean,
Whose vast unsatiate womb it cannot fill;
For as it's taking, so 'tis giving still:
And by alternate gratitude supplies
The thirsty carth, and makes new streams arise,
Which by an ever active imitation,
Return from whence they had origination.
Thus in this toilsome fabric every thing
Is full of labour, and doth trouble bring
To the still craving mortal, whose false breast
Vainly supposes this a place of rest;
And while he toils his labours to possess,
Endures more troubles than he can express.
The restless eye is never satisfied
With viewing objects; nor doth th' ear abide
Content with hearing; but the senses all
Grow by fruition more hydropical;
And every fresh enjoyment straight expires,
And's buried in the flames of new desires;
The thing which hath been in the days of yore,
Shall be again, and what's now done no more
Than what hereafter shall again be done;
And there's no new thing underneath the Sun:
There's no invention; that which we style wit,
Is' but remembrance; and the fruits of it,
Are but old things reviv'd. In this round world,
All things are by a revolution hurl'd.
And though to us they variously appear,
There are no things but what already were.
What thing is there within this world that we
Can justly say is new, and cry 'come see?'
We can't remember things that have been done
I'th' nonage of the world, when time begun :
And there will come a time when those that shall
Succeed us, shan't remember us at all;
When things that have been or that shall be done,
Shall be entomb'd in vast oblivion.
I, that your preacher am, was he that sway'd
A royal sceptre, and have been obey'd
By th' Israelites, and in Jerusalem
Did wear great Judah's princely diadem,
And us'd my wealth, my power, and strength of
To seek and search for wisdom, and to find
Thereby the causes and effects of all
Things done upon this subsolary ball,
The works of our great Architect survey'd,
The firm foundation which his hand had laid;
The various superstructures small and great,
Men's labours how they strive to counterfeit,
And in their several postures how they strive
To feed, and fence, and keep themselves alive.
How do they love and hate, are foes and friends,
Upon mistaken grounds, and false self-ends;
How they do do, and undo, how they pant
And tug to kill imaginary want;
What they both do and suffer, how and wby,
Their self-created troubles I did spy:
And in my tow'ring over-search I see
Both what men are, and what they ought to be.
A sore and tedious travel to the mind,
Which our great God in wisdom has design'd
For us poor sons of mortals, and thought fit
That we therein should exercise our wit.
All that hath been, and all that hath been done,
All creatures' actions underneath the Sun,
My searching soul bath seen by contemplation,
And lo all's vanity, and the soul's vexation.
All men, all things are crooked and perverse,
Full of defects are it, and they, and theirs,
All so imperfect that they're not at all;
And (which we may the great'st vexation call)
This crookedness cannot be rectifi'd,
Nor those defects (though numberless) supply'd.
When I'd arrive the very top of all,
That the mistaken Mammonists miscall,
And think their chiefest blessings, wealth and wit,
With all th' additaments that cleave to it:
Then did I to my heart communicate
And said, "lo, I've attain'd a vast estate,
And do in wisdom far transcend all them
That reigned before in Jerusalem;
And to complete the wisdom of my mind,
To my large knowlege have experience join'd:"
I did apply my active mind to know
Wisdom and folly, nay and madness too:
And from th' experience of all, I find
All this is but vexation of the mind:
For in much wisdom lies much grief; and those
That increase knowlege, do increase their woes."
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