IX. I JOHN ii. 17. The world paffeth away, and all the lufts thereof. D I. [light RAW near, brave sparks, whose spirits scorn to You, whofe heroic actions take delight To varnish over a new painted name; Whofe high-bred thoughts difdain to take their flight But on th' Icarian wings of babbling fame; Behold, how tott'ring are your high-built ftories Of earth, whereon you truft, the ground-work of your [glories. 2. And you, more brain-fick lovers, that can prize. Think ye the pageants of your hopes are able To ftand fecure on earth, when earth itfelf's unftable? 3. いば Come, dunghill worldlings, you that root like swine, And caft up golden trenches where ye come: Whofe only pleasure is to undermine, And view the fecrets of your mother's womb Come, bring your faint pouch'd in his leathern fhrine, Ähd fummon all your griping angels home; Behold your world, the bank of all your store, The world ye fo admire, the world ye so adore. 1.3.3 A feeble A feeble world, whofe hot-mouth'd pleasures tire Where ev'ry chance proclaims a change of ftate:: A feeble, faithlefs, fickle world, wherein Each motion proves a vice; and ev'ry act a fin. '5. The beauty, that of late was in her flow'r, He that was lately drench'd in Danae's fhow'r, O who would truft this world, or prize what's in it, That gives and takes, and chops and changes ev'ry 6. minute! Nor length of days, nor folid ftrength of brain, There's nothing certain here, there's nothing fure: The world's atorment; he that would endeavour To find the way to reft, must seek the way to leave [her. S. GREG. S. GREG. in Hom. Behold, the world is withered in itself, yet flourisheth in our hearts; every-where death, every-where grief, every-where defolation: on every fide, we are fmitten; on every fide, filled with bitterness; and yet, with the blind mind of carnal defire, we love her bitterness: it flieth, and we follow it; it falleth, yet we fiick to it: and becaufe we cannot enjoy it falling, we fall with it, and enjoy it fallen. EPIG. 9. If Fortune fail, or envious Time but fpurn, VOL. I. 'D JOHN JOHN viii. 44• Ye are of your father the devil, and the lifts H father ye will do.. [black: Ere's your right ground wag, gently o'er this 'Tis a fhort caft; y'are quickly at the jack.. Rub, rub an inch or two; two crowns to one On this bowl's fide; blow, wind; 'tis fairly thrown: 'The next bowl's wor e that comes; come, bowl away: Mammon, you know the ground, untutor'd, play: Your laft was gone; a yard of ftrength, well fpare'd, Had touch'd the block; your hand is still too hard. Brave paftime, readers'; to cenfume that day, Which, without paftime, flies too swift away! See how they labour; as if day and night Were both too fhort to ferve their loose delight: See how their curved bodies wreath, and fcrew Such antic fhapes as Proteus never knew : One raps an oath, another deals a curfe; He never better bowl'd; this, never worse : One rubs his itchlefs elbow, fhrugs and laughs: The other bends his beetle brows, and chafes : Sometimes they whoop, fometimes their Stygian cries Send their black Santo's to the blushing skies: Thus mingling humours in a mad confufion, They make bad premifes, and worfe conclufion : But where's a palm that Fortune's hand allows To blefs the victor's honourable brows? Come, reader, come; I'll light thine eye the way To view the prize, the while the gamefters play: Clofe 3 |