The mind of the frontispiece.  
This Bubble's Man: Hope, fear, False joy and Trouble,  
Are those four Winds which daily toss this Bubble.   

Hieroglyphica haec de vitâ hominis perlegi, & digna censeo quae typis mandentur.  
jan. 9 1637. Tho: Wykes R. P. Episc. Lond. Capell. domest.   


Hieroglyphikes of the life of Man.   
LONDON, Printed by M. Flesher, for john Marriot. 1638.   

TO THE RIGHT honourable both in blood and virtue; and most accomplished Lady, MARY, Countess OF DORSET; LADY GOVERNESS to the most Illustrious, CHARLES, Prince of great BRITAIN, and James, Duke of York.  
Excellent Lady,  
I Present these Tapours to burn under the safe Protection of your honourable Name: where, I presume, they stand secure from the Damps of Ignorance, and blasts of Censure: It is a small part of that abundant service, which my thankful heart owes your incomparable Goodness. Be pleased to honour it with your noble Acceptance, which shall be nothing but what your own esteem shall make it  
Madam Your La pps. most humble servant FRA: QUARLES.   

To The Reader.  
IF you are satisfied with my Emblems, I here set before you a second service. It is an Egyptian dish, dressed on the English fashion: They, at their Feasts, used to present a Deaths-head at their second course; This will serve for both: You need not fear a surfeit: Here is but little; And that, light of digestion: If it but please your Palate, I question not your stomach: Fall too; and much good may't do you.  Covivio addit Minerval. E. B. Rem, Regem, Regimen, Regionem, Relligionem, Exornat, celebrat, laudat, honorat, amat. BENEVOLUS.  


Sine Lumine inane.  Behold I was shapen in Iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me. PSAL. 51. 5.  
MAn is man's ABC: There is none that can  
Read God aright, unless he first spell Man:  
Man is the stairs, whereby his knowledge climbs  
To his Creator; though it oftentimes  
Stumbles for want of light, and sometimes trips  
For want of careful heed; and sometimes slips  
Through unadvised haste; and when at length  
His weary steps have reached the top, his strength  
Oft fails to stand; his giddy brains turn round,  
And Phaethon like, falls headlong to the ground:  
These stairs are often dark, and full of danger  
To him whom want of practice makes a stranger  
To this blind way: The Lamp of nature lends  
But a false Light; and lights to her own ends:  
These be the ways to heaven; These paths require  
A Light that springs from that diviner fire  
Whose humane soule-enlightning sunbeams dart  
Through the bright Crannies of th'immortal part.  
And here, thou great original of Light,  
Whose error-chaceing beams do unbenight  
The very soul of Darkness, and untwist  
The Clouds of Ignorance; do thou assist  
My feeble Quill; Reflect thy sacred rays  
Upon these lines, that they may light the ways  
That lead to thee; So guide my heart, my hand,  
That I may do, what others understand:  
Let my heart practice what my hand shall write;  
Till then, I am a taper wanting light.  
This golden Precept, Know thyself, came down  
From heaven's high Court; It was an Art unknown  
To flesh and blood. The men of Nature took  
Great journeys in it; Their dim eyes did look  
But through a Mist; Like Pilgrims they did spend  
Their idle steps, but knew no journeys end:  
The way to Know thyself, is first to cast  
Thy frail beginning, progress, and thy Last:  
This is the sum of Man: But now return  
And view this taper standing in this urn:  
Behold her Substance, sordid, and impure,  
useless and vain, and (wanting light) obscure:  
'tis but a Span at longest, nor can last  
Beyond that Span; ordained, and made to waste:  
Even such was Man (before his soul gave light  
To his vile substance) a mere Child of night;  
Ere he had life, estated in his urn,  
And marked for death; by nature, borne to burn:  
Thus liveless, lightless, worthless first began  
That glorious, that presumptuous thing, called Man.  

St. AUGUST.  
Consider o man what thou wert before thy Birth, and what thou wert from thy birth to thy death, and what thou shall be after death: Thou wert made of an impure substance, clothed and nourished in thy mother's blood.   

EPIG. 1.  
Forbear fond taper: What thou seekest, is Fire:  
Thy own distruction's lodge in thy desire:  
Thy wants are fare more safe than their supply:  
He that gins to live, gins to die.    


Nescius unde.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  And God said, Let there be light; and there was light. GEN. 1. 3.  

THis flame-expecting taper hath, at length,  
Received fire; and, now, gins to burn:  
It hath no vigour yet, it hath no strength;  
Apt to be puffed and quenched at every turn:  
It was a gracious hand that thus endowed  
This snuff with flame: But mark, this hand doth shroud  
Itself from mortal eyes, and folds it in a Cloud.   

2.  
Thus man gins to live; An unknown flame  
Quickens his finished Organs; now, possessed  
With motion; and which motion doth proclaim  
An active soul, though in a feeble breast:  
But how, and when infused, ask not my Pen;  
Here flies a Cloud before the eyes of men:  
I can not tell thee, how; nor canst thou tell me, when.   

3.  
Was it a parcel of celestial fire,  
Infused, by heaven, into this fleshly mould?  
Or was it (think you) made a soul entire?  
Then; was it new created? Or of old?  
Or is't a propagated Spark, raked out  
From nature's embers? While we go about.  
reason, to resolve, the more we raise a doubt.   

4.  
a it be part of that celestial Flame,  
It must be even as pure, as free from spot  
As that eternal fountain whence it came:  
a pure, and spotless; then, whence came the blot?  
Itself, being pure, could not itself defile;  
Nor hath unactive Matter power to soil  
Her pure and active form, as jars corrupt their oil.   

5.  
Or, if it were created, tell me, when?  
If in the first six days, where kept till now?  
Or, if the soul were new created, than  
Heaven did not all, at first, he had to do:  
Six days expired, all Creation ceased,  
All kinds, even from the greatest to the least  
Were finished, and complete, before the day of Rest.   

6.  
But why should Man, the Lord of Creatures, want  
That privilege which Plants and Beasts obtain?  
Beasts bring forth Beasts, the Plant a perfect Plant;  
And every like brings forth her like again:  
Shall fowls, and fishes, beasts and plants convey  
Life to their issue? And Man less than they?  
Shall these get living souls? And Man, dead lumps of clay   

7.  
Must humane souls be generated then?  
My water ebbs; behold, a Rock is nigh:  
If nature's work produce the souls of men,  
Man's soul is mortal: All that's borne must die.  
What shall we then conclude? What sunshine will  
Disperse this gloomy cloud? Till then, be still,  
My vainly striving thoughts; Lie down, my puzzled quill.   

ISODOR.  
Why dost thou wonder, o man, at the height of the stars? or the depth of the Sea? Enter into thine own soule, and wonder there.  
The soul by creating is infused; by infusion, created.   

EPIG. 2.  
What art thou now the better by this flame?  
Thou know'st not how, nor when, nor whence it came:  
poor kind of happiness, that can return  
No more account but this, to say, I burn!    


Quo me cunque rapit.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  The wind passeth over it and it is gone. PSAL. 103. 16.  

NO sooner is this lighted taper set  
Upon the transitory Stage  
Of eye-bedarkning night,  
But it is strait subjected to the threat  
Of envious winds, whose wasteful rage  
Disturbs her peaceful light,  
And makes her substance waste, and makes her flame less bright.   

2.  
No sooner are we borne, no sooner come  
To take possession of this vast,  
This soule-afflicting earth;  
But Danger meets us at the very womb,  
And Sorrow with her full mouthed blast,  
Salutes our painful birth,  
To put out all our joys, and puff out all our mirth.   

3.  
Nor Infant Innocence, nor childish tears,  
Nor youthful wit, nor manly power,  
Nor politic old age,  
Nor virgins pleading, nor the widow's prayers,  
Nor lowly Cell, nor lofty Tower,  
Nor Prince, nor peer, nor Page  
Can scape this common blast, or curb her stormy rage.   

4.  
Our life is but a pilgrimage of blasts;  
And every blast brings forth a fear;  
And every fear, a death;  
The more it lengthens, ah, the more it wastes:  
Were, were we to continue here  
The days of long lifed Seth,  
Our sorrows would renew, as we renew our breath:   

5.  
Tossed too and fro, our frighted thoughts are driven  
With every puff, with every Tide  
Of self-consuming Care;  
Our peaceful flame, that would point up to heaven,  
Is still disturbed, and turned aside;  
And every blast of air  
Commits such waist in man, as man can not repair.   

6.  
weare all borne debtors, and we firmly stand  
Obliged for our first parent's Det,  
Besides our Interest;  
Alas we have no harmless Counterband,  
And we are, every hou'r, beset  
With threatenings of Arrest,  
And till we pay the Det, we can expect no Rest.   

7.  
What may this sorrow-shaken life present  
To the false relish of our taste,  
That's worth the name of sweet?  
Her minutes pleasures choked with discontent,  
Her glory foiled with every blast;  
How many dangers meet  
Poor man, betwixt the Biggin and the Winding sheet!   

St. AUGUST.  
In this world, not to be grieved, not to be afflicted, not to be in danger, is impossible.   

Ibid.  
Behold; the world is full of troubles; yet, beloved; What if it were a pleasing world? How wouldst thou delight in her calms, that canst so well endure her storms?   

EPIG. 3.  
Art thou consumed with soule-afflicting crosses?  
Disturbed with grief? Annoyed with worldly losses  
Hold up thy head; The taper lifted high  
Will brook the wind, when lower Tapors dye.    


Curando Labascit.  The whole need not the physician. MAT. 9 12.  

Always pruning? Always cropping?  
Is her brightness still obscured?  
Ever dressing? ever topping?  
Always cureing? never cured?  
Too much snuffing makes a waste;  
When the spirits spend too fast,  
They will shrink at every blast.   

2.  
You that always are bestowing  
Costly pains in life's repairing,  
Are but always overthrowing  
Nature's work, by overcaring:  
Nature meeting with her Foe,  
In a work she hath to do,  
Takes a pride to overthrow.   

3  
Nature knows her own perfection,  
And her pride disdains a Tutor,  
Cannot stoop to Arts correction,  
And she scorns a Coadjutor;  
Saucy Art should not appear  
Till she whisper in her ear:  
Hagar flees, if Sara bear.   

4  
Nature worketh for the better,  
If not hindered, that she cannot;  
Art stands by as her A bettor,  
Ending nothing she began not;  
If distemper chance to seize,  
(Nature foiled with the disease)  
Art may help her if she please.   

5.  
But to make a Trade of trying  
Drugs, and Dosies, always pruning.  
Is to dye, for fear of dying;  
he's untuned, that's always tuneing.  
He that often loves to lack  
Dear bought Drugs, has found a Knack  
To foil the man, and feed the Quack.   

6.  
O the sad, the frail Condition  
Of the pride of nature's glory!  
How infirm his Composition!  
And, at best, how Transitory!  
When his riot doth impair  
Nature's weakness, than his care  
Adds more ruin, by repair.   

7.  
Hold thy hand, healths dear maintainer,  
Life perchance may burn the stronger:  
Having substance to sustain her,  
She, untouched, may last the longer:  
When the Artist goes about  
To redress her flame, I doubt,  
Oftentimes he snuffs it out.   

NICOCLES  
Physicians of all men are most happy; what good success soever they have, the world proclaims, and what faults they commit, the earth covers.   

EPIG. 4.  
My purse being heavy, if my Light appear  
But dim, Quack comes to make all clear;  
Quack, leave thy trade; Thy deal are not right,  
Thou tak'st our weighty gold, to give us light.    


Te auxiliante resurgo.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  And he will give his Angels charge over thee. PSAL. 91.  

O How mine eyes could please themselves, and spend  
Perpetual Ages in this precious sight!  
How I could woe Eternity, to lend  
My wasting day an Antidote for night!  
And how my flesh could with my flesh contend,  
That views this object with no more delight!  
My work is great, my taper spends too fast:  
'Tis all I have, and soon would out, or waste,  
Did not this blessed screen protect it from this blast.   

2  
O, I have lost the jewel of my soul,  
And I must find it out or I must dye:  
Alas! my sin-made darkness doth control  
The bright endeavours of my careful eye:  
I must go search, and ransack every hole;  
Nor have I other light to seek it by:  
O if this light be spent my work not done,  
My labour's worse than lost; my jewel's gone,  
And I am quite forlorn, and I am quite undone.   

3.  
You blessed Angels, you that do enjoy  
The full fruition of eternal Glory,  
Will you be pleased to fancy such a Toy  
As man, and quit your glorious Territory,  
And stoop to earth, vouchsafing to employ  
Your cares to guard the dust that lies before ye?  
Disdain you not these lumps of dying Clay,  
That, for your pains, do oftentimes repay  
Neglect, if not disdain, and send you grieved away?   

This taper of our lives, that once was placed  
In the fair Suburbs of Eternity,  
Is now, alas, confined to every blast,  
And turned a maypole for the sporting Fly;  
And will you, sacred Spirits, please to cast  
Your care on us, and lend a gracious eye?  
How had this slender Inch of taper been  
Blasted, and blazed, had not this heavenly screen  
Curbed the proud blast, and timely stepped between!   

5.  
O Goodness, fare transcending the report  
Of lavish tongues! too vast to comprehend!  
Amazed Quill, how fare dost thou come short  
T'express expressions, that so fare transcend!  
You blessed Courtiers of th' eternal Court,  
Whose full-mouthed Hallelujahs have no end,  
Receive that world of praises that belongs  
To your great sovereign; fill your holy tongues  
With our Hosannas, mixed with your seraphic Songs.   

St. BERN.  
If thou desirest the help of Angels, flee the comforts of the world, and resist the Temptations of the devil.  
He will give his Angels charge over thee? O what reverence, what love, what confidence deserves so sweet a saying? For their presence, reverence; for their good will, love; for their tuition, confidence.   

EPIG. 5.  
My flame, art thou disturbed, diseased, and driven  
To Death with storms of grief? Point thou to heaven:  
One Angel, there, shall ease thee more, alone,  
Then thrice as many thousands of thy own.    


Tempus erit.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  To every thing there is an appointed time. ECCLES. 3. 1.  Time. Death. Time. 
BEhold the frailty of this slender snuff;  
Alas it hath not long to last:  
Without the help of either thief, or puff,  
Her weakness knows the way to waste:  
Nature hath made her Substance apt enough  
To spend itself, and spend too fast:  
It needs the help of none,  
That is so prone  
To lavish out, untouched; and languish all alone.  Death. 

2.  
Time, hold thy peace, and shake thy slow paced Sand;  
Thy idle minutes make no way:  
Thy glass exceeds her how'r, or else does stand,  
I can not hold; I can not stay;  
Surcease thy pleading, and enlarge my hand  
I surfeit with too long delay:  
This brisk, this boldfaced Light  
Does burn too bright;  
Darkness adorns my throne; my day is darkest night.   Time. 

3.  
Great Prince of darkness, hold thy needless hand;  
Thy Captiv's fast, and can not flee:  
What arm can rescue? Who can countermand,  
What power can set thy prisoner free?  
Or if they could, what close, what foreign land  
Can hide that head, that flees from Thee?  
But if her harmless light  
Offend thy sight,  
What needst thou snatch at noon, what will be thine at night?   Death. 

4.  
I have outstaid my patience; My quick Trade  
Grows dull and makes too slow return:  
This long-lived det is due, and should been paid  
When first her flame began to burn:  
But I have stayed too long, I have delayed  
To store my vast, my craving urn.  
My Patent gives me power,  
Each day, each how'r,  
To strike the peasant's thatch, and shake the Princely tower.   Time. 

5.  
Thou Countest too fast: Thy Patent gives no power  
Till Time shall please to say, Amen.   Death. 
Canst thou appoint my shaft?  Time. 
Or thou my How'r  Death. 
'tis I bid, do:  Time. 

'tis I bid, When.  
Alas, thou canst not make the poorest flower  
To hang the drooping head, till then:  
Thy shafts can neither Kill,  
Nor strike, until  
My power give them wings, and pleasure arm thy will.   

St. AUGUST.  
Thou knowest not what Time he will come: Wait always, that because thou knowest not the time of his coming, thou Mayest be prepared against the time he comes. And for this, perchance, thou know'st not the Time, because thou Mayest, be prepared against all times.   

EPIG. 6.  
Expect, but fear not Death: Death cannot Kill,  
Till Time. (that first must seal her Patent) will:  
Wouldst thou live long? Keep Time in high esteem;  
Whom, gone, if thou canst not recall, redeem.    


Nec sine, nec Tecum.  
Will Martial sculpsit  His light shall be dark, and his candle shall be put out. JOB 18. 6.  

What ails our taper? Is her lustre fled,  
Or foiled? What dire disaster bred  
This Change? that thus she veils her golden head?   

2.  
It was but very now, she shined as fair  
As Venus' star: Her glory might compare  
With Cynthia, burnished with her brother's hair.   

3.  
There was no Cave-begotten damp that might  
Abuse her beams; no wind, that went about  
To break her peace; no puff, to put her out.   

4.  
Lift up thy wondering thoughts, and thou shalt spy  
the Cause, will clear thy doubts, but cloud thine eye:  
Subjects must veil, when as their sovereign's by.   

5.  
Canst thou behold bright Phoebus, and thy sight  
No whit impaired? The object is too bright;  
The weaker yields unto the stronger Light.   

6.  
Great God, I am thy taper; Thou, my sun;  
From thee, the Spring of Light, my Light begun,  
Yet if thy Light but Shine, my light is done.   

7.  
If thou withdraw thy Light, my light will shine,  
a thine appear, how poor a light is mine!  
My light is darkness, if compared to thine.   

8  
Thy sunbeams are too strong for my weak eye;  
a thou but shine, how nothing, Lord, am I!  
Ah, who can see thy visage, and not die!   

9  
If intervening earth should make a night,  
My wanton flame would then shine forth too bright;  
My earth would even presume t'eclipse thy Light.   

10  
And if thy Light be shadowed, and mine fade,  
If thine be dark, and my dark light decayed,  
I should be clothed with a double shade.   

11.  
What shall I do? O what shall I desire?  
What help can my distracted thoughts require,  
That thus am wasting 'twixt a double Fire?   

12.  
In what a straight, in what a straight am I?  
Twixt two extremes how my racked fortunes lie?  
See I thy face, or see it not, I die.   

13.  
O let the steam of my Redeemers blood,  
That breathes fro' my sick soul, be made a Cloud,  
T'interpose these Lights, and be my shroud.   

14.  
Lord, what am I? or what's the light I have?  
May it but light my Ashes to their Grave,  
And so from thence, to Thee? 'tis all I crave.   

15.  
O make my Light, that all the world may see  
Thy Glory by't: If not, It seems to me  
Honour enough, to be put out by Thee.   

O Light inaccessible, in respect of which my light is utter darkness; so reflect upon my weakness, that at all the world may behold thy strength: O Majesty incomprehensible, in respect of which my glory is mere shame, so shine upon my misery that all the world may behold thy glory.   

EPIG. 7.  
Wilt thou complain, because thou art bereiv'n  
Of all thy light? Wilt thou vie Lights with heaven?  
Can thy bright eye not brook the daily light?  
Take heed: I fear, thou art a Child of night.    


Nec Virtus obscurapetit.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  Let your light so shine, that men seeing your good works may glorify your Father which is in Heaven. MAT. 5. 16.  

Was it for this, the breath of heaven was blown  
Into the nostrils of this heavenly Creature?  
Was it for this, that sacred Three in One  
Conspired to make this Quintessence of Nature?  
Did heavenly Providence intent  
So rare a fabric for so poor an end?   

2.  
Was Man, the highest masterpiece of Nature,  
The curious Abstract of the whole Creation,  
Whose soul was copied from his great Creator,  
Made to give Light, and set for Observation,  
Ordained for this? To spend his Light  
In a darke-Lanthorne? Cloistered up in night?   

3.  
Tell me, recluse monastic, can it be  
A disadvantage to thy beams to shine?  
A thousand Tapours may gain light from Thee:  
Is thy Lightless, or worse for lighting mine?  
If, wanting Light, I stumble, shall  
Thy darkness not be guilty of my fall?   

4.  
Why dost thou lurk so close? Is it for fear  
Some busy eye should pry into thy flame,  
And spy a thief, or else some blemish there?  
Or being spied, shrinkest thou thy head for shame?  
Come, come, fond taper shine but clear,  
Thou needst not shrink for shame, nor shroud for fear.   

5.  
Remember, O remember, thou wert set,  
For men to see the Great Creator by;  
Thy flame is not thy own: It is a Det  
Thou ow'st thy Maker; And wilt thou deny  
To pay the interest of thy Light?  
And skulk in Corners, and play least in sight?   

6.  
Art thou afraid to trust thy easy flame  
To the injurious waist of fortune's puff?  
Ah, Coward, rouse; and quit thyself, for shame;  
Who dies in service, hath lived long enough:  
Who shines, and makes no eye partaker,  
Usurps himself, and closely robs his Maker.   

7.  
Take not thyself a prisoner, that art free:  
Why dost thou turn thy Palace to a jail?  
Thou art an Eagle; And befits it thee  
To live immured, like a cloistered snail?  
Let toys seek Corners: Things of cost  
Gaine worth by view: Hid jewels are but lost.   

8.  
My God, my light is dark enough at lightest,  
Increase her flame, and give her strength to shine:  
'tis frail at best: 'tis dim enough at brightest,  
But 'tis her glory to be foiled by Thine.  
Let others lurk; My light shall be  
Proposed to all men; and by them, to Thee.   

St. BERN.  
If thou be one of the foolish Virgins, the Congregation is necessary for thee; If thou be one of the wise Virgins, thou art necessary for the Congregation.   

HUGO.  
monastics make cloisters to enclose the outward man, O would to God they would do the like to restrain the inward Man.   

EPIG. 8.  
Afraid of eyes? What still play least in sight?  
'tis much to be presumed all is not right:  
Too close endeavours, bring forth dark events:  
Come forth, monastic; Here's no Parliaments.    


Vt Luna Infantia torpet  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  He cometh forth like a Flower and is cut down. JOB 14. 2.  

1.  
Behold  
How short a span  
Was long enough, of old,  
To measure out the life of Man!  
In those well tempered days his time was then  
Surveyed, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten.   

2.  
Alas  
And what is that?  
They come & slide and pass  
Before my Pen can tell thee, what.  
The Posts of Time are swift, which having run  
Their seven short stages o'er, their short lived task is done.   

3.  
Our days  
Begun, we lend  
To sleep, to antic plays  
And toys, until the first stage end:  
12. waning Moons, twice 5. times told, we give  
To unrecovered loss: we rather breathe, then live.   

4.  
We spend  
A ten years' breath,  
Before we apprehend  
What is to live, or fear a death:  
Our childish dreams are filled with painted joys,  
Which please our sense a while; & waking, prove but toys.   

5.  
How vain,  
How wretched is  
Poor man, that doth remain  
A slave to such a State as this!  
His days are short, at longest; few, at most;  
They are but bad, at best; yet lavished out, or lost.   

6.  
They be  
The secret Springs,  
That make our minutes flee  
On wheels more swift than Eagles wings:  
Our life's a clock, and every gasp of breath  
Breathes forth a warning grief, till Time shall strike a death   

7.  
How soon  
Our newborn Light  
Attains to full-aged noon!  
And this, how soon to gray-hayred night!  
We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast  
ere we can count our days; Our days they flee so fast.   

8.  
They end  
When scarce begun;  
And ere we apprehend  
That we begin to live, our life is done:  
Man, Count thy days; And if they flee too fast  
For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last.   

Our Infancy is consumtd in eating and sleeping; in all which time what differ we from beasts, but by a possibility of reason, and a necessity of sin?  
O misery of mankind, in whom no sooner the Image of God appears in the act of his Reason, but the devil blurs it in the corruption of his will!   

EPIG. 9  
To the decrepit Man.  
Thus was the first seventh part of thy few days  
Consumed in sleep, in food, in Toyish plays:  
Know'st thou what tears thine eyes imparted then?  
Review thy loss, and weep them o'er again.    


Proles tua, Maia, juventus.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  His bones are full of the sins of his youth. JOB 20. 11.  

1.  
THe swift-foot Post of Time hath now begun  
His second Stage;  
The dawning of our Age  
Is lost and spent without a Sun:  
The light of Reason did not yet appear  
Within th' Horizon of this hemisphere.   

2.  
The infant Will had yet none other guide,  
But twilight Sense;  
And what is gained from thence  
But doubtful Steps, that tread aside?  
Reason now draws her Curtains; Her closed eyes  
Begin to open, and she calls to rise.   

3.  
Youths now disclosing Bud peeps out, and shows  
Her April head;  
And from her grass green bed,  
Her virgin primrose early blows;  
Whilst waking Philomela prepares to sing  
Her warbling sonnets to the wanton Spring.   

4.  
His Stage is pleasant, and the way seems short,  
All strowed with flowers;  
The days appear but hours,  
Being spent in time-beguiling sport.  
Here griefs do neither press, nor doubts perplex;  
Here's neither fear, to curb; nor care, to vex.   

His downy Cheek grows proud, and now disdains  
The tutor's hand;  
He glories to command  
The proud necked Steed with prouder Reynes:  
The strong breathed horn must now salute his ear,  
With the glad downfall of the falling deer.   

6.  
His quicknosed army, with their deepmouthed sounds,  
Must now prepare  
To chase the timorous Hare  
About his, yet unmorgaged, Grounds;  
The evil he hates, is counsel, and delay,  
And fears no mischief, but a rainy day.   

7.  
The thought he takes, is how to take no thought  
For bale, nor bliss;  
And late Repentance is  
The last dear Pen' worth that he bought:  
He is a dainty Morning, and he may,  
If lust ' o'ercast him not, b'as fair a Day.   

8.  
Proud Blossom, use thy Time; Times headstrong Horse  
Will post away;  
Trust not the following day,  
For every day brings forth a worse:  
Take Time at best: believe't, thy days will fall  
From good, to bad; From bad, to worst of all.   

St. AMB.  
Humility is a roar thing in a young man, therefore to be admired: When youth is vigorous, when strength is firm, when blood is hot, when Cares are strangers, when mirth is free, than Pride swells, and humility is despised.   

EPIG. 10.  
To the old Man.  
Thy years are newly grey; His, newly green;  
His youth may live to see what thine hath seen:  
He is thy Parallel: His present Stage  
And thine, are the two Tropics of man's Age.    


jam ruit in Venerem.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  rejoice O young man, and let thy heart cheer thee, but know, etc. ECCLES. 11. 9  

HOw flux! how alterable is the date  
Of transitory things!  
How hurried on the clipping wings  
Of Time, and driven upon the wheels of Fate!  
How one Condition brings  
The leading Prologue to an other State!  
No transitory thing can last:  
Change waits on Time; and Time is winged with haste;  
Time presents but the Ruins of Time past.   

2.  
Behold how Change hath incht away thy Span,  
And how thy light does burn  
Nearer and nearer to thy urn:  
For this dear waist what satisfaction can  
Injurious time return  
Thy shortened days, but this; the style of Man?  
And what's a Man? A cask of Care,  
New turned, and working; he's a middle Staire  
Twixt birth and death; A blast of full aged air.   

3.  
His breast is Tinder, apt to entertain  
The sparks of Cupid's fire,  
Whose new-blowne flames must now inquire  
the wanton Juilippe out, which may restrain  
The Rage of his desire,  
Whose painful pleasure is but pleasing pain.  
His life's a sickness, that doth rise  
From a hot Liver, whilst his passion lies  
expecting Cordials from his Mistress eyes.   

4.  
His Stage is strewed with thorns, and decked with Flowers;  
His year sometimes appears  
A Minit; and his minutes, years;  
His doubtful Weather's sunshine, mixed with showers;  
His traffic, Hopes and fears:  
His life's a medley, made of sweets and sowers;  
His pains reward is Smiles, and Pouts;  
His diet is fair language mixed with Flouts;  
He is a Nothing all composed of Doubts.   

5.  
Do; wast thy Inch, proud Span of living earth;  
Consume thy golden days  
In slavish freedom; Let thy ways  
Take best advantage of thy frolic mirth;  
Thy Stock of Time decays;  
And lavish plenty still foreruns a Dearth:  
The bird that's flown may turn at last;  
And painful labour may repair a waist;  
But pains nor price can call thy minutes past.   

SEN.  
Expect great joy when thou shalt lay down the mind of a Child, and deserve the style of a wise man; for at those year's childhood is past, but oftentimes child shness remains, and what is worse, thou hast the Authority of a Man, but the vices of a child.   

EPIG. 11.  
To the declining Man,  
Why stand'st thou discontented? Is not he  
As equal distant from the top as thee?  
What then may cause thy discontented frown?  
he's mounting up the Hill; Thou plodding down?    


Vt Sol ardore Virilj.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  As thy days, so shall thy strength be, DEUT. 33. 25.  

The Post  
Of swift foot Time  
Hath now, at length, begun  
The Kalends of our middle Stage:  
The numbered Steps that we have gone, do show  
The number of those Steps we are to go:  
The Buds and blossoms of our Age  
Are blown, decayed, and gone,  
And all our prime  
Is lost;  
And what we boast too much, we have least cause to boast.   

Ah me!  
There is no Rest,  
Our Time is always fleeing:  
What Rein can curb our headstrong hours!  
They post away: They pass we know not how:  
Our Now is gone, before we can say, Now:  
Time past and futur's none of ours;  
That, hath as yet no Being;  
And This hath ceased  
To be:  
What is, is only ours: How short a Time have we!   

And now  
Apollo's ear  
Expects harmonious strains,  
New minted from the Thracian Lyre;  
For now the Virtue of the twiforkt Hill  
Inspires the ravished fancy, and doth fill  
The veins with Pegasean fire:  
And now, those sterile brains  
That cannot show,  
Nor bear  
Some fruits, shall never wear Apollo's sacred Bow.   

Excess  
And surfeit uses  
To wait upon these days:  
Full feed, and flowing cup, of wine  
Conjure the fancy, forcing up a spirit,  
By the base magic of deboysd delight;  
Ah pity twice borne Bacchus' Vine  
Should starve Apollo's bays,  
And drown those Muses  
That bless  
And calm the peaceful soul, when storms of cares oppress.   

Strong light,  
Boast not those beams  
That can but only rise,  
And blaze a while, and then away:  
There is no Solstice in thy day;  
Thy midnight glory lies  
Betwixt th' extremes  
Of night,  
A Glory foiled with shame, and fooled with false delight.   

Hast thou climbed up to the full age of thy few days? Look backwards, and thou shalt see the frailty of thy youth; the fol of thy Childhood, and the waste of thy Infancy: look forwards; thou shalt see, the cares of the world, the troubles of thy mind, the diseases of thy body.   

EPIG. 12.  
To the middle aged.  
Thou that art prancing on the lusty noon  
Of thy full Age, boast not thyself too soon:  
Convert that breath to wail thy fickle state;  
Take heed; thou'lt brag too soon, or boast too late.    


Et Martem spirat et arma.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  he must increase, but I must decrease. JOH. 3. 30.  
TIme voids the Table: Dinner's done;  
And now our days declining Sun  
Hath hurried his diurnal load  
To th' Borders of the Western road;  
Fierce Phlegon, with his fellow Steeds,  
Now puffs and pants, and blows and bleeds,  
And froths, and fumes, remembering still  
Their lashes up th' Olympic Hill;  
Which, having conquered, now disdain  
The whip, and champs the frothy rein,  
And, with a full Career, they bend  
Their paces to their journeys end:  
Our blazing taper now hath lost  
Her better half: Nature hath crossed  
Her forenoon book, and cleared that score,  
But scarce gives trust for so much more:  
And now the generous Sappe forsakes  
Her seir-grown twig: A breath even shakes  
The down-ripe fruit; fruit soon divorced  
From her dear Branch, untouchd, unforced.  
Now sanguine Venus doth begin  
To draw her wanton colours in;  
And flees neglected in disgrace,  
Whilst Mars supplies her lukewarm place:  
Blood turns to Choler: What this Age  
Loses in strength it finds in Rage:  
That rich enamel, which of old,  
Damaskt the downy cheek, and told  
A harmless guilt, unasked, is now  
Worn off from the audacious brow;  
Luxurious Dalliance, midnight revels,  
Lose riot, and those venial evils  
Which inconsiderate youth of late  
Can plead, now wants an Advocate,  
And what appeared in former times  
Whispering as faults, now roar as crimes:  
And now all ye, whose lips were wont  
To drench their coral in the Font  
Of forked Parnassus; you that be  
The Sons of Phocbus, and can flee  
On wings of Fancy, to display  
The flag of high invention, stay:  
Repose your Quills; Your veins grow sour,  
Tempt not your Salt beyond her power:  
If your palled Fancies but decline,  
Censure will strike at every line  
And wound your names; The popular ear  
Weighs what you are, not what you were.  
Thus hackney like, we tyre our Age,  
Spurgalled with Change, from Stage to Stage.  

Seest thou the daily light of the greater world? When attained to the highest pitch of Meridian glory, it stayeth not, but by the same degrees, it ascended, it descends. And is the light of the lesser world more premanent? Continuance is the Child of Eternity, not of Time.   

EPIG. 13.  
To the young Man.  
Young man, rejoice; And let thy rising days  
Cheer thy glad heart; thinkest thou these uphill ways  
Lead to death's dungeon? No: but know withal,  
Arising is but Prologue to a Fall.    


Invidiosa Senectus.  
Will: Martial. sculpsit.  Yet a little while is the light with you. JOH. 12. 35.  

1.  
THe day grows old; The low pitched Lamp hath made  
No less than triple shade:  
And the descending damp does now prepare  
T'uncurle bright Titan's hair;  
Whose Western Wardrobe, now gins t'unfold  
Her purples, fringed with gold,  
To clothe his evening glory; when th'alarms  
Of Rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis arms.   

2.  
Nature now calls to Supper, to refresh  
The spirits of all flesh;  
The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams,  
To taste the slippery streams:  
The droyling swineherd knocks away, and feasts  
His hungry-whining guests:  
The boxbill ouzel, and the dappled Thrush  
Like hungry Rivals meet, at their beloved bush.   

3.  
And now the cold autumnal dews are seen  
To copwebbe every green;  
And by the low-shorne Rowins doth appear  
The fast-declining year.  
The Sapless Branches d'off their summer Suits  
And wain their winter fruits:  
And stormy blasts have forced the quaking Trees  
To wrap their trembling limbs in Suits of mossy frieze.   

4.  
Our wasted taper, now hath brought her light  
To the next door to night;  
Her sprightless flame, grown great with snuff, does turn  
Sad as her neighbouring urn:  
Her slender Inch, that yet unspent remains,  
Lights but to further pains,  
And in a silent language bids her guest  
Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal Rest.   

5.  
Now carkfull Age hath pitched her painful plough  
Upon the furrowed brow;  
And snowy blasts of discontented Care  
Hath blanched the falling hair:  
Suspicious envy mixed with jealous spite  
Disturb's his weary night:  
He threatens youth with age: And, now, alas,  
He owns not what he is, but vaunts the Man he was.   

6.  
Grey hairs, peruse thy days; And let thy past  
Read lectures to thy last:  
Those hasty wings that hurried them away  
Will give these days no Day:  
The constant wheels of Nature scorn to tire  
Until her work expire:  
That blast that nipped thy youth, will ruin Thee;  
That hand that shaken the branch will quickly strike the Tree.   

St. CHRYS.  
Grey hairs are honourable, when the behaviour suits with grey hairs: But when an ancient man hath childish manners, he becomes more ridiculous than a child.   

SEN.  
Thou art in vain attained to old years, that repeatest thy youthfulness.   

EPIG. 14.  
To the Youth.  
Seest thou this good old man? He represents  
Thy Future; Thou, his Preterperfect Tense;  
Thou go'st to labour, He prepares to Rest:  
Thou break'st thy Fast; He sups: Now which is best?    


Plumbeus in terram.  
Will Martial sculpsit  The days of our years are threescore years and ten. PSAL. 90. 10.  

1.  
SO have I seen th'illustrious Prince of Light  
Rising in glory from his Crocean bed,  
And trampling down the horrid shades of night,  
Advancing more and more his conquering head,  
Pause first; decline; at length, begin to shroud  
His fainting brows within a coal black cloud.   

2.  
So have I seen a well built Castle stand  
Upon the Tiptoes of a lofty Hill,  
Whose active power commands both Sea and Land,  
And curbs the pride of the Beleag'rers will;  
At length her aged Foundation fails her trust;  
And lays her tottering ruins in the Dust.   

3.  
So have I seen the blazing taper shoot  
Her golden head into the feeble air;  
Whose shadow-gilding Ray, spread round about,  
Makes the foul face of black-browed darkness fair,  
Till at the length her wasting glory fades,  
And leaves the night to her inveterate shades.   

4.  
Even so this little world of living Clay,  
The pride of Nature, glorified by Art,  
Whom earth adores, and all her hosts obey,  
Allied to heaven by his Diviner part,  
Triumphs a while, then droops, and then decays,  
And worn by Age, Death cancels all his days.   

5.  
That glorious Sun, that whilom shone so bright,  
Is now even ravished from our darkened eyes;  
That sturdy Castle, maned with so much might,  
Lies now a Monument of her own disguise:  
That blazing taper, that disdained the puff  
Of troubled air, scarce owns the name of Snuffe.   

6.  
Poor bedrid Man! where is that glory now,  
Thy Youth so vaunted? Where that majesty  
Which sat enthroned upon thy manly brow?  
Where, where that braving arm? that daring eye?  
Those buxom tunes? Those Bacchanalian Tones?  
Those swelling veins? those marrow-flowing bones?   

7.  
Thy drooping Glory's blurrd, and prostrate lies  
groveling in dust; And frightful Horror, now,  
Sharpens the glances of thy gashfull eyes,  
Whilst fear perplexes thy distracted brow:  
Thy panting breast vents all her breath by groans,  
And Death enerus thy marrow-wasted bones.   

8.  
Thus Man, that's borne of woman can remain  
But a short time; His days are full of sorrow;  
His life's a penance, and his death's a pain,  
Springs like a flower to day, and fades to morrow?  
His breath's a bubble, and his days a Span.  
'tis glorious misery to be borne a Man.   

CYPR.  
When eyes are dim, ears deaf, visage pale, teeth decayed, skin withered; breath tainted, pipes furred, knees trembling, hands fumbling; feet failing, the sudden downfall of thy fleshly house is near at hand.   

St. AUGUST.  
All vices wax old by Age: Covetousness alone, grows young.   

EPIG. 15.  
To the Infant.  
What he doth spend in groans, thou spendst in tears:  
judgement and strength's alike in both your years;  
he's helpless; so art thou; What difference then?  
he's an old Infant; Thou, a young old Man.   
THE END.