The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 86 : And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a s

And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,-- "Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Curst be the souls that think her any wrong."

G.o.ddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

George Peele [1558?-1597?]

THE WORLD

The World's a bubble, and the life of Man Less than a span: In his conception wretched,--from the womb, So to the tomb; Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust, But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live oppressed, What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools: The rural parts are turned into a den Of savage men; And where's a city from foul vice so free, But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head: Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse: Some would have children; those that have them moan Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affections still at home to please Is a disease; To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Peril and toil; Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace: --What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die?

Francis Bacon [1561-1626]

"WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY"

From "Twelfth Night"

When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads; For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK

When we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite; The soul, with n.o.bler resolutions decked, The body stooping does herself erect.

No mortal parts are requisite to raise Her that, unbodied, can her Maker praise.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when pa.s.sions are no more.

For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through c.h.i.n.ks that Time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become As they draw near to their eternal home.

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

A LAMENT The Night Before His Execution

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain; The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

The spring is past, and yet it is not sprung; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen; My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb; I looked for life, and saw it was a shade; I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; And now I die, and now I am but made; The gla.s.s is full, and now my gla.s.s is run; And now I live, and now my life is done!

Chidiock Tichborne [1558?-1586]

TOMORROW

In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the suns.h.i.+ne or rain may prevail, And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail: A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honors may wait him Tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighboring hill; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill.

And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends may I share what Today may afford, And let them spread the table Tomorrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again; But my face in the gla.s.s I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; And this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today, May become everlasting Tomorrow.

John Collins [1742?-1808]

LATE WISDOM

We've trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade; And now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we strayed: By long experience taught, we know-- Can rightly judge of friends and foes; Can all the worth of these allow, And all the faults discern in those.

Now, 'tis our boast that we can quell The wildest pa.s.sions in their rage, Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath a.s.suage.-- Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now This bold rebellious race are fled?

When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead?

George Crabbe [1754-1832]