The

way

GLORIA LATA VIA. 1612?

HOUGH life be short and man doth, as

the sun,

His journey finish in a little space,

is wide an honest course to run,

And great the glories of a virtuous race,

That at the last do our just labours crown
With three-fold wreath, love, honour, and renown.

Nor can night's shadow or the Stygian deep Conceal fair Virtue from the world's wide eye; The more oppressed, the more she strives to peep, And raise her rose-bound golden head on high; When epicures, the wretch, and worldly slave Shall rot in shame, alive, and in the grave.

(Peacham.)

HIS world a hunting is,

The prey poor Man, the Nimrod fierce

is Death;

His speedy greyhounds are

Lust, sickness, envy, care,

Strife that ne'er falls amiss,

With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe.

Now if by chance we fly

Of these the eager chase,

Old age with stealing pace

Casts on his nets, and there we panting die.

(William Drummond.)

ON MAN'S MORTALITY.

IKE to the falling of a star,

1640.

Or as the flights of eagles are,

Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue,

Or silver drops of morning dew,

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,

Or bubbles which on water stood,—

E en such is man ;-whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The Spring entombed in Autumn lies,
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past,—and man forgot.

(F. Beaumont.)

ON MAN'S MORTALITY.

1629.

IKE as the damask rose you see,

Or like the blossom on the tree,

Or like the dainty flower of May,

Or like the morning to the day,

Or like the sun, or like the shade,

Or like the gourd which Jonas had,-
E'en such is man ;-whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,

The gourd consumes,—and man he dies.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,

Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,

Or like the singing of a swan,-
E'en such is man ;-who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.-

The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,

The swan's near death,-man's life is done.

(Wastell.)