Fraile Life! in which, through Mists of humane breath, Our Passions ending, we begin to know. O rev'rend Death! whose looks can soon advise 30 Even scornfull Youth; whilst Priests their Doctrine wast, Yet mocks us too; for he does make us wise, When by his coming our Affaires are past. O harmless Death! whom still the valiant brave, Sir William Davenant. 40 A Dialogue between The Resolved Soul and Created Pleasure. Courage my Soul, now learn to wield Close on thy Head thy Helmet bright. Pleasure. Welcome the Creations Guest, And of Nature's banquet share: Where the Souls of fruits and flow'rs Soul. I sup above, and cannot stay Pleasure. On these downy Pillows lye, Soul. Pleasure. If thou bee'st with Perfumes pleas'd, Soul. A Soul that knowes not to presume Is Heaven's and its own perfume. Pleasure. Every thing does seem to vie Soul. Which should first attract thine Eye: Pleasure. Heark how Musick then prepares 20 30 40 Soul. Chorus. Had I but any time to lose, On this I would it all dispose. Cease Tempter. None can chain a mind Earth cannot shew so brave a Sight And Heaven views it with delight. Then persevere: for still new Charges sound: Pleasure. All this fair, and cost, and sweet, Soul. Shall within one Beauty meet, If things of Sight such Heavens be, Pleasure. Thou shalt know each hidden Cause; Soul. And see the future Time: Try what depth the Centre draws; And then to Heaven climb. None thither mounts by the degree Chorus. Triumph, triumph, victorious Soul; The rest does lie beyond the Pole, And is thine everlasting Store. Andrew Marvell. When The Coronet. Hen for the Thorns with which I long, too long, My Saviours head have crown'd, I seek with Garlands to redress that Wrong: Through every Garden, every Mead, That once adorn'd my Shepherdesses head. So rich a Chaplet thence to weave That, twining in his speckled breast, 70 IO Ah, foolish Man, that would'st debase with them, But thou who only could'st the Serpent tame, Though set with Skill and chosen out with Care. That they, while Thou on both their Spoils dost tread, 20 A Dialogue between the Soul and Body, Soul. Who shall, from this Dungeon, raise With bolts of Bones, that fetter'd stands Body. O who shall me deliver whole, From bonds of this Tyrannic Soul? And warms and moves this needless Frame: |