The fucl justice layeth on,

And mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought Are men's defiled souls:

For which, as now on fire I am,

To work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath,

To wash them in my blood! With this he vanished out of sight, And swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I called unto my mind That it was Christmas Day.

XXV.

SIR FRANCIS BACON, 1561-1626.

LIFE.

HE World's a bubble; and the life of man

THE

Less than a span :

In his conception wretched; from the womb,

So to the tomb :

Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years,
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail Mortality shall trust

But limmes the water, or but writes in dust.

Yet, since with sorrow here we live opprest,
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 all 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 none; 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 sea to any foreign soil,

Perils 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,
Not to be born, or being born, to die.

XXVI.

SAMUEL DANIEL, 1562-1619.

L

SONG.

OVE is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing ;

A plant that with most cutting grows,

Most barren with best using

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies ;

If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind

Not well, nor full, nor fasting.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies

If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,

Hey, ho!

;

XXVII.

ULYSSES AND THE SIREN.

SIREN.

CON

'OME worthy Greek, Ulysses, come,
Possess these shores with me,

The winds and seas are troublesome,
And here we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toil

That travail in the deep,

And joy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleep.

ULYSSES.

Fair nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attained with ease,

Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toils as these.

But here it dwells, and here must I

With danger seek it forth,

To spend the time luxuriously

Becomes not men of worth.

SIREN.

Ulysses, O be not deceived

With that unreal name,