And evermore a nymph stands at the gate,
  And took the names wherewith the two swans came,
  Whether they early come, or whether late. 
  Then all about the church she hang’d the same,
  Before that sacred image in such rate
  As they might then be well assured for ever,
  Spite of that wretch, in safety to persever.

  SIR J. HARRINGTON.

* * * * *

CARE OF CHILDREN.

  All as the painful ploughman plies his toil
  With shear and coulter shearing through the soil,
  That costs him dear and ditches it about,
  Or crops his hedge to make it undersprout,
  And never stays to ward it from the weed,
  But most respects to sow therein good seed;
  To th’ end when summer decks the meadows plain,
  He may have recompense of costs and pain. 
  Or like the maid who careful is to keep
  The budding flower, that first begins to peep
  Out of the knop and waters it full oft,
  To make it seemly show the head aloft,
  That it may (when she draws it from the stocks)
  Adorn her gorget white and golden locks. 
  So wise Merari all his study styl’d
  To fashion well the manners of his child.

  HUDSON.

* * * * *

GOD.

——­How soever things in likelihood dissent In birth, life, death, our God is first, the middle, and event.  And not what he can do he will, but what he will be can, And that he do or do it not, behoves us not to to scan.

  WARNER.

* * * * *

NIGHT.

  Now from the fresh, the soft, and tender bed,
  Of her still mother gentle Night outflew
  The fleeting balm on hills and dales she shed,
  With honey drops of pure and precious dew,
  And on the verdure of green forests spread,
  The virgin primrose and the violet blue;
  And sweet breath Zephyr on his spreading wings
  Sleep, ease, repose, rest, peace and quiet brings. 
  The thoughts and troubles of broad waking day
  They softly dip in mild oblivion’s lake.

  FAIRFAX.

* * * * *

  Now the world’s comforter with weary gait,
  His day’s hot task hath ended in the west;
  The owl (Night’s herald) shrieks; ’tis very late,
  The sheep are gone to fold, the birds to nest,
  The cool black clouds that shadow heaven’s light
  Do summon us to part and bid good night.

  SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

WIT.

  The wit the pupil of the soul’s clear eye,
  And in man’s world the only shining star,
  Looks in the mirror of the phantasy,
  Where all the gathering of the senses are,
  From thence this power the shape of things