Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint
    Of new-coined treasure;
A paradise, that has no stint,
    No change, no measure;
A painted cask, but nothing in ’t,
  Nor wealth, nor pleasure: 
Vain earth! that falsely thus comply’st
With man; vain man! that thou rely’st
On earth; vain man, thou dot’st; vain earth, thou ly’st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure,
  To haberdash
In earth’s base wares, whose greatest treasure
  Is dross and trash? 
The height of whose enchanting pleasure
  Is but a flash? 
Are these the goods that thou supply’st
Us mortals with?  Are these the high’st? 
Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly’st.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

     FROM “AS YOU LIKE IT,” ACT II.  SC. 7.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
  As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
  Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: 
  Then, heigh-ho, the holly! 
    This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
  As benefits forgot: 
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
  As friend remembered not. 
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: 
  Then, heigh-ho, the holly! 
    This life is most jolly!

SHAKESPEARE.

THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND.

     FROM “PROMETHEUS.”

O holy AEther, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and laughter innumerous
Of yon Sea-waves!  Earth, mother of us all,
And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,—­
Behold me a god, what I endure from gods! 
  Behold, with throe on throe,
  How, wasted by this woe,
I wrestle down the myriad years of Time! 
  Behold, how fast around me
The new King of the happy ones sublime
Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me! 
Woe, woe! to-day’s woe and the coming morrow’s
  I cover with one groan.  And where is found me
    A limit to these sorrows? 
  And yet what word do I say?  I have fore-known
  Clearly all things that should be; nothing done
  Comes sudden to my soul—­and I must bear
  What is ordained with patience, being aware
  Necessity doth front the universe
  With an invincible gesture.  Yet this curse
  Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave
  In silence or in speech.  Because I gave
  Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul
  To this compelling fate.  Because I stole
  The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went
  Over the ferrule’s brim, and manward sent