Kept not pace with brave intention. 
  Twenty suns did rise and set,
  And he could no further get;
  But, unable to proceed,
  Made a virtue out of need,
  And, his labors wiselier deem’d of,
  Did omit what the queen dream’d of.

* * * * *

A BALLAD.

NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF
A RICH NOBLE’S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.

To the Tune of the “Old and Young Courtier."

  In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
  In a wretched workhouse Age’s limbs are cold: 
  There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
  Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.

  In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,
  They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,
  With singing and music to heighten the cheer;
  Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper’s best fare.

  In a costly palace Youth is still carest
  By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord’s jest;
  In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails: 
  Does Age begin to prattle?—­no man heark’neth to his tales.

  In a costly palace if the child with a pin
  Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;
  In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish
  For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.

  In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
  In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,
  Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do,
  Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.

  In a costly palace Youth his temples hides
  With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides;
  In a wretched workhouse Age’s crown is bare,
  With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.

  In peace, as in war, ‘tis our young gallants’ pride,
  To walk, each one i’ the streets, with a rapier by his side,
  That none to do them injury may have pretence;
  Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.

* * * * *

HYPOCHONDRIACUS.

  By myself walking,
  To myself talking,
  When as I ruminate
  On my untoward fate,
  Scarcely seem I
  Alone sufficiently,
  Black thoughts continually
  Crowding my privacy;
  They come unbidden,
  Like foes at a wedding,
  Thrusting their faces
  In better guests’ places,
  Peevish and malecontent,
  Clownish, impertinent,
  Dashing the merriment: 
  So in like fashions
  Dim cogitations
  Follow and haunt me,
  Striving to daunt me,
  In my heart festering,
  In my ears whispering,
  “Thy friends are treacherous,
  Thy foes are dangerous,
  Thy dreams ominous.”