Tender twigs are bent with ease,
Aged trees do break with bending;
Young desires make little prease,'
Growth doth make them past amending:
Happy man that soon doth knock
Babel's babes against the rock.

LIFE IS BUT LOST.

By force I live, in will I wish to die,
In plaint I pass the length of lingering days;
Free would my soul from mortal body fly,
And tread the track of death's desired ways:
Life is but lost, where death is deemed gain,
And loathed pleasures breed displeasing pain.

Who would not die, to kill all-murdering griefs?
Or who would live in never-dying fears?

Who would not wish his treasure safe from thieves,
And quit his heart from pangs, his eyes from tears?
Death parteth but two ever-fighting foes,
Whose civil strife doth work our endless woes.

Life is a wandering course to doubtful rest;
As oft a cursed rise to damning leap,'
As happier race to win a heavenly crest;
None being sure what final fruits to reap.
And who can like in such a life to dwell,
Whose ways are strait to heaven, but wide to hell?

Come, cruel death, why lingerest thou so long? What doth withhold thy dint from fatal stroke ?

1 Prise, (French) hold.

2 Destructive.

Now press'd I am: alas! thou dost me wrong,
To let me live more anger to provoke :

Thy right is had, when thou hast stopped my breath; Why shouldst thou stay, to work my double death?

If Saul's attempt in falling on his blade,
As lawful were as ethe to put in ure;1
If Sampson's leave a common law were made;
Of Abel's lot if all that would were sure;
Then, cruel death, thou shouldst the tyrant play
With none but such as wished for delay.

Where life is lov'd, thou ready art to kill,
And to abridge with sudden pangs their joys;
Where life is loath'd, thou wilt not work their will,
But dost adjourn their death to their annoy.
To some thou art a fierce unbidden guest;
But those that crave thy help thou helpest least.

Avaunt, O viper! I thy spite defy;

There is a God that overrules thy force,
Who can thy weapons to his will apply,
And shorten or prolong our brittle course :
I on his mercy, not thy might, rely;
To him I live, for him I hope to die.

I DIE ALIVE.

O LIFE, what lets thee from a quick decease?
O death, what draws thee from a present prey?
My feast is done, my soul would be at ease,
My grace is said, O death, come, take away.

1 As lawful as it were easy to put in practice.

I live but such a life as ever dies;

I die but such a death as never ends:
My death to end my dying life denies,
And life my living death no whit amends.

Thus still I die, yet still I do revive,
My living death by dying life is fed:
Grace more than nature keeps my heart alive,
Whose idle hopes and vain desires are dead.

Not where I breathe, but where I love, I live;
Not where I love, but where I am, I die:
The life I wish must future glory give,

The deaths I feel, in present dangers lie.

A FANCY TURNED TO A SINNER'S COMPLAINT.

HE that his mirth hath lost,

Whose comfort is to rue,

Whose hope is fallen, whose faith is crossed,
Whose trust is found untrue;

If he have held them dear,

And cannot cease to moan,
Come, let him take his place by me:

He shall not rue alone.

But if the smallest sweet

Be mixed with all his sour;

If in the day, the month, the year,
He feels one lightening hour;

Then rest he with himself,

He is no mate for me;

Whose time in tears, whose race in ruth,

Whose life a death must be.

Yet not the wished death, That feels no pain or lack; That making free the better part, Is only nature's wrack.

O no, that were too well;
My death is of the mind,

That always yields extremest pangs,
Yet threatens worse behind:

And inwardly doth die;

Whose knowledge is a bloody field,

Where virtue slain doth lie.

My sense is passion's spy,
My thoughts like ruins old,

Which show how fair the building was,

While grace did it uphold.

And still before mine eyes

My mortal fall they lay:

Whom grace and virtue once advanced,

Now sin hath cast away.

O thoughts, no thoughts but wounds,
Some time the seat of joy;

Some time the store of quiet rest,
But now of all annoy!

I sowed the soil of peace,
My bliss was in the spring;
And day by day the fruit I ate,
That virtue's tree did bring.

To nettles now my corn, My field is turned to flint, Where I a heavy harvest reap Of cares that never stint.

The peace, the rest, the life
That I enjoyed of yore,

Were happy lot; but by their loss
My smart doth sting the more.

So, to unhappy men,

The best frames to the worst. O time! O place! where thus I fell; Dear then, but now accursed.

In was, stands my delight, In is and shall, my woe; My horror fastened in the yea, My hope hangs in the no.

Unworthy of relief,

That craved is too late;

Too late I find, (I find too well,)
Too well stood my estate.

Behold, such is the end

That pleasure doth procure!

Of nothing else but care and plaint Can she the mind assure.