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, Who then to frail Mortality shall trust 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, To cross the sea to any foreign soil, Perils and toil: Wars with their noise affright us: when they cease What then remains, but that we still should cry, 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; Love is a torment of the mind, Not well, nor full, nor fasting. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; XXVII. ULYSSES AND THE SIREN. SIREN. CON OME worthy Greek, Ulysses, come, 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, ULYSSES. Fair nymph, if fame or honour were 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, Becomes not men of worth. SIREN. Ulysses, O be not deceived With that unreal name, 'Tis honour is a thing conceived, And rests on others fame. Begotten only to molest Our peace, and to beguile, The best thing of our life, our rest, ULYSSES. Delicious nymph, suppose there were Nor honour nor report, Yet manliness would scorn to wear The time in idle sport; For toil doth give a better touch To make us feel our joy, And ease finds tediousness as much As labour yields annoy. SIREN. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore And perish oft the while. Who may disport them diversely Find never tedious day, And ease may have variety As well as action may. |