CONSOLATION

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Consolation

MANY are the sayings of the wise,

In antient and in modern books enroll'd

Extolling patience as the truest fortitude;
And to the bearing well of all calamities,
All chances incident to man's frail life,
Consolatories writ

With studied argument and much persuasion sought,
Lenient of grief and anxious thought;

But with th' afflicted in his pangs their sound

Little prevails, or rather seems a tune

Harsh, and of dissonant mood from his complaint,

Unless he feel within

Some source of consolation from above;

Secret refreshings that repair his strength
And fainting spirits uphold.

JOHN MILTON

THE NEW JERUSALEM

The New Jerusalem

HIERUSALEM, my happy home,

When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbour of the Saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell,
There envy bears no sway;
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,

But pleasure every way.

Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right orient pearl,
Exceeding rich and rare.

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles

With carbuncles do shine;

Thy very streets are paved with gold, Surpassing clear and fine.

Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,

Would God I were in thee!

Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see!

THE NEW JERUSALEM

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks

Continually are green;

There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen.

Quite through the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of Life doth flow;

Upon whose banks on every side
The wood of Life doth grow.

There trees for evermore bear fruit,
And evermore do spring;
There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore do sing.

Our Lady sings Magnificat

With tones surpassing sweet; And all the virgins bear their part, Sitting about her feet.

Hierusalem, my happy home,

Would God I were in thee!

Would God my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!

ANONYMOUS (1601)

AGE