tring too high,
And on the rack of self-extension die?
Chameleons of state, air-monging band,
Whose breath--like gunpowder--blows up a land,
Come see your dissolution, and weigh
What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day.
As th' elements by circulation pass
From one to th' other, and that which first was
I so again, so 'tis with you; the grave
And Nature but complot; what the one gave
The other takes; think, then, that in this bed
There sleep the relics of as proud a head,
As stern and subtle as your own, that hath
Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
Hath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely then
Calm these high furies, and descend to men.
Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tomb
Check'd him, who thought the world too straight a room.
Have I obey'd the powers of face,
A beauty able to undo the race
Of easy man? I look but here, and straight
I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit
Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave
Beggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,
Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man
That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can
Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff,
Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear
Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear.
Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score
Of erring men, and having done, meet more,
Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents,
Fantastic humours, perilous ascents,
False, empty honours, traitorous delights,
And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites;
But these and more which the weak vermins swell,
Are couch'd in this accumulative cell,
Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun
Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone;
Day leaves me in a double night, and I
Must bid farewell to my sad library.
Yet with these notes--Henceforth with thought of thee
I'll season all succeeding jollity,
Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit;
Excess hath no religion, nor wit;
But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain,
One check from thee shall channel it again.

IN AMICUM F[OE]NERATOREM.

Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see
How I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee.
Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,
His decoy gold, and brib