a little more
I have to write,
Then I'll give o'er,
And bid the world good-night.

'Tis but a flying minute
That I must stay,
Or linger in it;
And then I must away.

O time that cut'st down all
And scarce leav'st here
Memorial
Of any men that were.

How many lie forgot
In vaults beneath?
And piecemeal rot
Without a fame in death?

Behold this living stone
I rear for me,
Ne'er to be thrown
Down, envious Time, by thee.

Pillars let some set up
If so they please:
Here is my hope
And my Pyramides.

212. SAFETY ON THE SHORE.

What though the sea be calm? Trust to the shore,
Ships have been drown'd where late they danc'd before.

213. A PASTORAL UPON THE BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES. PRESENTED TO THE KING,
AND SET BY MR. NIC. LANIERE.

_The Speakers_, Mirtillo, Amintas _and_ Amarillis.

_Amin._ Good-day, Mirtillo. _Mirt._ And to you no less,
And all fair signs lead on our shepherdess.
_Amar._ With all white luck to you. _Mirt._ But say, what news
Stirs in our sheep-walk? _Amin._ None, save that my ewes,
My wethers, lambs, and wanton kids are well,
Smooth, fair and fat! none better I can tell:
Or that this day Menalcas keeps a feast
For his sheep-shearers. _Mirt._ True, these are the least;
But, dear Amintas and sweet Amarillis,
Rest but a while here, by this bank of lilies,
And lend a gentle ear to one report
The country has. _Amin._ From whence? _Amar._ From whence?
_Mirt._ The Court.
Three days before the shutting in of May
(With whitest wool be ever crown'd that day!)
To all our joy a sweet-fac'd child was born,
More tender than the childhood of the morn.
_Chor._ Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and sheep
Let lullaby the pretty prince asleep!
_Mirt._ And that his birth should be more singular
At noon of day was seen a silver star,
Bright as the wise men's torch which guided them
To God's sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem;
While golden angels (some have told to me)
Sung out his birth with heavenly minstrelsy.
_Amin._ O rare! But is't a trespass if we three
Should wend along his babyship to see?
_Mirt._ Not so, not so.
_Chor._ But if it chance to prove
At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love.