Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great :

Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood

How deepest wounds are given with praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good :

Who God doth late and early pray

More of His grace than gifts to lend ; And entertains the harmless day

With a well-chosen book or friend ;

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

PEACE.

WEET Peace! where dost thou dwell,

I humbly crave?

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd if Peace were there?

The hollow wind did seem to answer "No!
Go, seek elsewhere!"

So went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,

The Crown Imperial-" Sure," said I,
"Peace at the root must dwell :"

But when I dug, I saw a worm devour
What show'd so well.

At length I met a reverend, good old man,
Whom when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:

"There was a Prince of old

In Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold;

"He sweetly lived, but sweetness could not save

His life from foes:

But, after death, out of His grave

There sprung twelve stalks of wheat;

Which many, wondering at, got some of those
To plant and set.

"It prosper'd strangely; and did soon disperse Through all the earth:

For they that taste it do rehearse

That virtue lies therein

A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,
By flight from sin.

"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,

And grows for you;

Make bread of it; and that repose

And peace which everywhere,

With so much earnestness, you do pursue,

Is only there."

GEORGE HERBERT.

PRAYER.

INK'ST thou in want, and is thy small cruse spent?

Seek Him in want, enjoy Him in content.
Conceiv'st Him lodged in cross, or lost
in pain?

In prayer and patience find Him out again.
Dart up thy soul in groans: thy secret groan
Shall pierce His ear, shall pierce His ear alone.
Dart up thy soul in vows: thy sacred vow

Shall find Him out, where heaven alone shall know.
Dart up thy soul in sighs: thy whisp'ring sigh
Shall rouse His ears, and fear no listener nigh:
Shoot up the bosom shafts of thy desire,

Feather'd with faith, and double-fork'd with fire,
And they will hit: fear not where Heaven bids

come,

Heaven's never deaf but when man's heart is dumb.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

I

ASPIRATIONS AFTER GOD.

VEN so my weary soul, that long has been

An inmate in this tenement of sin,

Lock'd up by cloud-brow'd error, which
invites

My cloister'd thoughts to feed on black delights,
Now scorns her shadows, and begins to dart
Her wing'd desires at Thee, that only art
The Sun she seeks, whose rising beams can fright
These dusky clouds that make so dark a night:
Shine forth, great Glory, shine-that I may see
Both how to loathe myself, and honour Thee.
But if my weakness force Thee to deny
Thy flames, yet lend the twilight of Thine eye.
If I must want those beams I wish, yet grant
That I at least may wish those beams I want.
FRANCIS QUARLES.