The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
JAMES SHIRLEY.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.
Sweet Rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And all must die.
Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
Thy musick shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world, turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
GEORGE HERBERT.
Like as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had,— E'en such is man; whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.— The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes,—and man he dies!