GILES FLETCHER

Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine: While ten thousand kings, as proud, To carry up my train have bow'd, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me : All the stars in Heav'n that shine. And ten thousand more, are mine : Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be !

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

f On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey

MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here ! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones : Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands: Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, ' In greatness is no trust.' Here 's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin : Here the bones of birth have cried ' Though gods they were, as men they died.' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings ; Here 's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

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