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I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:
I will search out the matter.

But while I looked, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then 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 digged, I saw a worm devour
What showed 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

At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.

But after death out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat:

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

It prospered 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 of 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.

PRAISE.

King of Glory, King of Peace,

I will love Thee:

And that love may never cease,

I will move Thee.

Thou hast granted my request,

Thou hast heard me :

Thou didst note my working breast,

Thou hast spared me.

Wherefore with my utmost art

I will sing Thee,

And the cream of all my heart

I will bring Thee.

Though my sins against me cried,

Thou didst clear me;

And alone, when they replied,

Thou didst hear me.

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Thou grew'st soft and moist with tears, Thou relentedst;

And when Justice called for fears,

Thou dissentedst.

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Not rudely, as a beast,
To run into an action;
But still to make Thee prepossest,
And give it his perfection.

A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye;
O1, if he pleaseth, through it pass,
And then the heaven espy.

All may of Thee partake:
Nothing can be so mean,

Which with his tincture (for thy sake)
Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine:

Who sweeps a room as for thy laws,
Makes that and the action fine.

This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold:

For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for less be told.

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JAMES SHIRLEY, "the last of a great race" of dramatists, was born in London about the year 1594. His university education commenced at Oxford, whence he migrated to Cambridge, where he took the degree of M.A. He officiated for some time as a curate in Hertfordshire; but,

going over to the Church of Rome, became successively a schoolmaster at St. Alban's, and a dramatic writer in London. His first play, the comedy of "The Wedding," was published in 1629; and between that date and his death he produced in all about forty plays. His dramas were remarkable in an age of licence for the purity of their thought and their freedom from profanity. During the civil war Shirley took the field under his patron, the Earl of Newcastle. During the ascendancy of Cromwell he resumed his intermitted occupation of a schoolmaster. The fire of London, 1666, drove him and his family from their house in Whitefriars; and presently after, Shirley and his wife both died on the same day.

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As a dramatist it has been objected to Shirley that he has no originality, no force or intensity of passion or pathos. "But," says Mr. Hallam, "his mind was poetical;" and although no play of surpassing power was produced by him, nor possibly any good scene, .'. . he has many lines of considerable beauty." The following short poem from "The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses for Achilles' Armour," published in 1659, carries its own recommendation; whilst the fact that it was a great favourite with Charles II. may serve to vindicate the character of that somewhat frivolous monarch as not altogether unsusceptible of grave and serious reflection.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hands on kings;
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

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