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A DESCRIPTION OF LIFE AND RICHES.

Who living but daily discerne it he may,
How life as a shadow doth vanish away:
And nothing to count on, so sure to trust,
As sure of death, and to turne to the dust.

The lands and the riches that here we possesse,
Be none of our owne if a God we professe:
But lent us of Him, as his talent of gold,
Which being demanded, who can it with-hold?

God maketh no writing, that justly doth say,
How long we shall have it, a yeare or a day:
But leeve it we must (howsoever we leeve)
When Atrop shall pluck us from thence by the sleeve

To death we must stoope, be we hie, be we low,
But how, and how sodainely, few be that know:
What carry we then but a sheet to the grave,
To cover this carkasse of all that we have?

POSIES FOR THINE OWNE BED-CHAMBER.

What wisdome more, what better life, than pleaseth God to send ?

What worldly goods, what longer use, than pleaseth God to lend ?

What better fare than well content, agreeing with thy wealth ?

What better ghest than trusty friend in sicknes and in health?

What better bed than conscience good, to passe the night with sleepe?

What better worke than daily care, from sin thy selfe to keepe?

What better thought than think on God, and daily Him to serve ?

What better gift than to the poore, that ready be to sterve?

What greater praise of God and man than mercy for to shew?

Who, mercilesse, shall mercy find, that mercy shews to few?

What worse despaire than loth to dye, for feare to go to hell ?

What greater faith than trust in God, through Christ in heaven to dwell?

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THOMAS MARSHALL is a name, and little more; it is only known that he contributed the following poem to the first edition of the "Paradise of Dainty Devices," published in 1576.

Though Fortune have set thee on high,
Remember yet that thou shalt die.

To die, Dame Nature did man frame,
Death is a thing most perfect sure:
We ought not Nature's works to blame,
She made nothing still to endure.
That law she made, when we were born,
That hence we should return again :
To render right we must not scorn,
Death is due debt, it is no pain.

The civil law doth bid restore
That thou hast taken up of trust:
Thy life is lent; thou must therefore
Repay, except thou be unjust.

This life is like a pointed race,

To the end whereof when man hath trode, He must return to former place,

He may not still remain abroad.

Death hath in the earth a right,

His power is great, it stretcheth far:
No lord, no prince, can scape his might,
No creature can his duty bar.

The wise, the just, the strong, the high,
The chaste, the meek, the free of heart,
The rich, the poor,-who can deny?
Have yielded all unto his dart.

Could Hercules, that tamed each wight;
Or else Ulisses with his wit;
Or Janus, who had all foresight;
Or chaste Hypolit, scape the pit?
Could Cresus with his bags of gold;
Or Irus with his hungry pain;
Or Signus through his hardiness bold,
Drive back the days of Death again?

Seeing no man can Death escape,
Nor hire him hence for any gain;
We ought not fear his carrion shape,
He only brings evil men to pain.
If thou have led thy life aright,
Death is the end of misery:
If thou in God hast thy delight,
Thou diest, to live eternally.

Each wight, therefore, while he lives here,
Let him think on his dying day:
In midst of wealth, in midst of cheer,
Let him accompt he must away:
This thought makes man to God a friend,
This thought doth banish pride and sin:
This thought doth bring a man in th' end
Where he of Death the field shall win.

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ROBERT SOUTHWELL, third son of Richard Southwell, Esq., of Horsham St. Faith's, in the county of Norfolk, was born in the year 1562. At the age of fifteen he was sent to Paris for education, and placed under the religious instruction of Father Thomas Darbyshire, a nephew of Bishop Bonner, and one of the earliest amongst the English members of the Society of Jesus. Southwell soon imbibed an ardent and almost impatient desire to be admitted to the same society; into which he was received at Rome on the 17th of October, 1578, whilst still only sixteen years of age. At Rome, after a short interval of absence, he entered upon a course of philosophy and theology; in which he so brilliantly distinguished himself that he was appointed prefect of the English college in that city. In 1584, he repaired to England as a missionary priest, and for some years zealously, but without public offence, exercised the functions of that office amongst the scattered adherents of his creed.

The sensitive and persecuting jealousy cherished by the government towards the Roman Catholics, which had been exhibited with frequent severity from the time of the intrigues for and against the Queen of Scots, caused the apprehension of Southwell in 1592. In the course of a few weeks' private imprisonment he is said to have been ten times put to the torture; and to have endured his agonies with heroic fortitude and reticence. He was re

moved to the Gatehouse of Westminster, whence, after two months' confinement, he was transferred to a vile and noisome dungeon in the Tower. At the end of three years' close detention, he was, upon petition, brought to trial at Westminster. By his own confession he was found guilty of the then capital offence of being a Romish priest, and administering the sacraments of his church. He was executed at Tyburn, February the 22nd, 1595.

His two most considerable poems, "St. Peter's Complaint" and "Mary Magdalene's Funeral Tears," were written during the period of his imprisonment, and are remarkable for exhibiting no trace of acrimony towards either the authors or the instruments of his sufferings. A spirit of plaintive resignation or of manly and Christian fortitude breathes through even the saddest of his productions. Although they have lately been comparatively neglected, Southwell's works enjoyed a popularity which, between the years 1593 and 1600, carried them through no fewer than eleven editions.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

The loppéd tree in time may grow again;
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower;
Times go by turns, and chances change by course,
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,

She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;

Her tide hath equal times to come and go;

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

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