Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,
Not endless night, yet not eternal day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
That net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crossed;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish;
Unmeddled joys here to no man befal;

Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH.*

Before my face the picture hangs,
That daily should put me in mind
Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find;

But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a face

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;

I often view the hollow place,

Where eyes and nose had sometime been;
I see the bones across that lie,

Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath,

That telleth me whereto I must;

I see the sentence eke that saith,

66

Remember, man, thou art but dust:"

But yet, alas! but seldom I

Do think indeed that I must die.

As this poem is one of two which appeared in the edition of Wastell's "Microbiblion," published in 1629, the following may be offered as direct and conclusive evidence that it belongs to Southwell. The full title of the Mæoniæ," 1595, of which it forms a part, is as follows:-" Mæoniæ; or certain excellent poems and spiritual hymns omitted in the last impression of Peter's Complaint;' being needful thereunto to be annexed, as being both divine and wittie. All composed by R. S." There are in addition internal reasons, arising from the creed, the circumstances, and the order to which Southwell belonged, which naturally suggest themselves as tending to identify him as the author.

+ With Ellis, we here use Wastell's gloss. "Qualms," is a happy substitution for "names," a word which makes half this line, according to the text of Southwell, without point or meaning.

Continually at my bed's head

A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell, That I ere morning may be dead,

Though now I feel myself full well; But yet, alas! for all this, I

Have little mind that I must die.

The gown which I do use to wear,

The knife wherewith I cut my meat;
And eke that old and ancient chair
Which is my only usual seat:
All these do tell me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

My ancestors are turned to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away,

And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no! I know that I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

Not Solomon, for all his wit,

Nor Samson, though he were so strong; No king, no person, ever yet

Could 'scape, but Death laid him along : Wherefore I know that I must die,

And yet my life amend not I.

Though all the East did quake to hear
Of Alexander's dreadful name;
And all the West did likewise fear
To hear of Julius Cæsar's fame,
Yet both by Death in dust now lie;
Who then can 'scape, but he must die?

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart,
If rich and poor his beck obey;
If strong, if wise, if all do smart,

Then I to 'scape shall have no way.
Oh! grant me grace, O God! that I
My life may mend, sith I must die!

THE first edition of the "Paradise of Dainty Devices' contains five poems by a writer who employs the graceful cryptonyme of "My Lucke is Losse." From the occurrence of a similar expression in a poem authenticated by Riche-an "Epitaph upon the death of Sir William Drury"-there is a presumption that he is the writer whose modesty sheltered under that singular nom de plume; a presumption which is strengthened by comparing it with his motto, Malui me divitem esse, quam vocari. Nothing is known of the time or place either of his birth or his death. The above dates of these several events have been given as approximate, from observing that his first production was in 1574, and his last in 1624; and from the absurdity, considering his inveterate fecundity, of believing that he long survived his final literary effort. His twenty-six works did not circulate extensively in his lifetime, and they have since enjoyed chiefly the untroubled immortality of the shelf. The following psalm of human instability is worthy of re-presentation.

WHAT JOY TO A CONTENTED MIND. The faith that fails, must needs be thought untrue; The friend that feigns, who holdeth not unjust? Who likes that love that changeth still for new? Who hopes for truth where troth is void of trust? No faith, no friend, no love, no troth so sure, But rather fail, than steadfastly endure.