HONEST LABOUR BEARS A LOVELY FACE. ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? Then he that patiently want's burden bears Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! THOMAS DEKKER, 1574-1638. WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY. We have faith in old proverbs full surely, And you I'll find they believe, like bold wooers, In "Where there's a will there's a way." The hills have been high for Man's mounting, The woods have been dense for his axe, The stars have been thick for his counting, The sands have been wide for his tracks, The sea has been deep for his diving, The poles have been broad for his sway, But bravely he's proved in his striving That "Where there's a will there's a way." Have ye vices that ask a destroyer? Resist with all strength that you may; For "Where there's a will there's a way." Have ye Poverty's pinching to cope with? And dawn may come out of the night. On "Where there's a will there's a way." ELIZA COOK, 1818— TIMES GO BY TURNS. THE loppèd tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest 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 tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web : No joy so great but runneth to an end, H Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. 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 cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, have never all. ROBERT SOUTHWELL, 1560-1595 DISCONTENT. THE mariner whose little bark is toss'd Upon the rude ungovernable waves, 'Midst rocks and quicksands, often toils and slaves, Uncertain if he shall or not be lost, And buried in the mighty deep he cross'd So often and so safe-in vain he craves Assistance, whilst the foaming torrent laves His labouring vessel. Thoughts which once engross'd And cheer'd his brighter days, are now forgot; The dreadful scene. "How wretched is my lot!" He cries. The danger o'er, he tempts his fate Again. Thus weak repining man doth sigh, And discontented lives, yet fears to die. ANONYMOUS. HAPPINESS IN MODERATION. HAPPY the man whose wishes never roam What nature asks, to him is richly given; Fictitious ardours ne'er his breast torment, Ne'er on the inconstant tides of passion driven, He seeks not pleasure where he finds content. By prudent culture to invite the soil To pay, with bounteous gratitude, his care, To brace his sinews with each manly toil, And draw bright spirit from the buxom air; To fill the part by ruling Heaven assign'd A cloudless judgment and a conscience clear. |