Francis Quarles (1592 – 1644)
Prolific English prose-writer and poet.
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He that loves thee, He that keeps
And guards thee, never slumbers, never sleeps.
In having all things, and not Thee, what have I?
Not having Thee, what have my labors got?
Let me enjoy but Thee, what farther crave I?
And having Thee alone, what have I not?
Anger, when it is long in coming, is the stronger when it comes, and the longer kept.
And what's a life? A weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.
Even such is man, whose glory lends
His life a blaze or two, and ends.
No man is born unto himself alone;
Who lives unto himself, he lives to none.
Let all thy joys be as the month of May
And all thy days be as a marriage day:
Let sorrow, sickness, and a troubled mind
Be stranger to thee.
The way to bliss lies not on beds of down,
And he that has no cross deserves no crown.
Let the fear of a danger be a spur to prevent it: He that fears otherwise, gives advantage to the danger.
The road to resolution lies by doubt:
The next way home's the farthest way about.
Death aims with fouler spite
At fairer marks.
The next way home's the farthest way about.
This house is to be let for life or years;
Her rent is sorrow, and her income tears.
Cupid, 't has long stood void; her bills make known,
She must be dearly let, or let alone.
My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on;
Judge not the play before the play is done:
Her plot hath many changes; every day
Speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play.
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day
Whose conquering ray
May chase these fogs;
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Light will repay
The wrongs of night;
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Shine Son of glory, and my sinnes are gone
Like twinkling Starres before the rising Sunne.
We spend our midday sweat, our midnight oil;
We tire the night in thought, the day in toil.
The world's an Inn; and I her guest.
It is the lot of man but once to die.
Be wisely worldly, be not worldly wise.
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