SIR J. HARRINGTON.

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DEATH.

Death is a port whereby we reach to joy,
Life is a lake that drowneth all in pain,
Death is so near it ceaseth all annoy,
Life is so leav'd that all it yields is vain;
And as by life to bondage Man was brought,
Even so likewise by death was freedom wrought.

EARL OF SURREY.

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BEAUTY.

Nought under Heaven so strongly doth allure
The sense of man and all his mind possess,
As Beauty's lovely bait that doth procure
Great warriors oft their rigour to repress,
And mighty hands forget their manliness.
Driven with the power of an heart robbing eye,
And wrapt in flowers of a golden tress,
That can with melting pleasance mollify
Their hard'ned hearts enur'd to blood and cruelty.

SPENSER.