Francis Quarles Poems

The world's a theatre. The earth, a stage
Placed in the midst: where both prince and page,
Both rich and poor, fool, wise man, base and high,
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LIKE to the damaske rose you see,
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The world's an Inn; and I her guest.
I eat; I drink; I take my rest.
My hostess, nature, does deny me
Nothing, wherewith she can supply me;
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They're like the Priest and Clerk at Belial's altar;
One makes the Sermon; t'other tunes the Psalter.
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Eternal God! O Thou that only art
The sacred fountain of eternal light,
And blessed loadstone of my better part,
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E'EN like two little bank-dividing brooks,
That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,
Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
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And were it for thy profit, to obtain
All sunshine? No vicissitude of rain?
Think'st thou that thy laborious plough requires
Not winter frosts as well as summer fires?
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And am I here, and my Redeemer gone ?
Can he be dead, and is not my life done ?
Was he tormented in excesse of measure,
And doe I live yet? and yet live in pleasure ?
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Now rests my love : till nuw her tender brest,
Wanting her joy, could finde no peace, no rest;
I charge you all, by the true love you beare
To friendship, or what else you count most deare,
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GOE, glorious saint ! I knew 'twas not a shrine
Of flesh could lodge so pure a soule as thine;
I saw it labour (in a holy scorne
Of living dust and ashes) to be swome
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