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Here a little child I stand Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat, and on us all. Amen. 

Any reminder of the imminence and certainty of death is called a

Any reminder of the imminence and certainty of death is called a

WHEN for the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviour’s head have crowned, I seek with garlands to redress that wrong,— Through every garden, every mead, I gather flowers (my fruits are only flowers), Dismantling all the fragrant towers That once adorned my shepherdess’s head: And now, when I have summed up all my store, Thinking (so I my self deceive) So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of Glory wore, Alas ! I find the Serpent old, That, twining in his speckled breast, About the flowers disguised, does fold With wreaths of fame and interest. Ah, foolish man, that wouldst debase with them, And mortal glory, Heaven’s diadem! But thou who only couldst the Serpent tame, Either his slippery knots at once untie, And disentangle all his winding snare, Or shatter too with him my curious frame, And let these wither—so that he may die— Though set with skill, and chosen out with care; That they, while thou on both their spoils dost tread, May crown Thy feet, that could not crown Thy head.

The Restoration of the monarchy occurs in what year?

The Restoration of the monarchy occurs in what year?

A hagiography is a

Which is not an element of the English country house poem?

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy. Seven years tho’ wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon ‘scap’d world’s and flesh’s rage, And if no other misery, yet age? Rest in soft peace, and, ask’d, say, “Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.” For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.