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before the fire;

       Nor triumph o’er the reign

       Which they so soon resign;

       In this world weigh the gain,

       Insurance safe is thine.

      Dost think life’s peace secure

       In houses and in land?

       Go, read the fairy lure

       To twist a cord of sand;

       Lodge stones upon the sky,

       Hold water in a sieve,

       Nor give such tales the lie,

       And still thine own believe.

      Whoso with riches deals,

       And thinks peace bought and sold,

       Will find them slippery eels,

       That slide the firmest hold:

       Though sweet as sleep with health,

       Thy lulling luck may be,

       Pride may o’erstride thy wealth,

       And check prosperity.

      Dost think that beauty’s power,

       Life’s sweetest pleasure gives?

       Go, pluck the summer flower,

       And see how long it lives:

       Behold, the rays glide on,

       Along the summer plain,

       Ere thou canst say, they’re gone—

       And measure beauty’s reign.

      Look on the brightest eye,

       Nor teach it to be proud,

       But view the clearest sky

       And thou shalt find a cloud;

       Nor call each face ye meet

       An angel’s, ‘cause it’s fair,

       But look beneath your feet,

       And think of what ye are.

      Who thinks that love doth live

       In beauty’s tempting show,

       Shall find his hopes ungive,

       And melt in reason’s thaw;

       Who thinks that pleasure lies

       In every fairy bower,

       Shall oft, to his surprise,

       Find poison in the flower.

      Dost lawless pleasures grasp?

       Judge not thou deal’st in joy;

       Its flowers but hide the asp,

       Thy revels to destroy:

       Who trusts a harlot’s smile,

       And by her wiles is led,

       Plays with a sword the while,

       Hung dropping o’er his head.

      Dost doubt my warning song?

       Then doubt the sun gives light,

       Doubt truth to teach thee wrong,

       And wrong alone as right;

       And live as lives the knave,

       Intrigue’s deceiving guest,

       Be tyrant, or be slave,

       As suits thy ends the best.

      Or pause amid thy toils,

       For visions won and lost,

       And count the fancied spoils,

       If e’er they quit the cost;

       And if they still possess

       Thy mind, as worthy things,

       Pick straws with Bedlam Bess,

       And call them diamond rings.

      Thy folly’s past advice,

       Thy heart’s already won,

       Thy fall’s above all price,

       So go, and be undone;

       For all who thus prefer

       The seeming great for small,

       Shall make wine vinegar,

       And sweetest honey gall.

      Wouldst heed the truths I sing,

       To profit wherewithal,

       Clip folly’s wanton wing,

       And keep her within call:

       I’ve little else to give,

       What thou canst easy try,

       The lesson how to live,

       Is but to learn to die.

THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN.

       Table of Contents

      [From one of Thackeray’s Catalogues, preserved in the British Museum, it appears that The Life and Age of Man was one of the productions printed by him at the ‘Angel in Duck Lane, London.’ Thackeray’s imprint is found attached to broadsides published between 1672 and 1688, and he probably commenced printing soon after the accession of Charles II. The present reprint, the correctness of which is very questionable, is taken from a modern broadside, the editor not having been fortunate enough to meet with any earlier edition. This old poem is said to have been a great favourite with the father of Robert Burns.]

      In prime of years, when I was young,

       I took delight in youthful ways,

       Not knowing then what did belong

       Unto the pleasures of those days.

       At seven years old I was a child,

       And subject then to be beguiled.

      At two times seven I went to learn

       What discipline is taught at school:

       When good from ill I could discern,

       I thought myself no more a fool:

       My parents were contriving than,

       How I might live when I were man.

      At three times seven I waxèd wild,

       When manhood led me to be bold;

       I thought myself no more a child,

       My own conceit it so me told:

       Then did I venture far and near,

       To buy delight at price full dear.

      At four times seven I take a wife,

       And leave off all my wanton ways,

       Thinking thereby perhaps to thrive,

       And save myself from sad disgrace.

       So farewell my companions all,

       For other business doth me call.

      At five times seven I must hard strive,

       What I could gain by mighty skill;

       But still against the stream I drive,

       And bowl up stones against the hill;

       The more I laboured might and main,

       The more I strove against the stream.

      At six times seven all covetise

       Began to harbour in my breast;

       My mind still then contriving was

       How I might gain this worldly wealth;

       To purchase lands and live on them,

       So make my children mighty men.

      At seven times seven

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