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What in the world I might descry or know,
Above, below:

With an unanimous voice all these things said,
"We are not God, but we by him were made."

I ask'd the world's great universal mass
If that God was?

Which with a mighty and strong voice replied,
As stupified,

"I am not he, O man! for know that I

By him on high

Was fashioned first of nothing, thus instated
And swayed by him, by whom I was created."

I sought the court; but smooth-tongued flattery there
Deceiv'd each ear:

In the thronged city there was selling, buying,

Swearing, and lying;

I' the country, craft in simpleness array'd :
And then I said,

"Vain is my search, although my pains be great-
Where my God is, there can be no deceit.'

A scrutiny within myself I then

Even thus began:

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"O Man, what art thou?"-What more could I say, Than dust and clay?

Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast

That cannot last;

Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn;
Formed from that earth to which I must return.

I asked myself, what this great God might be
That fashioned me?

I answered the all-potent, solely immense,
Surpassing sense;

Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal,

Lord over all;

The only terrible, strong, just and true,
Who hath no end, and no beginning knew.

He is the well of life, for he doth give
To all that live,

Both breath and being: he is the Creator

Both of the water,

Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist,

VOL. I.

He hath the list;

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Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims,

He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their names.

And now, my God, by thine illumining grace
Thy glorious face,

(So far forth as it may discovered be,)
Methinks I see;

And though invisible and infinite,-
To human sight,

Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest;
In which to our weak sense thou comest nearest.

O make us apt to seek, and quick to find,
Thou God, most kind!

Give us love, hope, and faith in thee
To trust, thou God, most just!
Remit all our offences, we entreat;
Most good, most great!

Grant that our willing, though unworthy quest
May, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest.

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FRANCIS QUARLES.

It has been the misfortune of this poet to realize his own aphorism, that "Shame is the chronical disease of popularity, and that from fame to infamy is a beaten road." The favourite of Lord Essex, and the "sometimes darling" of the "plebeian judgments," is now known to many only in the ridicule of Pope. But Quarles will live in spite of the Dunciad. His manly vigour, his uncompromising independence, his disinterested patriotism, and his exalted piety, cannot be entirely forgotten. These are flowers which no neglect can wither.

Francis Quarles was born in the spring of 1592, at Stewards †, in Romford Town Ward, in the county of Essex. He was descended from a family of great respectability, and possessing estates in the adjoining parishes of Hornchurch, Dagenham, &c. His father, James Quarles, was Clerk of the Green Cloth and Purveyor of the Navy to Queen Elizabeth. He died, November the 16th, 1642, and his death is registered in the church of Romford. Our poet received his early education at a school in the country, probably in the neighbourhood, and is related to have "surpassed all his equals." He was subsequently entered of Christ's College, Cambridge, and took his bachelor's degree in 1608+.

From Cambridge he went to Lincoln's Inn, where for some years, as we are informed by his widow, "he studied the laws of England, not so much out of desire to benefit

* Anthony Wood. + A manor purchased by his father in 1588. Dyer's Supplement to the History of the University of Cambridge.

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