Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/278

 Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine: While ten thousand kings,  as proud, To carry up my train have bow'd, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me: All the stars in Heav'n that shine, And ten thousand more, are mine: Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be!

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

1586-1616

234. On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey

Mortality, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones: Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands: Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.' Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried— 'Though gods they were, as men they died.' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate.