When I behold, with deep astonishment,

To famous Westminster how there resorte,

Living in brasse or stoney monument,

The princes and the worthies of all sorte;

Doe not I see reformde nobilitie,

Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation,

And looke upon offenselesse majesty,

Naked of pomp or earthly domination?

And how a play-game of a painted stone

Contents the quiet now and silent sprites,

Whome all the world which late they stood upon

Could not content nor quench their appetites.

Life is a frost of cold felicitie,

And death the thaw of all our vanitie.

CHRISTOLEROS EPIGRAMS, BY T. B. 1598.

ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the latter part of autumn when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magni?cence of the old pile, and as I passed its threshold it seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity and losing myself among the shades of former ages.

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