Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
By Francis Quarles (15921644)The Foil
’TIS but a foil at best, and that’s the most | |
Your skill can boast: | |
My slipp’ry footing fail’d me; and you tript, | |
Just as I slipt: | |
My wanton weakness did herself betray | 5 |
With too much play: | |
I was too bold: he never yet stood sure, | |
That stands secure: | |
Who ever trusted to his native strength, | |
But fell at length? | 10 |
The title’s craz’d, the tenure is not good, | |
That claims by th’ evidence of flesh and blood. | |
Boast not thy skill; the righteous man falls oft, | |
Yet falls but soft: | |
There may be dirt to mire him, but no stones | 15 |
To crush his bones: | |
What if he staggers? Nay, put case he be | |
Foil’d on his knee? | |
That very knee will bend to heav’n, and woo | |
For mercy too. | 20 |
The true-bred gamester ups afresh, and then | |
Falls to’t again; | |
Whereas the leaden-hearted coward lies, | |
And yields his conquered life, or craven’d dies. | |