Cocker's morals, or, The muses spring-garden adorned with many sententious disticks & poems in alphabetical order : fitted for the use of all publick and private grammar and writing schools, for the scholars of the first to turn into Latin, and for those of the other to transcribe into all their various and curious hands / by Edward Cocker.

T

TRuth's lucid Paths the sacred Scriptures shew: Who tread not them, trace Labyrinths of wo.

Time's but the short duration of a VVink, VVhen on Immence Eternity we think.

The want of sleep, which wildest Creatures tames, Men to the height of Madness oft inflames.

The noblest of examples imitate; And let contentment crown thy blest Estate.

To day we laugh and frolick, and to morrow, VVe Grunt and Groan upon the Bed of sorrow.

'Tis dangerous to be Great: proud Cedars bow, VVith Storms which move not humble Shrubs below.

T'insult, or exsult over Misery, Shews baseness mixt with inhumanity.

Those Lines which some may think impertinent, By others will be thought most Excellent.

Time, Tide, and Carriers, with the flying Sun, Will stay for no man, till their Race is run.

Think humbly of your self; no Commendation Can mount you then, above your proper Station.

Time past who hath forgot; neglects the present; And fears the future, hath lost all things pleasant.

The Serpents wiles to save your self, embrace; And others not to harm give the Dove place.

The sacred Rules of Virtue bear small price, With the unbounded, sordid Sons of Vice.

This is an observation true, though plain; Those who most feast the Belly, starve the Brain.

The Soul's the Salt, which doth the Body season, And keep alive; and the Soul's Salt is Reason.

Though God be Omnipresent, men dare swear: Were the King near them, they would then forbare.

The Life of Nature's given, that we might trace, The happy foot-steps to the Life of Grace: Which Life of Grace, will crown those who persever, Faithful till Death, with Glories Life, for ever.

Then your desires have reason to be crown'd With what you ask, when Reason is their Ground.

'Tis not how many Arts, or curious Parts we have, But how well we improve the Talent that God gave.

To none the secret Counsels of your mind Communicate, for can you hope to find One that has VVill, and Power to do for you What for your self, you your self could not do. Th' Immaculate Fountain of all holyness, Those most, who most resemble Him, will bless.

The Pen all curious Instruments transcends; And, in its usefulness, it self commends. No need of swelling, high Encomiums, then To Trumpet forth the praises of the Pen: This does, like Virtue, its own Trophies raise, Sublimely high, beyond the reach of praise.

Times change, and we in them: both Men and Nations Their Zeniths have, before their Declinations.

The Youth's Letter from the Writing School, &c.

These, honour'd Parents, are but small Effects, Of your great Love, and manifold Respects. These few unpolish'd Lines cannot express, The thousand part of my due thankfulness For your least favours; yet if these you grace, W•…•… ••cceptation; I, in Writings Race Shall run more swift, by that encouragement, And, in short time, some nobler Piece present.

There is no virtue in the rarest Pen, Which VVriting to Perfection can Produce: Nor in the hand; that member, which to men, Is in all works, of admirable use. Though each of these in Writing, bears his Part, Yet the grand Fountain whence it flows, is Art.