Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
By Francis Quarles (1592–1644)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. | |