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Piety, and Poesy

Contracted, In a Poetick Miscellanie of Sacred Poems. By Tho: Jordan
Jordan, Thomas (1612?-1685?)
 
[epigraph]
 
[dedication]

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On the Title, that was fixed upon the Cross of our Blessed Saviour: Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews.
 
A Dream of Dooms Day.
 
The Dream.
 
On Lot's Wife looking back to Sodom.
 
The Inscription.
 
On Eve' tasting the Apple.
 
On the Children of Israel murmurring at Manna.
 
On Mary Magdalen's coming to the Tomb of our Saviour.
 
On Peter called to be a Fisher of Men.
 
On Peter's Imprisonment and Release.
 
Imploration.
 
On the Penitent Thiefe upon the Cross.
 
Charity begins at home.
 
On holy Fasting, and on holy hunger.
 
On our Saviour paying Tribute.
 
On Paul's healing the Creeple at Lystra.
 
On the holy Ghost descending like a Dove.
 
Sapiens Dominabitur Astris.
 
On the Pharisees requiring of a Sign.
 
On our Saviour's receiving of Children.
 
On our Saviour's saying, he brought a Sword.
 
On Saul's Conversion in his Journey to Damascus.
 
On the words, Scriptum est.
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An Eclogue betwixt Saul, the Witch of Endor, and the Ghost of Samuel.
 
LET US PRAY.
 
An Acrostick conteining the Ten COMMANDMENTS.
 
Intemperance.
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Elegiack Poems.
 
An Elegie on the Death of Mr. John Steward.
 
The Epitaph.
 
On the Death of the most worthily honour'd Mr. John Sidney, who dyed full of the Small Pox.
 
The Epitaph.
 
An Elegie on the lamented Death of the virtuous Mis. Anne Phillips, Dedicate to her Son and Heir Mr. Edmond Philips.
 
Thoughts of Life and Death, written upon the occasion, ex tempore.
 
An Epitaph on the Death of an Organist.
 
An Epitaph on Himself.
 
An Epitaph on a Strumpet, buried at Graves-end, once at my landing there, to go to Canterbury.
 
An Epitaph on my worthy Friend Mr. John Kirk.

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The Epitaph.

In this sacred Urn there lies,
Till the last Trump make it rise,
A Light that's wanting in the Skies.
A Corps inveloped with Stars,
Who, though a Stranger to the Wars,
Was mark'd with many hundred Scars.
Death (at once) spent all his store
Of Darts, which this fair Body bore,
Though fewer, had kill'd many more.
For him our own salt Tears we quaff.
Whose Virtues shall preserve him safe
Beyond the power of Epitaph.
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