University of Virginia Library

To the Reader.

Reader, thou mayst without affrightment look
Within the pages of this guiltlesse Book;
For here no Satyr, masquing in disguise,
Amongst these leaves in Ambuscado lies:
No Snake does lurk amongst these flowers, to cast
Her poyson forth, and mens faire honours blast;
And though some staine the paper, when they write,
And so defile, and sully its chaste white
With lines of lust, that to wipe out that sin,
It even wants white to do its penance in;
Yet I no Goats bloud in my ink will spill,
To make loose lines flow from my tainted Quill;
No soot or gall I'll mingle, to possesse
My words with an invective bitternesse,
Although (perchance) to make them seeme more tart,
I may some salt to season them impart:
No, no, the wooll o'th' Lamb I'll only take,
And that my principall'st Ingredient make:
So that what ere my teeming Pen shall vent,
Shall, though not wittie, yet be innocent.

To the Authour. ENCOMIASTICON.

On the beholding his face in a Glasse.

Svre if this Mirrour has limn'd out to me
My faces true and faithfull imagerie,
My cheeks do yet lye fallow, and my brow
Is not yet furrow'd with Times rugged plow;
No haire, as yet, has cloath'd my naked chin,
Nor wrinckle rumpell'd, or purl'd up my skin;
Nor has my head one haire, by Cares expence,
White with the powder of Experience:
But when more yeares shall fit on me, and age
Shall dresse me with his liverie, and engage
This structure of my flesh to droop, and cares
Shall into reverend gray have did my haires,
And I agen (perhaps) expose my face
To the impartiall censure of my glasse,
My shadow will enforme me, that it beares
(Like me) th'impressions too of many yeares,
When shivering agues do congeale the bloud,
And feavers melt again that purple floud:
When I lye floating in a sea of rheume,
Being tost with everie melancholy fume:
This by its wither'd aspect will declare
It symptomes does of the same sicknesse weare:
Nay, when sterne death with a rude hand does seek
To pluck the Roses out from either cheek,
To plant his Lillies there, and does dispense
To everie languishing, and vanquish'd sense,
A chill benumning damp: could I then view
The sad resemblance of that ashie hue,
That blasts my cheeks, that shadow would put on
The same appearance of complexion.
How brittle and how transitorie then
Are all those props that Nature leanes on, when
I from this faithfull Mirrour can descry,
My shadow is as permanent as I?

On the sight of a Clock.

How fruitlesse our designes would prove, if we
Should be possest with so much vanitie,
As with our fraile endeavours, to assay
To stop the winged houres in their way?
Or fondly seek to chaine up Time, and try
To make him with our wild desires comply,
Since leaden plummets hung upon his feet,
Not clog we see, but make his pace more fleet.

On a Gentlewoman dying in Child-bed of an abortive Daughter.

What neare alliance was between the grave
Of this dead infant, and the place that gave
First life to't? Here was a sad mysterie
Work'd up it selfe, both Life and Death, we see,
Were Inmates in one house, making the womb,
At once become a Birth-place and a Tomb?
The mother too, as if she meant t'improve,
In everie fatall circumstance her love,
When this unpollisht infant di'd, her breath
Resign'd, that she might wait on it in death:
And in one Monument might sleep by her,
To whom before she was a Sepulcher.

On a Gentlewoman much deformed with the small pox.

On Julia, throwing snow-balls at him.

VVhilst Iulia did her snow-balls at me hit,
She did into my bosome too transmit
A sudden flame; 'tis strange that heat should flow
From such a frostie principle, as snow:
Sure those successive glances which did rise
From the bright Orbs of her refulgent eyes,
Made some impression on those balls, and so
Subverted the cold property of snow:
Yet as that flame which in my heart did reigne
And darted fire from thence on every veine,
Was caus'd by snow, so when I did but rest
My hand upon the Alps of her white brest,
The snow that lay dispers'd o're that chast seat,
Straight curb'd the uproare of my former heat.
Strange miracle, my Iulia has the art
At once with snow to heat and coole my heart.

To Sir Henry New, upon his re-edifying the Church of Charleton in Kent.

SIR;

You need no Parian or Egyptian stone
To build a Tomb for you, your name alone
Shall stand, your monument which shall out vie
Those fading Trophies in stabilitie,
You have the basis of no structures fixt
On widdowes ruins, or the mortar mixt
With Orphans tears, you wish the melting skies
May wet your fields, and not your tenants eyes,
Moysten it with their deaw, you build no shrine
To lavish riot, where sin's made divine,
And Idoliz'd, you sacrifice no wealth
At Bacchus Altar, nor give up your health
An offering to't, or to evacuate rheume
Do you exhale whole mannors into fume;
No Sir, you have imploid your coyne so well,
That God himselfe will be accountable
For what y'ave spent, y'ave laid your treasure in
So inaccessible a Magazin;
No sacrilegious robber shall purloine
Or rust embase the value of your coine:
Y'ave built a house where God himselfe will dwell,
And stand himselfe there his own Centinell;
Let others sit and brood upon that Ore
Which they've collected from the Indian shore,
And put themselves to the expence of care,
For a wild unthrift, you make God your heire.

On the sight of a Rivelet, that eight foot off from its Fountain dis-embogues it selfe into the Medway.

No sooner did this pregnant spring distill
Out of her watry womb this purling rill,
But see how eagerly it rushes downe
It selfe, in Medwayes neighbouring streame to drowne;
And even at its first birth falls upon
A ruinous precipitation;
Like some unwarie heire, who being of age
To act an unthrifts part, upon the stage
O'th world, and newly wean'd from the imbrace
Of his deceased Parent, does deface
His heritage with not, and makes hast
To let himself loose into lavish wast,
Powring out his Revenues, to advance
Vice in each gay and pompous circumstance,
With such profusenesse, that he straight is found
Plung'd in the Vserers books, and there he's drown'd:
And as the river when it has inlarg'd
Its channell with that rill the spring discharg'd
Into its liquid womb, gliding away
With thanklesse speed, its vassalage to pay
To the blew Sea-god, does no more reflect,
But steales by th' spring that fed, it with neglect;
Ev'n so the userer when his bags swell high
And grow affected with a plurisie,
Which was with this loose unthrifts ruines fed,
And (like some flies) from his corruptions bred,
Calls in each wandring glance, and passing by
He ne're looks back, left it be with an eye
Of scorne, not pity, nor will deigne to know
Him from whose spring his streames of wealth did flow.

On M. Jo. Joscelin, dying of a Feaver.

VVhat heat was this wch scorch'd my Joscelins heart?
And lick'd that oyle up which each vitall part
Is daily moist'ned with? what heaps of flames
Checquer'd the azure front'spice of his veines
With crimson spots? how did their fervour purle
His sinewes? and his skins faire margent curle
Into a shrivell'd lump? as if that he
Was even growne Ætna's epitome,
And might be licens'd to be canoniz'd
Now for a Saint, since he was sacrific'd
To death in fire, and had even undergone
By frying, with a Feaver, martyrdome,
Which did each part with such continuance burne,
His bed it selfe was ev'n become his urne?
Yet could my teares this priviledge have gain'd,
To have appeas'd that ravenous flame which raign'd
Within him, he had not been yet possest
With the cold sleep, nor gone so soone to rest:
But this accrues yet to his future glorie,
When time shall read the annals of his storie,
'Twill find, it was no abject maladie
That forc'd his active spirit hence, to fly
Into th' Elysian shades, no trembling fit
Of a blood-shaking Ague made him quit,
And render up his tenement of clay,
No slow consumption melted him away,
Making him seem to his spectators so,
As if h'ad been a corps a yeare agoe:
But that he fell by coaping in a duell
With a more noble feaver, and was fuell
Only for that disease, with which they say,
The world it selfe shall labour i'th last day.

To a Gentlewoman singing.

Svre Philomel's transform'd to humane shape,
For who but she could practice such a rape
On our insnared sense, with the calme noise
That ecchoes forth from her seraphick voice?
Each Angell that is guardian to a Sphere,
Desists from whirling round his Orb, to heare
Her warble her tun'd layes, the sullen North,
Who in distemper'd murmurs, bellowes forth
A rude defiance to the swelling deep,
Is by her voices musick rock'd asleep.
When all the winds do sally foth t'ingage
The elements in mutinie, and wage
A conflict 'mongst themselves, they straight take truce
To listen to her voice, which does infuse,
Such charmes into them, that they straight comply
In gentle whispers with her harmonie:
Swans hearing her but sing, do straight concurre
In a melodious simphonie with her:
Yet (oh sad fate) straining a note too high
To equall hers, do straight expire and die.
Copernicus's Pupills may go on
Now to protect his wild assertion,
And say the earth doth circularlie move,
Whilst the dull Planets in their Sphere above
Stand still like idle gazers on, since she.
Has by the miracle of her harmonie,
Accomplish'd this, for at her charming call
Thrill'd forth in an inchanting madrigall,
The earth appeares to move, the knotite rock
And aged oak, as if they meant to mock
Natures decrees, assemble in loose rings
And shake their active feet when shee but sings,
Whilst my joy'd spirits too, with nimble streine
Make hast to dance Lavalto's in each veine.

On the death of M. Francis Thornhill, slain in a single Duell

VVhat stratagems inexorable death
Does muster up to rob us of our breath?
Somtimes he sends a Feaver to take in
Our forts of earth, somtimes the gout, to win
Our ruinous tenements, which being repell'd
And their assaults by strength of nature quell'd,
He straight imploys the sword, petar and gun,
With all the Engines of destruction;
To raze our Citadells of clay, which we
Accomplish'd in the fate of Thornhill see,
Who though his heart and vitals bore about
Vigour enough to keep diseases out:
Yet see how soon the sword had found the art
To cut the cordage that made fast his heart,
And soule, which thence flew heaven-wards, there to be
Indenison'd into eternitie.
For though it swam in a red stream from hence
I'me confident 'twas white with innocence:
But shall his blood, exhale to aire, the earth
Was moistened with, no 'twill produce a birth,
Of od'rous flowers, to whom there shall accrew
(As if they wept for him) a constant dew;
Which on the ruines of his earth shall flow;
And when the wind from the cold North does blow,
Congeale into a pearly maste, so he
Invested with a shroud of pearle shall be.

On a Farmer, who having buried five of his children of the Plague, planted on each of their graves an Apple-tree.

You whose bold thoughts do prompt you on to glorie
I'th number of your issue, view the storie
Of this afflicted Villager, since he
Was by th'increase of a faire Progenie
Made happy, till just God, for mans offence,
Imploy'd th'infection of a Pestilence
T'annoy the world, which five of's children gave
Vp to th' possession of the lavish grave.
But see what glorious pietie can dwell
I'th' narrow circuit of an humble Cell,
To preserve life in their remembrance, hee
Establishes on each grave an apple-tree,
By that quaint Hieroglyphick to declare
He was their tree, and they his apples were,
Which in his estimate did farre outvie
In tendernesse the apple of his eye;
And though sterne death had been so much unkind,
To pluck the fruit and leave the tree behind,
Yet in that action, he did but show,
That they untimely to their graves did go:
To shew in time, what we must likewise do,
Branches, Trunk, Root, and all must follow too.

An Epitaph on Mrs. E. VV.

Reader, if thy indulgent eyes can spare
But so much brine as will make up a teare,
Let pietie ingage thee here to lave
That moisture out upon this beauties grave,
That so the turfe bedew'd with it, may teeme
Roses and od'rous Violets, to redeeme
(By pow'ring forth a balmy dew) her dust
From putrid vapours, and her tomb from rust:
For modesty, truth, zeale, and meeknesse have
A sad interment too, within her grave,
Nay even all the vertues are become
Her Inmates, and do lodge within her tombe;
So that she forc'd us, when she liv'd, to say,
She was an Angell cloth'd in weeds of clay,
Which to approve when her faire soule was cloy'd
With the worlds tumults (which yet still injoy'd
A calme of peace, 'mongst all the noise of men)
She threw off earth, and fled to heaven agen.

On the approach of night.

VVhy comes forth night array'd in black, when day
Does (like an exhalation) melt away?
Why hang so many lights i'th vault o'th skie?
As if night furnish'd out some obsequie?
Why are her tears in dewes so often shed?
The reason is, she mourns 'cause day is dead.

Considerations upon Eternitie.

Immense Eternitie! of thee what part
Shall I define, since thou a circle art?
And when in thee (like the reviving sun)
I look for end, I find thee but begun.
When I thy first beginning would survey,
I find thou nere hadst none: when I assay
To sound thy depth, thy depth I find to be
A vast and bottomlesse Profunditie.
Could we pluck backe those wasted years which are
Inrol'd in times moath-eaten Register,
And that collected masse of ages lay
Within a scale, we soon should find they'd weigh,
Ballanc'd with thee, no more when all is done,
Then if we pois'd an atome with the sun.
Who then would dote on life which only shrouds
The soule in slime and earth, which death unclouds,
But not annihilates; or fan that fire
Which will but breath'd upon by wind expire,
Whose flame though't be by nature blowne about
The heart and braine, the collick can put out:
Who would piece up his tenement of clay
With so much art, when rheums may wash't away,
And dropsies drowne it? or one sudden gust
Of a chil Ague shake it into dust,
When with a Feaver it so long may burne
It may be both the ashes and the urne:
When its whole frame at once may be shook downe
With th'earth-quake of a wild convulsion;
Why should I in a heap of painted dust
Or guilded rubbish then put any trust?
Whose chiefe ingredients are our shivering fears,
And thrilling sighs, whose cement is our tears,
Which kneaded it to shape, on which has been
Gods impresse stamp'd till 'twas raz'd out by sin.
Nor shall this sullyed medall be refin'd
Till it be in the generall fire calcin'd;
On which, when 'tis new moulded, God will daigne
To coyne the image of his face againe:
Whose impresse time shall then no more deface,
Nor sin its value anie more embase:
When thus both soule and bodie are combin'd
In one strict union, and so close intwin'd
They nev'r shall be divorc'd, they both shall be
Admitted into immortalitie:
Vpon whose wings, wing'd too with their own love,
And innocence, they both shall soare above
The pitch of humane thoughts, and with an eye
Purg'd from blind vapours and dull mists, descry
Those various Essences, whose formes will be
Limn'd out i'th Mirrour of the Trinitie;
And all the old Idæas range about
By which at first they both were copied out.
Next gaze on the Apostles, who do make
(In heaven) a new and second Zodiack,
For they were the 12 Signes, through which the Sun
Of Righteousnesse, his course on earth did run.
Then view the Martyrs, from the sacred Reake
Of whose pure flames, the light of truth did breake;
Who though they waded through a crimson flood,
Which had no spring to feed it but their blood,
And all besmear'd with purple, soar'd from hence,
Sit cloath'd in the white Rabes of innocence;
Whilst thus the eye is charm'd, the eare shall be
Intranc'd with such melodious Harmonie,
That if the soule were not so closely tied,
And to the body glorified, allied
In such a loving mixture, we might feare
That 'twould again be stolne out at the eare.
Thus some eternally shall gaze upon
That Orb of Light, the blessed Vision,
And so to ever-living joyes aspire,
Whilst others melt in never-dying fire,
Which powres forth flames, but yet displayes no light,
Which will both burn, and freeze the damned wight:
Where outward tortures shall corrode each sence,
And inward fret into the conscience,
Where all Arithmeticke will be agast
To calculate the yeares of torture past;
And bind them up in numbers, but to tell
The years to come, will be a second Hell;
For when ten thousand, thousands years are told,
And all those thousand thousands years are rold
About their Sphere, and Myriads more are done,
And yet alas, all is but now begun;
The wretched and captived soule will cry,
Oh that I once might live or once might dy:
Lord teare the Mountains up, and throw them all
Vpon my wretched head, that I may fall
Into a heap of Atomes, and may be
Seen not of any, lest it be of thee;
Vnlock the Caverns of the earth, and find
Amongst those dusky Cells some angry wind,
Whose wild impetuous Gusts so long may blow
Vpon my house of earth, until it throw
The rubbish in some wildernesse, or thrust
The thin remains of my disbanded dust
Into some gloomy Vault, where none shall tell,
To gleane them up, so thou forgive me hell.

A divine Hymne.

O Thou who art all light, from whose pure beames
The infant day-light streames,
And to whose Lustre all the throng of stars
Those mystick Characters,
Writ in the dusky volumne of the Night,
Do owe their stocke of Light;
Who when the Sun, i'th nonage of the yeare,
Like a Bridegroom does appeare,
Sweet with the Balmy Perfumes of the East,
With Lights Embroidery drest,
And spangled o're with brightnesse, does array
That Planet with each Ray
He glitters with, a powerfull spark inspire
Of thy Celestiall fire
Into my frozen heart, that there may be
A flame blowne up in me,
Whose light may shine like the meridian sun
In the dark horison
Of my benighted soul, and thence distill
Into a pious rill
Of contrite tears, those clouds which do controule
The prospect of my soule,
That so the beams of faith may clearly shine
Amidst its Christalline,
That I may by th'infusion of their light
Learn to spell Christs Crosse aright.
And as one touch from Moses did unlock
The casquet of the rock,
And thaw'd its liquid treasures to repell
The thirst of Israel;
So let this flame dissolve that masse of sin
That lies wrapt up within
The chambers of my heart, that there may rise
Two fountaines in my eyes,
Which may put out those scorching flames, which were
First fed and kindled there,
By that same hot Artillery which lust
Into my eye-balls thrust;
And as when Feavers blaze within the blood,
And parch that purple flood,
The sparks and embers of them, are by heat
Still'd from the pores in sweat;
So when sin flames within me and does roule
Its heat about my soule,
And sparkles in each facultie, my eyes
Being lusts Incendiaries.
Oh let this inward sicknesse by that fire
Devotion does inspire,
Be still'd out, at those pores o'th soule, my eies,
In a liquid sacrifice,
Which gathering into one heap, may swell
Into a holy well,
Wherein when the old Dragon wounds me, I
May bath incessantly,
And having wash'd my festred wounds, may be
Sure both at once of cure and victorie.

On the death of a Prince, a Meditation.

In what a silence Princes passe away,
When they're enfranchis'd from their shells of clay?
No thunder-clap rung out this Heroes knell,
And in loud accents to the world did tell,
He was deceas'd; no trembling earth-quake shook
The frame o'th world, as if 'twere Palsie-strook.
There was no bearded Comet did arise,
To light a torch up at his Obsequies;
And though so many men should have deceas'd
When his great soule was from the flesh releas'd,
That Charons Vessell should have ceas'd to float,
And he have cried, give me another boat;
Not anie yet resign'd their vitall breath,
Obsequiously to wait on him, in death;
Thus we may see, Fates unrelenting knife
Will even cut a Princes thred of life;
Nor can his spreading power inforce its strength,
Or his Dominions extend its length,
If from the urne his name first issue forth,
Not his tall titles or unfathom'd worth,
Can this Prerogative, or Charter give,
That he his cheap dull vassall shall out-live;
And though the eyes o'th multitude before
Follow'd his presence, and did ev'n adore
The earth that propp'd his feet, yet when the rust,
Of's monument shall mingle with his dust,
Contracted to a span, and the rude wind
Shall his abbreviated ashes find,
They cannot from his blast be so exempt,
But that he will disperse them to contempt;
So many graves his dust shall (he being dead)
Obtaine, yet he be no where buried:
Who then in Titles, Crownes, or Wealth would trust,
Since he can scarce assure himselfe his dust?
Even in the grave shall so protected be,
It shall be freed from forraign injurie.

To a Lady viewing her self in her Glasse.

LADY;

VVhen Sicknesse, Death's pale Herald does display
His Ensignes in your face, and does array
Your drooping Beautie with an ashie hue,
You straight take counsell of your Glasse, to view
How much those roses, that their blushes shed
O're either cheek, are shrunk, or withered:
When any spot that lustre does imbase,
Which does improve the beauty of your face,
You have recourse unto your Glasse, to see
What part dares shelter that enormitie;
VVhen you with any fashion would comply,
You to your Mirrour straight imploy your eye,
To be inform'd, what correspondence there
Your shadow does with your faire substance beare:
If in your painting there some errour be,
Or in your dresse an incongruitie,
You from your glasse a certaine patterne take,
By which your selfe you ev'n a shadow make.
Since then in all things you your selfe apply
Still to this Christall Index, to discry
Each blemish in your dresse, and each defect
That clouds your beautie, and by that correct
All trespasses, you may instructed be,
By this, to know too your Mortalitie;
Since that fraile Tenement you so perfume
With clouds of Mirrhe, and Gassia, and consume
So much to piece it up, it may repell
Th' assaults of Age, and be defensible
'Gainst Times rude Onsets, will soon fade away,
And languish to a ruinous decay;
And by its transitorinesse declare,
That you your selfe, your shadowes Embleme are.

On the death of Sir Simon Harcourt, slain at the taking in of Carigs-Main Castle in Ireland.

May that pure flame which heated Harcourts brest,
Break from the gloomy confines of that Chest
VVhich circumscribes his hallow'd dust, and sink
Like a spent Meteor downe into my ink;
That that dull juice its heat may so refine,
Each drop of it may prove like that, divine,
With which each verse of mine embalm'd shall be,
And like his fame last to Eternitie;
At common Funeralls each vulgar quill
Into some broken rapture can distill,
And with the watry tribute of the eye
Dissolve into some easie Elegie:
Should we not then pay to this honour'd Herse
Our griefs drest up in more refined Verse,
And mix with it such a large streame of brine,
It might these precious Reliques even enshrine?
The gratefull wind would from his ashes sweep
Such clouds of dust, that if we could not weep,
'Twould throw them thence into our barren eyes,
And (though unwilling) force some tears to rise:
I am no Laureat, nor does any Bay
Surround my Temples, if it did, Il'd lay
That wreath (brave Harcourt) on thy Tomb, that wee
At once might crowne thy victorie, and thee.
But though I weare no Bayes, in either eye
Is worne a teare, sorrowes best Liverie;
In which I'le steep each verse, that so their brine
May distribute some salt to everie line:
And when my barren and exhausted eyes
Grow bankrupt in their watry Obsequies,
And spend their stock too soon, those stars which shin'd
To light thee into th' world, and did unwind
The Fate of thy great actions, sure will turne
To tears, and drop in gelly on thy Vrne:
Though thus two fountaines flow from either eye,
T'embalme thy dust, my Phancy yet is dry:
But pardon me, that on thy hallow'd tomb
I've stuck no Epitaph, which might become
An Index to past ages, and display
To times to come, how (through that purple sea
Which from thy wounds in such a deluge ran)
Thy soule passed o're to th'Land of Canaan,
White with her innocence, alas no stone
Would serve to beare the sad Inscription;
For even that Marble that is put in trust.
To be the wardrobe for thy weeds of dust,
Will to deplore so great a losse (my fears
Tell me) by instinct too melt into tears.

On a Gentlewoman struct blind with the small Pox.

What have we poor unhappie Mortalls done,
Such an Eclipse is cast o're beauties sun?
What? was this cloud let loose to veile its light,
'Cause it too much astonish'd our dull sight?
Or did some goddesse, fearing we might pay
A Superstitious homage to each ray,
This beauties eyes powr'd forth, become unkind,
And to prevent this tribute strike her blind?
Or are her eyes preserv'd? and cannot wee,
Blinded by too much light their lustre see?
Or has Iove fixt them in the starrie Sphere,
To shine by night, as they by day shone here?
If so; no more let lovers from afarre
Court the loose aspect of the Cyprian starre;
Nor let the erring Mariner no more
Worship the Lædan starres, nor yet implore
With volleyes of loud sighs, they would dispence
From their kind Orb propitious influence:
For her refulgent sparkling eyes, that were
On earth, the brightest stars in beauties Sphere,
And shone with such a clear and constant light,
That Our Horizon was by them made bright,
Shine forth in heaven, a Constellation, now,
And will, from their auspitious Orb, endow
Lovers with such mild influxe, at their birth,
That heaven they've found above, they'l find on earth;
And to the Saylor that has lost his way
'Mongst the wild Alpes and Deserts of the Sea,
Dart such cleare beams that they shall steer him right,
So that hee'l need no Pilot, but their light.

On the death of M. George Sandys.

When that Arabian bird, the Phœnix dies,
Who on her pile of spices bedrid lies,
And does t'herselfe a sacrifice become,
Making her grave an Altar, and a Wombe,
T'inclose her pregnant dust, she can redeem
Those ruines she her selfe has made, and teem
With a new Phœnix: but now Sandys is gone,
And melted to a dissolution,
I'th Furnace of a Feaver, can his Vrne
An equall fine, or interest returne
For those remains it keeps? Alas, we here
Are wholly beggar'd; for his Sepulcher
Is like some thrifty Steward, put in trust
To take account of every grain of dust
That moulders from the fabrick of his clay,
But when the generall fire which the last day
Shall sparkle with, shall a new flame inspire
Into his Vrne, and that Poetick fire
Which was so long an Inmate to his brest,
Shall be call'd forth from out that Marble Chest,
Where it now lies rak'd up amongst the dust,
And embers of his clay; and when that rust
That choakes it up, shall be dispers'd, the light
Of this enfranchis'd flame shall shine so bright
Amidst our Horison, 'twill seem to be
The Constellation of all Poetrie.
Tell me not then, that Piramids disband,
And drop to dust; that times ungentle hand
Has crush'd into an indigested Masse,
And heap of Ruines, Obelisques of Brasse,
That our perfidious tombs (as loath to say
We once had life and being too) decay;
And that those Flowers of Beauty which do grow
In Ladies cheeks, amidst a bed of snow,
Are wither'd on their stalk; or that one Gust
Of a bleake Ague can resolve to dust
Those hands which did a Globe and Scepter hold,
Or that that head which wore a Crowne of Gold,
May be wrap'd up within a shroud of Lead,
Neglected, and forgot, since Sandys is dead;
Within whose Brest Wits Empire seem'd to be,
And in whose Braine a Mine of Poetrie:
For who'l not now confesse, that Time's that Moth
Which frets into all Art, and Nature both,
Since he who seem'd within his active Brain
So much of salt and verdure to contain,
He might have ever been preserv'd, is gone,
And shrunk away into corruption:
But these excursions their Conception owe
To passion, or from our wild Phansies flow;
All that we now can do is to returne
Some Flowers of Poesie unto his Vrne,
Which being burnt in his owne Funerall flame,
Wee'l offer up, as Incense, to his name,
Which yet by sent and colour will be known
T'have sprung from him, and t'have been first his own.
And if these Flowers cannot so perfume
His name, but that 'twill (manger these) consume,
Our tears strew'd on it, will repeale that Fate,
And in his wither'd fame, new life create;
As when the treasures of the Spring are crop'd
And by untimely Martyrdom unlop'd,
From off their stalke, we can their death reprieve,
And a new life by water to them give:
So now when Sandys like the Springs flowry birth,
By deaths rude sithe is mowed from off the earth,
And throwne into a grave, to wither there
Into a heap of ashes, though no teare
Can piece his dust together, we may weep
A Bath of tears, in which we yet may steep
His memorie, which will (like Æson) when
'Tis thus manur'd, grow fresh and young agen;
And being thus embalm'd, a Relique lie
To be ador'd by all posteritie.

On the sight of some rare Pieces and Monuments of Antiquitie, in an Antiquaries Studie.

Let Æsons Storie wast away, and be
No more transcrib'd unto posteritie:
It must now wither, and dispight of all
His powerfull baths, and moistening juices, shall
Grow wrinkled o're with age, decease, and have
(Being dead) t'entombe it in, no other grave,
But dark Forgetfulnesse; where it shall lie
For ever, buried in Obscuritie.
For, now Antiquity it selfe, with yeares
Grown white and hoarie, with long age, appears
Here fresh and vigorous; things which Ages past
Crumbled away, and did decay so fast,
They were ev'n thought in a Consumption then,
Do here rise up in a full Youth agen:
Times Æsculapius has done this; for He
'Gainst the disease of Time, a remedie
Prescribes, beyond all Druggs: He has the Art
T'embalme the fame of things; yet, not impart,
To keep them so that they shall ne're consume,
Whole clouds of Myrrhe, Spice, Cassis, and Perfume:
And, as the Loadstone Iron can call out,
When 'tis beleaguer'd, and ev'n wall'd about
With other wild confused heaps of dust;
So, when mens names grow fretted with the rust
Age strewes upon them, and they seem to be
Lost in the ruines of mortalitie;
He, from that rude and blended Masse, can bring
Their dead remembrance out, and can new wing
Those thus rais'd up to life, and make them flie
'Bove Times wide reach, up to Eternitie:
He can peece up mens scatter'd dust, his hands
Mannage a powerfull Scepter, that commands
Ev'n Fate it selfe, with which he can make blunt
The Teeth of Time, which, Estrich-like, were wont
To feed on iron, piles of brasse devoure,
And Natures beauty, like a Moath, defloure.
In fine, this study is the publike Ark
In which the memories of men embark;
Which, being here repriev'd from death, do shun
The being drown'd in deep Oblivion.

An Epithalamium.

The Bride is up: Go, bid the Negro creep
Into the watrie bowells of the Deep,
To gather up those orient Pearles, which dwell
In the contracted casquet of a shell:
Command him to examine every rock,
To pluck off Diamonds from that craggie stock,
And hang them all on her, that so the light
That breaks from her cleare eys, may make them bright.
Behold, the active Bridegroom does appeare
Fresh as the Sun, i'th nonage of the yeare,
Whilst ev'rie flower unclasps its leaves, as he
Walks by, as if they did delight to be
Enlivened with those odours, which his breath
Does (like rich perfumes) to the ayre bequeath.
And now he meets his Bride, whilst from their eyes
A numerous constellation seems to rise:
So that each one which viewes them from afarre,
Thinks that each glance of theirs darts forth a starre.
And now the Priest has (with his Nuptiall Bands)
At once united both their hearts and hands.
And, though the Essence of their chast delight
Must be prorogu'd, till Day be mask'd with Night:
Yet see, their soules prevent their bodies blisse,
Both making hast to couple in a kisse;
Whilst on those twisted beams their eye-balls shed,
They even seem each others hearts to thred:
So that, their eyes the bodies office do,
In mingling thus; and beget Babies too.

On a Nymph pourtrayed in stone, that powred forth two spouts of water from her eyes into a Garden.

Think that this Statue which now courts your view,
VVas once a virgin of that glorious hue,
Set out and furnish'd with such charming grace,
Each durst affirme she had an Angells face;
But as those Mineralls, which the teeming Earth,
Combining with the Sun, improves with birth,
Do through the womb o'th' Mine their veines diffuse,
That Metalls like themselves they may produce:
Ev'n so that rockie hardnesse, which was bred
Within the caverns of her heart, did spred
A drowsie numnesse thorow everie sense,
Whose chilnesse all those Organs did condense,
That gave attendance on the Braine, (the Throne
Where Life and Motion sit install'd) to stone:
But 'cause before those sparkling rayes, her eyes
Powr'd forth, did make each heart love sacrifice;
Thy spouts of teares, though turn'd to stone, distill,
As if they wept for those their scorne did kill.

On one dead of a Dropsie.

VVe need not here be lavish, and let fall
Our teares, as tribute, to this Funerall,
Since here we see the Body did resent,
And ev'n, by private instinct, so lament
The Soules departure, that it did appeare,
Transform'd by griefe, to one continued teare.

To a Gentlewoman viewing her selfe in her glasse.

Cruell faire one, think this Glasse,
Wherein you now behold your face,
Was compos'd of one who dyed
For love of you, since he applyed
His liquid and dissolving eyes,
So long with teares to sacrifice
To your disdaine, that to relieve
His Bankrupt and impoverish'd griefe
With a fresh stock of moysture, hee
Melted to a spring, which see
The cold, but charitable North,
(Lest a fountaine of such worth
Should, by vulgar lips, be tasted,
Or profanely be exhausted)
Congeal'd into a Chrystall Masse,
Of which was form'd this Looking-glasse:
And as your Figure faire did rest,
Within this Lovers living brest,
So still you see it doth appeare,
Though turn'd to Chrystall, harbour'd there.

An Elegie offered up to the memorie of Anne Countesse of Caernarvon

An Elegie on Robert Earle of Caernarvon, slain at the battell of Newberie.

Whoever will unsluce his eyes, and lave
A streame of pious teares out on this Grave,
Sure, cannot think those Obsequies mis-spent,
He shall lay out upon this Monument:
For, from the stone thus softened by his Eyes,
So many sprigs of Lawrell shall arise,
That Passengers shall think this tomb the Cell,
Where unplum'd victorie did ever dwell.
For even she her selfe, when Dormer died,
Wounded through him, lay bleeding by his side;
But he is dead without a sigh or groane,
Vented by the worlds Genius, to bemoane
His sad decease? for sure, his losse should be
Sigh'd out to us, in no lesse Elegie.
Do not the gratefull Elements conspire
To pay some tribute back for that brave fire
Which warm'd his bosome? and does now enshrine
It selfe in theirs, which sure will so refine
Their dull and sluggish matter, that 'twill be
Improv'd agen to its first puritie;
If from that foame each wrinkled billow strowes
On the embroider'd shore a Venus rose,
No lesse, sure, then a Mars or Hermes must
Rise from each graine of his unblemisht dust,
If every Roman Victor could allow
Each act of his a Statue, and endow
His name with Trophies, that it nere might rust,
Or be obscurely buried in his dust:
We must impoverish each Corinthian Mine,
And rob the Parian Quarries, to enshrine
His name in Marble, for his actions will
Each Page in times successive Annalls fill.
What Cataracts of shot, what stormes of lead
Were oft let loose on his unshaken head?
That those which view'd him from a farre, began
Much to suspect they saw a Leaden man:
But when they saw him with such speed invade
And breake the bodie of a Troop, it made
Them change that Faith, and think that he had been
Converted to some winged Cherubin;
Or else so briefe and sudden was his Flight,
Transform'd into a nimble beame of Light.
But shall that flame which did so clearly burn
Within his Brest, lye rak'd up in his Vrn,
Vntill the last dayes generall Fire transmit
A second light to re-enkindle it?
No sure, his tomb cannot so check that Flame,
But 'twill breake forth to shine about his name,
Or in some bright and shaggie Comet rise,
To light a toarch at his owne Obsequies.

A Pastorall Court-ship.

Faire Iulia let the heat of Love
Which within thy Heart does move,
And there is lodg'd as in its Sphere,
Still from thine eyes each brinie teare,
In which dull sorrow thou dost steep,
And never teach thy eyes to weep,
But when some transcendent joy
Does thy glutted senses cloy.
Thou art Natures Magazine,
Or her casket rather, in
Whose narrow precincts she hath pent
The treasure that both Indies sent:
I'th closets of thy lips she locks
The blushing Rubies of the Rocks:
In the store-house of each eye
Her refulgent Diamonds lie:
In thy teeth her pearle she puts,
And in each veine a Saphire shuts:
Thy haire containes the gold o'th West:
Thy breath the spices of the East:
And o're thy skins faire Margent's drawn
A curtaine of the finest Lawn:
So that those Lillies sweet, which dare
With thee in whitenesse to compare,
To expiate so black a sin,
Want white to do their penance in,
And their vanquish'd heads do bow,
In veneration of thy brow.
See how the flowers and plants combine,
And their od'rous leaves untwine,
That in those sweet Exchecquers they
May that stock of spices lay,
Which (like Easterne winds) thy breath
Does to'th perfum'd ayre bequeath.
Canst thou these drooping flowers faire
With thy powerfull beames repaire,
And animate? and shall not I
Light a flame up at thine eye?
See how those Diamonds are dismaid,
With which thy bosome is arraid,
Because the splendor that does rise
From the Chrysolites of thy eyes,
Does transcend their feeble light,
And look as drowsie, as if night
Lay hid in them, and will, I feare,
Each melt into an envious teare:
Canst thou thaw these, and shall not I
With those teares that either eye
From their brinie Springs impart,
Melt the hardnesse of thy heart?
If thou art barren in desire,
And canst not burne in equall fire,
Those sighs which from my bosome flow,
A flame throughout my brest shall blow;
And those frequent tears Ile shed
From the cisternes of my head,
Shall so manure thy heart, thou'lt be
Fruitfull straight in love like me.

On a sparke-of fire fixing on a Gentlewomans brest.

Faire Julia sitting by the fire,
An amorous spark, with hot desire,
Flew to her brest, but could not melt
The chast snow there, which when it felt,
And that resistance it did bide,
For griefe it blush'd, and so it di'd.
Yet lest it should prove ought unkind,
It contrite ashes left behind.

On a spark fastening on a Gentlewomans cheek.

If this small spark which bore so thin a blaze,
Could in each part so much resentment raise,
And to your cheek so much of anguish waft,
And on your skins unblemisht margent graft
Such signalls of its rigour; oh then deeme
What torments of a far more high esteeme,
My martyr'd heart must struggle with, which fries
In flames of Love, first kindled by your eyes.

On the death of the much admired and much lamented, Mr. Francis Quarles.

Amongst that solemne Traine of Friends, which sing
Thy Dirge (great Soule) and to thy Name do bring,
As to some shrine, the sacrifice of praise,
Daigne to accept these course and home-spun Layes:
Alas, what can the world expect from me,
As tribute to thy Hearse, since if there be
Within me any flame, or heat divine,
That warms my brest, 'twas kindled first by thine;
And from that pure and active Fire did come,
Which is lockt up i'th Casquet of thy Tomb,
Whose heat (perchance) may thaw my barren eyes,
And make them shed some watrie Obsequies,
But cannot make my drowsie Fancie flame,
In sad and pious raptures to thy Name;
Or light some Poem up, whose glimmering rayes,
About thy Name in time to come might blaze;
Or if it could, that sickly Flame would be,
But a dim Index to thy memorie,
And only here remaine like those few bright
Streaks in the aire, when the expiring light
Is blind with darknesse, and the day is done,
To tell the world that there has been a Sun.
As he that would disband the Diamond, must
Encounter it with its owne proper dust:
So he that would enshrine thy Name in Verse,
Or strew some Epitaph upon thy Hearse,
Can never any pure, or noble fire,
Into his dull unactive thoughts inspire,
Vnlesse that Fire his Fancie burnes with, bee
First lighted by a spark that flew from thee;
And as when he that frames a watch, would see
What loose distemper, or infirmitie,
Is in the Fabrick, how the wheels are set,
Or with what pace the sickly pulse does beat,
Straight to the Sun applies his eye, and can
Cure the disease by his Meridian:
So he that would write well, and write of thee,
And regularly winde up an Elegie,
And in such equall poise his phansie set,
The pulse might with well-paced numbers beat,
Must all his lines proportion, and make fit
To goe by the Meridian of thy wit.
Thus from the duskie confines of thy urne,
Thou shalt again to th' bankrupt world return:
And after death (Fame shall thee so preferre)
Be to thy selfe thy own Executer,
That all our summes of wit may seem to be
But onely Legacies paid in by thee.

His Epitaph.

Reader, this Tombe is put in trust,
To keep a heap of learned dust,
Which, we dare presume, will shun
The Fate of putrefaction.
For, that salt which did remaine
Cloyster'd up within his braine,
Will so preserve his Reliques, they
Shall never languish, or decay:
However, let our eyes returne
Streams of teares unto his urne:
For, those his Reliques sure will free
From all corruptibilitie:
Or els, contracting into one,
Will grow another Helicon.
Nor have we any cause to feare,
That we shall want the Muses there:
For, when he died, they did become
Themselves the Inmates to his tombe.

A thankfull acknowledgement to those Benefactours that contributed to the re-edifying of Clare-Hall in Cambridge.

Should we entomb your benefits within
Vnthankfull silence, so deform'd a sin
No teares would expiate, we might seeme to be
Astonisht by some drowsie Lethargie,
Or blasted with some Apoplectique Fit,
VVhich had at once congeal'd both braine and wit;
VVe therefore to your Names devoutly pay
The tribute of our thanks, and would defray
Our debt in nobler coyne, could we but vie
In words, with our big thoughts, or amplifie
Our hands, as wide as we can do our soules;
But this in us our thriftie Fate controules:
For you have snatcht us from the Earth, where we
Lay wrapt up in our owne deformitie,
And have reduc'd a House that was become,
Both to it selfe and Founders name, a tomb,
And like th'Idæa of the Chaos, lay
Deform'd, and indigested by decay,
To shape and beauite, and do so prolong
Its fading lustre, it againe growes young,
Like wither'd Æson, so that now we trust,
Twill Phœnix-like revive from out its dust,
And grow into one Fabrick (though 'twas shrunk
Before into a scatter'd heap, and sunk
Almost beneath its ruines) to upbraid
The coldnesse of these times, which does invade
Each hand, and so benums it, that we see
It cannot open unto Charitie;
But to improve, and widen out each Name
Of yours, to such a spatious length of Fame,
They may survive, till time and they become
Both Tenants, and both Inmates to one tombe:
So that when Mauselæum's shrink to dust,
And Obelisques of Brasse disband with rust,
When Pyramids themselves dissolve, and lie
(Manger their height) low in obscuritie;
And all those swelling piles preceding time
Establisht, onely to blanch o're their crimes;
Or fortifie some name, against the rage
Of Fate, and the rude batteries of age
Shall be dispers'd to ashes, and be spent,
Clare-Hall shall be your lasting Monument.
And, though in other tombes youl'd shrink away,
And melt into corruption, and decay,
Your Fame this Charter to it selfe can give,
Within this Monument you'l ever live.

Vpon the sight of a Tombe.

Welcome thou common Wardrobe, where we lay
(When we throw off the luggage of our clay)
Our weeds of earth, here the dull Peasant shall
(Bating the pomp only o'th Funerall)
Sleep even as warm under his turfe alone,
As Kings beneath their coverlets of stone.
Here slave, and tyrant, in this Marble Cell,
Shall calmly meet, and both together dwell,
Mingled into one heap of dust: here those
That, to improve their interest, do pose,
And tire their wearied thoughts out, to display
Some Engine, by whose powerfull succour, they
May clasp their wide and vast designe, will finde,
When they have stretcht endeavour, to unwinde
Their wild attempts, this Earth is but a ball,
Which when they struggle for to grasp, will fall
To dust between their hands, and never suffice
Their spatious thoughts, till't stop both mouth and eyes.
Here those refulgent eyes, that from their bright,
And radient stock of glances, shed such light
Through every part of our dark Orb, they shone
A Constellation in our Horizon,
Like two inanimate blind cinders, must
Lie rak'd up in a shuffled heap of dust:
Nay and that fire, which did so often dart
Flame into Lovers brests, till either heart
Glow'd with a mutuall fervour, must be here
Drown'd in the deluge of a Funerall teare,
And in this cabinet of ruines lie,
A tribute paid unto mortalitie:
Onely those nobler and eternall Fires
Devotion in our melting soules inspires,
Shall (when this frame sinks into dust, and all
The heat that warmes this masse of earth, shall fall
Into some gloomy vault) soare upwards, hence,
Borne on the wings of peace, and innocence.

On my selfe being sicke of a Feaver.

Lord, I confesse, I do not know
Whether my dust shall yet, or no,
I'th furnace of this Feaver, be
Calcin'd into Eternitie:
Whether through this red Sea of blood,
Which in such a swelling flood
From the unsluced channell ran,
I shall passe o're to Canaan:
Or that these sweats shall wash away
From off my soule that heap of clay,
In which, as in some narrow shell,
She, like some lazie snaile, did dwell:
If it be now thy fatall doome,
That I must melt into a Tomb,
There by the last dayes fire once more
To be made refined Ore,
And so receive thy stamp agin,
No more to be raz'd out by sin;
And that this Flame I glow with, shall
Into my hollow Marble fall,
Then warme my soule with heavenly fire,
That as these smokie heats expire,
I being wing'd with that may flie
Vp to Immortalitie.

On the noyse of Thunder.

By Nature w'are inform'd, that when a Cloud
Vapours endow'd with heat and cold do shroud
The active hot, the sluggish cold assaile
So long, till both dissolve their watrie Jaile,
And break their watrie chaines, when through the aire,
The glittring lightning spreads its fluent haire;
So from those factious strugglings, and those throwes
This clouds ore-laden womb is torne with, growes;
That dismall clafhing, and the noyse we heare,
Which so amazes the astonisht Eare:
But these are but conjectures, it may bring
Its rise and growth from a far higher spring;
For some malignant Exhalations,
Drawne from a Mine of Sulphur, by the Suns
Reflex may be inflam'd, or else that Fire
The upper Region darts, may Flame inspire:
Nay more, some sullen Vapour, which like Hay,
Being long bound up in liquid fetters, may
Give fire unto it selfe, or there may be
Some other dark and gloomie cause, which we
Cannot, whilst dust hangs in our eyes descrie,
Which may become its first Incendiarie:
God has lockt up the Meteors in a mist,
Which skreenes them from our sight, could we untwist
The second causes, and divide that Line
That Nature ties, yet could we not untwine
The threds they're woven out of, or unwind
The Mint, where their first Principles were coin'd.
Lord, when thou speak'st in thunder from thy Throne,
The Eccho of thy Voyce shall be a grone;
When thou unclasp'st the windowes of the Skies,
Supreme Divinitie, unsluce mine eyes,
That when the spangled Aire its lightning weares,
Those Flames may be put out with contrite teares.

On one cured of the Stone.

Ovr first Originall from stones we drew,
Ere since Deucalion and old Pyrrha threw
Stones into men, and since by a defect
In Nature, and the sins we daily act,
We hatch that in us, which declares to all,
We something of our first Originall
Still treasure up, which is preserv'd within
The caverns of the Lungs, or Reins, and in
The circuit of the Bladder, which we try
To crush, by each approved remedy,
Which peradventure scatters it, yet still
We leave untoucht the root that fed this ill,
We may the stone i'th Bladder cure, tis true,
And that that grates upon the Reins subdue;
But yet no Oyle, no Antidote, or Art,
But only Grace, can cure the stone i'th Heart.

A Parley between an Epicure and a Christian.

Ep.
VVhy dost thou thus deface thy self with tears,
Before th'art tenanted by years?
Call in those briny showers of dew, thine eyes
Contribute as sad Obsequies,
To the untimely Funerall of that grace,
Which did before adorne thy face.

Ch.
Fond man, these teares are by mine eyes allow'd,
To serve me for a Chrystall shroud,
In whose thin folds, I my old man may hide,
By contrition mortifide;
And with these drops wipe off those spots of sin,
Which have so stain'd my soule within.

Ep.
But why with throngs of grones do you enlarge
The Theame of sorrow, and discharge
Volleyes of sighs, that breath were better spent,
In tricking up a complement,
By which you might a Ladies heart surprize,
And yet her brest ne're prejudice.

Ch.
Vaine man, these sighs, I like my Proxie send
To Heaven, that there they may attend
My scaling that bright Mansion, and be
My Advocates to plead for me,
When all by Gods citation summon'd are,
To be arraigned at his Bar.

Ep.
But I adjure you to informe me, why
You to such harsh austeritie
Farme out each houre, and to such strictnesse wed
Your life? as if y'had long been dead,
And your soule only mov'd a corps, your frame
Such rigid fasts, to curb and tame
Your carnall tumults banishing delight,
The Confines of your Appetite:
Desist this rigour on your selfe to act,
Since y'are not able to detect,
Whether or no, when you your breath resigne,
Any part of you shall decline
Th'arrest of Death, since Fate sayes all must go,
But whither, who can living know?

Ch.
Foole, therefore do I thus attempt to curb
Those passions, that would disturb
My purer thoughts, my flesh with fasts empaire,
And employ my tongue in prayer,
Checking the wild rebellions of my earth,
And strangling of them in their birth;
That being devested of that earthy weight,
Which did oppresse, and clog my Faith,
I might on wings of Contemplation flie,
And soare beyond the vaulted skie;
And by the scrutinie of Faith, Opticks see,
What place in Heaven's design'd for mee,

Ep.
What is that Faith you vaunt of? I have read
Natures large Book, contemplated
Philosophies myst'ries, but ne're could know
The cause from whence Faith first did flow.

Ch.
You may in quest of Natures secrets end
Myriads of years, and ages spend,
Till you all knowledge to your selfe ingrosse,
Yet ne're know Faith, till you can spell Christs Crosse.

A Collation between Death and Sleep.

Death, and his drowsie kinsman, Sleep, agree
In all the symptomes of Conformitie;
Sleep's caus'd by eating, for the naturall heat
Entices exhalations from the meat,
Transfus'd to Chylus, which the Braine possesse
With an intoxicating drowsinesse;
Death too by fatall eating first came in,
When our first Parents willfully did sin,
And offer'd violence to Gods Decree,
Tasting the fruit of the forbidden tree:
And as when sootie night her darknesse sheds
Through the vast Concave of the aire, and spreads
A Vaile o're bright Hyperion, we devest
Our bodies, to compose our selves to rest:
So our enfranchis'd soules shall likewise be
Disroab'd o'th weeds of their Mortalitie,
VVhen death shall an eternall night disperse
Through all those Functions that with life commerce.
And as when the great eye o'th day displayes,
In the illuminated aire, his Rayes,
The Light dispers'd in glimpses does inspire
Our hands againe our bodies to attire;
So when the Trump at the last day shall all
By its shrill Summons to Gods Audit call,
And Christs the Sun of Righteousnesse shall come,
To distribute to th' world a publike Doom,
Our moulder'd and disbanded bodies must
Quit the close confines of their beds of dust,
To cloath again our widdow'd Soules, and be
Enstated both with Immortalitie.

On himselfe being stung by a Wasp.

VVhen first this busie testie Wasp did fix
His sting in me, and did his venome mix
With my untainted bloud, my skin begun
To swell to an Imposthumation.
How did each part by sympathie complaine,
Stretch'd and distorted on the rack of paine?
What flames did this Incendiarie fling
From out the narrow quiver of his sting,
Into each part? which through my veins were thrown,
And through each Nerve and Arterie were blown.
If then a Wasp can so afflict each sense,
How great must be the sting of conscience?

On the Nativitie of our Saviour.

VVho can forget that ne're forgotten night,
That sparkled with such unaccustom'd Light?
Wherein when darknesse had shut in the day,
A Sun at midnight did his beams display;
And God who mans fraile house of earth compos'd
Himselfe in a fraile house of earth enclos'd,
Who did controule the Fire, Aire, Sea, and Earth,
Was clad with all these foure, and had a birth
In time, who was begotten before time,
Received a birth, or th' early Sun did climb
Th' ascent o'th East, whom the vast Aire, and Main,
And Precincts of the earth could not contain,
Is circumscrib'd now in so briefe a roome,
Hee's lodg'd i'th circuit of a Virgins womb;
Who light to him, that was all Light, did give,
And made him, who was life it selfe, to live:
Who in her arms bore him, whose hand controules
The massie Globe, and bears up both the poles:
And what improv'd the Miracle begun,
He was at once her Father, Spouse and son:
VVho then his Mother was by farre more old
Yet equall age, did with his Father hold,
VVho was a child, yet with his word did make
The world, and with his voice this world can shake:
Now Truths great Oracle it selfe was come,
The Faithlesse Oracles were strucken dumb.
No marvell if the Shepherds ran to see
Him, that should everie Shepherds Shepherd bee:
VVho was the Door, through whom a certain way
To find out life, for all lost sheep there lay:
And though this Sun of Righteousnesse did lie
VVrapt up in Clouds of darke Obscurity,
Yet he could such a stock of light allow,
As did the Heavens with a new Star endow,
Which with its beames did gratefully attend
Him, who at first those streams of light did lend,
And by the Conduct of its Rayes did bring
The Easterne Kings to see their heavenly King.
And though all Stars, by Natures Lawes, does run
A course contrariant to the course o'th Sun;
Yet loe, her Statutes violated were,
For here the Sun was followed by a Starre.

On Christs Passion, a Descant

Darknesse had now clos'd up the worlds bright eye,
And drawne a Maske of vapours o're the skie;
And all the beamy tapers of the night
In sable clouds had muffled up their light.
Twas Pietie called in their beames, th'ad been
Found Accessarie else to such a sin,
They ne're could have affoill'd, though from their sphear,
They should themselves have drop'd i'th shape of tears:
They had lent light and influence to betray
Him, from whose light they borrow'd every ray.
When with her pitchy Exhalation
Night had thus vail'd the lustre of the sun,
A Cataract of armed men did powre
Themselves into that Garden, where each flowre
By th' Incense of those Prayers that Christ expir'd
A balmy stocke of fresh Perfumes acquir'd:
And being now broake in, did forthwith run
With glimmering torches, to find out the Sun;
Yet could not this thick cloud of men benight
This glorious Lamp, the Fountaine of all light,
Till th' interposing of false Iudas lips
Obscur'd his beams, and caus'd a black Eclipse:
Yet when he snatcht his treacherous lips away,
He straight shot forth such a refulgent Ray,
The Souldiers by their darkned eyes did find,
Th' Excellencie o'th Object struck them blind:
But as a dying Tapour, when it streames
Its fainting light forth in contracted beams,
Musters together all its sickly rayes,
VVith those to stock and furnish out one blaze;
Our Saviour, so to intimate, that He
Still held a League with his Divinitie,
Cited together such a stock of Light,
That He astonisht the dull gazers sight,
And by a sudden damp ev'n struck them blind
That were made so before i'th eye o'th mind,
Scattering them all to th' Earth, when they were even
About to captivate the King of Heaven;
But when he summon'd in his beames to be
Again wrapt up in his humanitie,
And he appear'd to them in's old array,
Cloath'd in a garment woven out of clay,
Not spangled o're with those Majestick Rayes,
Which did at once enlighten and amaze,
They straight invade him; and his guiltlesse hands
Twisted in one with wreaths of cords, (whose bands
Loos'd them) then guard him to the Judgement-hall,
Who had for guard the Quire Angelicall.
And now th' high Priest is brought to be accus'd
Before the high Priest, who scoft at, and traduc'd
Him, unto whom he his own Priesthood ow'd,
And from which Spring all other Priesthood flow'd:
And then transmitted him, (who once shall come
To doom all Mankind) to receive his doom
From Pilates mouth, who though there did arise
Thick Exhalation from those Calumnies
The black-mouth Jewes belch'd forth, could clearly see,
Through those dark vapours Christs Integritie;
And did his Innocence so much resent,
That he decreed to wave his punishment,
And leave Barrabas, to be offer'd on
Their Altar, for his expiation:
But they to their first purposes did cleave
VVith so much malice, they their King did leave,
And chose an abject Thiefe, unhappy they,
To let Barabbas steale their hearts away:
Which when he saw, and that they still went on
T'exact of him Christs Crucifixion,
He left them to their rage, and from his blood
VVasht his pale hands, who with a crimson flood
VVasht off our sins, so that for this black deed
VVater it selfe did expiation need.
VVhen thus the Jewes their Saviour had surpris'd
(VVho for their sins was to be sacrific'd)
They to a feeble Pillar straight did chaine
The Pillar that did Natures Frame sustaine,
And with rude stripes to plough his back begin,
Whose stripes doe heale the wounds impos'd by sin:
The souldiers next with supple knees do bring
A faigned Haile unto their reall King,
And with a Crowne of thornes his head empound,
VVho with a Crowne of Glorie could surround
Their wretched heads, then spit at, and dispise
Him, that with spittle gave the blind man eyes:
(Strange Prodigie, the King of Kings has none
But spittle for his holy Vnction)
And with those hands he gave them does embase
VVith scarres the sacred impresse of his face:
His bodie with a scarlet Robe they dresse,
VVho clothes the naked with his Righteousnesse;
And for an awfull Scepter in his hand,
They place a Reed, whose Scepter does command
The spacious Bulk of Nature, and controules
That massiie Globe that hangs between the Poles.
VVhen they had thus a cloud of hatred shed
In showers of scoffs upon his guiltlesse head,
They lead him to mount Calvarie, where he
Was to wind up his direfull Tragedie;
And by the way enforc'd himselfe to beare
His Crosse, which was reciprocally there
To beare up him, where being arriv'd, he's laid
Vpon the Crosse, his Altar to be made,
The publike Sacrifice, and expiate
The guilt of Sin, and crush the power of Fate:
And now made ragged with his wounds, and rent
With inward torture, being embost, and spent
With this last agonie, he did addresse
Himselfe t'implore some julip, to suppresse
The flames of thirst; the Jewes did straight prefer
A spunge, which was bedew'd with vinegar,
To calme his scorching thirst, who did unlock
The stony Casquet of the barren Rock,
And thaw'd its liquid treasures, to redresse
That thirst, which Israel scorcht i'th wildernesse:
Yet though he cleft that Rock, he could not part
The rock contracted in each Jewish heart.
When Christ had tasted this sowre Opiate,
And saw the Prophesies had spun their Fate,
His breath exhaled to purge the aire, and he
Resign'd his tir'd and wearied Soule, to be
Transported, on the downy wings of Blisse,
Vp to the spangled vault of Paradise;
And with it flew the good Theefes soule, who even
Stole life at death, and made a theft of Heaven:
But lest that Christ, with such neglect should fall,
He might want Rites to grace his Funerall,
The Sun call'd in his light, to specifie,
That men durst do that which he durst not see;
Day put on Night, lest she should seeme to lack,
For to great losse, her Ceremonious Black;
The palsied Earth so shook, as if her womb,
She meant to open, and become his Tomb;
The Dead deserted their cold Vrnes, to see
Him, that o're Death could claime a victorie:
So that it seemes, ev'n Nature here did turne
A Mourner too, t'attend him to his Vrne:
And now, being dead, a Speare was through his side,
By a rude hand dismist, which wound may hide
Our numerous sins, or if there be not roome,
We may inter them all within his Tomb:
The Souldiers too, in lots their fortunes drew,
To see to whom Christs garments would accrue,
As a just Prize, they dreaded to dissect
His seamelesse Coat, yet that we daily act,
Which by these barbarous Souldiers ne're was done,
We part his Coat by our division.
Whilst thus Christs vestments were in Lotterie,
Expos'd a prey to Fortune, Joseph, he
Pilate (with eyes thaw'd into teares) implor'd
Christs body torne with wounds might be restor'd:
Thrice happie man, the Body he obtaines,
And his owne soule too by that purchase gaines;
And having now his lawfull Boon fulfill'd,
He gather'd all those Balmes that were distill'd
From weeping Trees, and took those unctious teares,
That Myrrha in a Tree imprison'd weares,
And made this confluence of Balsoms meet
All in Christs wounds, that they might make it sweet;
Then in white Linnen did his Corps enshrine,
Whose innocence did cloath his sins as fine:
And next, this sacred Relique did inter
In the dark climate of a Sepulcher,
Hewen in a Rock: Oh! who'ld not breathe a grone?
The Rock it selfe is laid beneath a Stone.

A divine Aspiration.

O thou who art the good Samaritan,
Whose hand, when sin both strips and woundeth, can
Shed such a balme upon us, 'twill ensure
Those wounds from rankling, and improve their cure.
Be, as thou art, the Embleme of the Vine,
And in my wounds powre in thy oyle, and wine.
And, as thou heretofore the rock didst part,
So with thy grace, Lord, cleave my stonie heart.
Naile to thy Crosse my sins, and let them have
A room to burie them within thy grave.
Thy stripes can heale my stripes, thy righteousnesse
My Scarlet sins with its white robe can dresse.
The water lav'd out at thy wounded side,
Will wash my guilt off, and that supple tide
Which from that sluce in such full streams did bleed.
My soule, even hunger-starv'd with sin, shall feed.
Thy wounds shall be my wounds, thy teares shall be
My teares; for, thy whole passion was for me.
Let thy all-saving merits but entwine
My tottering faith; thy heaven too shall be mine.

On the future burning of the World.

No more shall the o're-laden clouds dissolve
In spouts of raine, and so the world involve
In a wild deluge, which shall swell so high,
Its towring height shall tempt the vaulted skie;
And even invite the sullen starres, to weare
Vpon each glittring beame a mourning teare;
Which they againe shall mutually let fall,
As a Rite due to the worlds Funerall.
No more shall warie mankinde, to beguile
The rage o'th Flood, lurk in a wooden Ile:
But when the tainted world is so defil'd
With her pollutions, and so deeply soil'd
With the dark spots of sin, that 'twere but vaine
To think, that water should wipe off each staine
That sullies it; God will display his ire
In cataracts of all-consuming fire,
With which this Globe of Earth so long shall burn,
Till it into repentant ashes turn:
And, till, at last, it but one Torch become,
To light expiring Nature to her Tombe.

On a Gentleman buried in one grave with his daughter, before deceased.

Reader, those sleep beneath this stone,
Whom life made two first out of one;
But having now resign'd their breath,
They will grow one againe by death.
For, should we on his grave intrude,
To view how much vicissitude
Attends on Nature, and how she
Masks her selfe in varietie
Of numerous shapes, and after date
To paddle in his sepulcher,
Amongst his dust, we might inferre,
He was shuffled into her.
For, time determines, that both must
Resolve into one heap of dust:
But when the world it selfe expires,
Panting with heat, and God requires
Each gloomy vault, and hollow tombe,
To open its corrupted wombe,
And give their ashes, which were pent,
And cas'd up there, enfranchisement,
That being re-edified, they may
No more be obvious to decay,
Or Natures Tumults, this last birth
Will disunite their mingled Earth:
And, as their first life did divide them, so
This second life again will make them two.

On thought of our Resurrection.

VVho can be of so cow'd a Soule, hee'ld feare
To be regenerate i'th sepulcher,
Since who exactly looks into the tombe,
Shall finde 'tis but the embleme of the wombe,
To which wee're not confin'd, but trusted, so,
As if we lay there in deposito:
For, when our dust is gather'd into th'urne,
It lies but hostage till the soules returne.
And, as the Phœnix, when she gasping lies
Vpon her tragick pile of Spiceries,
And glowes with heat, her fleshie cinders must,
By the Suns rayes, be martyr'd first to dust,
Before her pregnant ashes can redeem
Themselves from ruine, or again can teem
With a new Phœnix: so, before this earth
We beare about us, can improve its birth
To immortality, its whole compact
Must first be so disjoynted, and so slackt,
It fall to dust; and then 'twill moulded be
To such a body, that Eternitie
It selfe shall farme that Tenement, which shall
No more be obvious to a Funerall.
And, as before men can compile, or frame
Their glasses, they their ashes first i'th flame
Transfuse to Chrystall; so, before our dust
Can be affoil'd from excrements, or rust,
Ravel'd amongst it by our tombes, and be
Improv'd to such a cleare transparencie,
It shall no more incumber, or controule
The eye from taking a survey o'th soule,
It must be by the generall fire refin'd,
And be to a translucent Masse calcin'd:
So shall each tombe become Gods Mint, where He
(Our earth being purg'd from all impuritie)
Will on it coyne the Image of his Face,
Which Time no more, nor death shall ne're deface.