Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By Thomas Philipott

Philipot, Thomas

[section]

[dedication]

To the Reader.

To the Authour. ENCOMIASTICON.

On the beholding his face in a Glasse.

On the sight of a Clock.

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

On a Gentlewoman much deformed with the small pox.

On Julia, throwing snow-balls at him.

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

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

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

To a Gentlewoman singing.

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

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

An Epitaph on Mrs. E. VV.

On the approach of night.

Considerations upon Eternitie.

A divine Hymne.

On the death of a Prince, a Meditation.

To a Lady viewing her self in her Glasse.

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

On a Gentlewoman struct blind with the small Pox.

On the death of M. George Sandys.

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

An Epithalamium.

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

On one dead of a Dropsie.

To a Gentlewoman viewing her selfe in her glasse.

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.

A Pastorall Court-ship.

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

On a spark fastening on a Gentlewomans cheek.

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

His Epitaph.

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

Vpon the sight of a Tombe.

On my selfe being sicke of a Feaver.

On the noyse of Thunder.

On one cured of the Stone.

A Parley between an Epicure and a Christian.

A Collation between Death and Sleep.

On himselfe being stung by a Wasp.

On the Nativitie of our Saviour.

On Christs Passion, a Descant

A divine Aspiration.

On the future burning of the World.

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

On thought of our Resurrection.

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On a Gentlewoman much deformed with the small pox.

What hath this prettie Faire misdone,
That angrie Heaven so soone
Mistook the fatall place,
And buried all her beautie in her face?

Each hole may be a Sepulcher,
Now fitly to inter
Those, whom her coy disdaine,
And nice contempt, has immaturely slaine.

Yet lest so great a losse should lack,
Its ceremonious black,
She weares it in her eyes,
To mourne at her owne Beauties Obsequies.

She needs no glosse to veile those scars,
And those Hebrew Characters,
Which (like letters) do display
The storie of her Beauties sad decay.

That moysture shall embalme 'hem, I
Will powre from either eye,
So that those scars she weares,
Shall need no other Ceruse, but my teares.