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That little God within, the spark divine,
Which does, i'th' Body, through the Windows shine;
Whose influence here dresses us up a Name;
And, after Death, revives us in our fame:
Whose sprightly salt preserves the Body whole
In all its Parts, 'twould else stink out the Soul:
Which, whilst incarnate, is exactly drest;
For Scarlet both keeps warm, and lines the Vest.
It is the Sun that makes these Diamonds bright;
Dark drops! till he has lin'd 'em through with light.
How vainly we employ our sensual Eyes,
When we the beauties of the Body prize?
Useless the Lanthorn is, and dark as Night,
When Death's cold blast puffs out the trem'lous Light.

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Whilst tenant'd, the House is in repair,
Built with Mud-walls of Flesh, and thatcht with Hair.
But when the Tenant's gone, 'tis ruin'd quite:
And who can say Death's cold and darksome Night,
When Fire's extinguisht, and put out the Light?

Yet ruin'd Temples still command our care,
And Stones, that made the Altar, sacred are.
For common use they should not be profan'd,
But in some choice Repositary stand;
Till by some pious resolution blest,
Once more they're fitted for the former Guest.

Great Rutland's Relicks may more rev'rence claim,
Than ever yet from Superstition came.
And 'tis but just—that we to Altars run,
Whence Blessings came, and Miracles were done.
What could from Mannors less expectted be;
Sprung from Fourth Edward's Royal Progenie?
Great York to plant his Roses here thought good,
Painting their Snow with drops of Mannor's blood.
But least th' advantages of so much cost,
Should in those azure Labyrinths be lost;
A glorious Mark eighth Henry did bestow;
That future Ages might the honour know.
No greater favour could the fame advance;
Grac'd with the Arms of England, and of France.

But I disturb his Dust with these bald Rhymes!
Dust when incurr'd, Bells cease their jangling Chimes.
Yet Love, Respect, and Truth, so fan my fire;
And from their flowing stores my breast inspire;

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That like the Prophet, they supply my Muse
(That needy Widdow) with a springing Cruse.
My Standish dreyn'd, the Fountain bubbles still;
The fruitful Subject thrives upon my Quill.
When other strengths, before their time, are spent:
As Roses, by long handling, lose their scent.

True heats of Zeal did in his Actions glow;
A warmth, that frozen Age does seldom know:
And yet his Spring was hot, for all his Snow.
Thus Fires o'th' Altar, that from Heav'n first came,
For many ages did preserve the flame.
His chearful looks did represent his mind;
Through chrystal of his Eyes his candour shin'd.
Transparent were his thoughts, his virtues known:
Through Tagus streams, the golden Sands were shown.

His Charity fell like the Morning Dew,
As beneficial, and as constant too.
His pray'rs to Heav'n, from Heav'n did blessings gain:
As Vapours, sent from Earth, descend in rain.

This was the blessed Circle he did frame;
So went his Soul to Heav'n, from whence it came.
The tow'ring Falkon thus her self does skrew
In airy Rings, till almost lost to view;
Then perches on that Hand whence first she flew.
Whilst daily crouds his lib'ral Alms did gain,
How glorious he appear'd with such a Train?
Far more than those ostentuous Pomps now shown;
Begg'ring the Countrey, to inrich the Town.

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Whose Goodness, like their Greatness, is mere show;
Like Winds, whose Being's only while they blow.
Their Names are lost in the deep calm of death;
And, Vapour-like, their fame fades with their breath.

Had I a Wreath of Bayes, I'd lay it down;
And Cypress should my Muses temples crown.
She, and her Sisters leave to boast their pride
In their extraction, by the Fathers-side;
Lay by their Vests, spun of the Morning Rayes,
And trimm'd with Mid-day-beams, like golden lace;
Courting their Aunt, (the Queen of Night) to gain
Mourning, of that same stuff did make her Train.
Accouter'd thus in fitting state sh'appears;
Pensive as Midnight, all bedew'd with tears.