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The MERCHANT.
Upon the Death of my Br. Mr. S. S. in the Canaries.
1655.
Who knows his Fate, or where he shall expire?
'Tis comfort tho, that Heav'n is no where nigh'r
Than where we dye. The Grave's an humble rise,
From whence we take our leap into the Skies.
A true Enlargement Death for all prepares;
Takes cares from Young-men, and Old-men from cares.
Let us not then his loss of hopes deplore;
Those who have full Injoyments, hope no more.
Hope is the Balm of Life, and Balm is found
In vain, when we no more can have a Wound.
Nor could long Life have much advanc'd his Story;
They have gain'd full enough who have gain'd Glory.
His vertuous Inclinations claim that State;
Such early hopes attract the smiles of Fate,
Nor did he vainly suck in foreign Air,
Since half the World now claims in him a share.
A Life to him his loved Europe gave;
And Africk did bestow on him a Grave.
Those Isles to him did fortunate appear;
And he gain'd well who purchas'd Heaven there.
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