For fure fo well instructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd Characters.

VIII.

Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the Mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would foon unbosom all their Echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

Might think th' Infection of my forrows loud, Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

This Subject the Author finding to be above the years be bad, when he wrote it, and nothing fatisfy'd with what was begun, left it unfinisht.

F

On TIME.

LY, envious Time, till thou run out thy raee, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy Plummet's pace; And glut thy self with what thy womb devours; Which is no more than what is false and vain,

And merely mortal dross;

So little is our lofs,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,

And last of all thy greedy self confum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss,

And joy shall overtake us as a flood;
When every thing, that is sincerely good,

And

And perfectly divine,

With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine About the fupreme Throne

Of him, t'whose happy-making fight alone, When once our Heav'nly-guided Soul shall climb, Then all this Earthy grossness quit,

Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever fit, [O Time. Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee,

Y

Upon the Circumcifion.

E flaming Pow'rs, and Winged Warriours

bright,

That erst with Musick, and triumphant Song,
First heard by happy watchful Shepherds Ear,
So sweetly sung your Joy the clouds along
Through the soft filence of the lift'ning night;
Now mourn, and if sad share with us to bear
Your fiery essence can distil no tear,
Burn in your sighs, and borrow
Seas wept from our deep forrow;
He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilere
Enter'd the World, now bleeds to give us ease;
Alas, how foon our fin

Sore doth begin

His Infancy to seize!

more exceeding love, or law more just?
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!
For we by rightful doom remediless
Were loft in Death, till he that dwelt above
High thron'd in fecret bliss, for us frail dust

Emptied Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness;

And that great Cov'nant which we still tranfgrefe Intirely fatisfi'd,

And the full wrath beside

Of vengeful Justice bore for our excess,

And seals obedience first with wounding smart

This day: but oh! ere long

Huge pangs and strong

B

Will pierce more near his heart.

At a folemn Mufick.

Lest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'n's joy,

Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and

Verse,

Wed your divine sounds, and mixt pow'r employ,
Dead things with imbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd phantasie present
That undisturbed Song of pure content,
Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To him, that fits thereon,

With Saintly shout, and folemn Jubilee,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel-trumpets blow,
And the Cherubic host in thousand Choirs

Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires, With those just Spirits, that wear victorious Palms,

Hymns devout and holy Pfalms

Singing everlastingly;

That we on Earth with undiscording voice

May rightly answer that melodious noise;

AS

As once we did, till disproportion'd fin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair Musick that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we foon again renew that Song,
And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long
To his celestial confort us unite,

To live with him, and fing in endless morn of light.

AN

ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ

ON THE

Marchioness of Winchester.

T

HIS rich Marble doth inter

The honour'd Wife of Winchester.

A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir,
Besides what her Virtues fair

Added to her noble Birth,
More than she could own from Earth,
Summers three times eight save one
She had told, alas! too foon,

Alten After so short time of breath,

To house with darkness, and with death:
Yet had the number of her days
Been as compleat as her praise,
Nature and fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.

Her high Birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The Virgin choir for her request
The God, that fits at marriage-feast;
He at their invoking came,
But with a scarce-well-lighted flame;
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might difcern a Cypress bud.
Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely Son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But, whether by mischance or blame,
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorseless cruelty

Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree :
The hapless babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth;
And the languisht Mother's womb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I seen some tender flip
Sav'd with care from Winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by some unheedy swain,
Who only thought to crop the flower
New shot up from vernal shower;

Bot