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Upon the Death of Mr. Herrys.


Plant of noble stemme, forward and faire,
As ever whisper'd to the Morning Aire,
Thriv'd in these happy Grounds, the Earth's just pride,
Whose rising Glories made such haste to hide
His head in Cloudes, as if in him alone
Impatient Nature had taught motion
To start from time, and cheerfully to fly
Before, and seize upon Maturity.

Thus grew this gratious plant, in whose sweet shade,
The Sunne himselfe oft wisht to sit, and made
The Morning Muses perch like Birds, and sing
Among his Branches: yea, and vow'd to bring
His owne delicious Phoenix from the blest
Arabia, there to build her Virgin nest,
To hatch her selfe in; 'mongst his leaves the Day
Fresh from the Rosie East rejoyc't to play.
To them shee gave the first and fairest Beame
That waited on her Birth: she gave to them
The purest Pearles, that wept her evening Death.
The balmy Zephirus got so sweet a Breath
By often kissing them, and now begun.
Glad Time to ripen expectation.

The timorous Maiden-Blossomes on each Bough,
Peept forth from their first blushes: so that now
A Thousand ruddy hopes smil'd in each Bud,
And flatter'd every greedy eye that stood
Fixt in Delight, as if already there

Those rare fruits dangled, whence the Golden Yeare
His crowne expected, when (ô Fate, ô Time
That seldome lett'st a blushing youthfull Prime
Hide his hot Beames in shade of silver Age;
So rare is hoary vertue) the dire rage

Of a mad storme these bloomy joyes all tore,
Ravisht the Maiden Blossoms, and downe bore
The trunke. Yet in this Ground his pretious Root
Still lives, which when weake Time shall be pour'd out

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Into Eternity, and circular joyes

Dance in an endlesse round, again shall rise
The faire son of an ever-youthfull Spring,
To be a shade for Angels while they sing,
Meane while who e're thou art that passest here,
O doe thou water it with one kind Teare.

In Eundem Scazon.

Uc hospes, oculos flecte, sed lacrimis cæcos, Legit optime hæc, Quem legere non sinit fleclus. Ars nuper & natura, forma, virtusģ Emulatione fervida, paciscuntur Probare in uno juvene quid queant omnes, Fuere tantæ terra nuper fuit liti Ergo hic ab ipso Judicem manent cœlo.

Upon the Death of the most desired Mr. Herrys.

Eath, what dost? ô hold thy Blow,

Death thou must not here be cruell,
This is Natures choycest Jewell.
This is hee in whose rare frame,
Nature labour'd for a Name,
And meant to leave his pretious feature,
The patterne of a perfect Creature.
Joy of Goodnesse, Love of Art,
Vertue weares him next her heart.
Him the Muses love to follow,
Him they call their vice-Apollo.
Apollo golden though thou bee,
Th'art not fairer then is hee.
Nor more lovely lift'st thy head,
Blushing from thine Easterne Bed.
The Glories of thy Youth ne're knew,
Brighter hopes then he can shew.
Why then should it e're be seen,
That his should fade, while thine is Green?
And wilt Thou, (ô cruell boast!)
Put poore Nature to such cost?
O'twill undoe our common Mother,
To be at charge of such another.
What? thinke we to no other end,
Gracious Heavens do use to send
Earth her best perfection,
But to vanish and be gone?
Therefore onely give to day,
To morrow to be snatcht away?
I've seen indeed the hopefull bud,
Of a ruddy Rose that stood
Blushing, to behold the Ray
Of the new-saluted Day;
(His tender toppe not fully spread)
The sweet dash of a shower now shead,

Invited him no more to hide
Within himselfe the purple pride
Of his forward flower, when lo
While he sweetly 'gan to show
His swelling Gloryes, Auster spide him,
Cruell Auster thither hy'd him,
And with the rush of one rude blast,
Sham'd not spitefully to wast
All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,
And lay them trembling at his feet.
I've seen the Mornings lovely Ray,
Hover o're the new-borne Day,
With rosie wings so richly Bright,
As if he scorn'd to thinke of Night;
When a ruddy storme whose scoule
Made Heavens radiant face looke foule,
Call'd for an untimely Night,
To blot the newly blossom'd Light.
But were the Roses blush so rare,
Were the Mornings smile so faire
As is he, nor cloud, nor wind
But would be courteous, would be kind.
Spare him Death, ô spare him then,
Spare the sweetest among men.
Let not pitty with her Teares,
Keepe such distance from thine Eares.
But ô thou wilt not, canst not spare,
Haste hath never time to heare.
Therefore if he needs must go,
And the Fates will have it so,
Softly may he be possest,
Of his monumentall rest.
Safe, thou darke home of the dead,
Safe hide his loved head.

For Pitties sake ô hide him quite,
From his Mother Natures sight:
Lest for Griefe his losse may move
All her Births abortive prove.



F ever Pitty were acquainted
With sterne Death, if e're he fainted,
Or forgot the cruell vigour

Of an Adamantine rigour,

Here, ô here we should have knowne it,
Here or no where hee'd have showne it.
For hee whose pretious memory,
Bathes in Teares of every eye:
Hee to whom our sorrow brings,
All the streames of all her springs:
Was so rich in Grace and Nature,
In all the gifts that blesse a Creature;
The fresh hopes of his lovely Youth,
Flourisht in so faire a growth;

So sweet the Temple was, that shrin'd
The Sacred sweetnesse of his mind;
That could the Fates know to relent,
Could they know what mercy meant;
Or had ever learnt to beare,

The soft tincture of a Teare:
Teares would now have flow'd so deepe,
As might have taught Griefe how to weepe.
Now all their steely operation,
Would quite have lost the cruell fashion.
Sicknesse would have gladly been,
Sick himselfe to have sav'd him:
And his Feaver wish'd to prove,
Burning onely in his Love.
Him when wrath it selfe had seen,
Wrath its selfe had lost his spleen.
Grim Destruction here amaz'd,

In stead of striking would have gaz'd.
Even the Iron-pointed pen,

That notes the Tragick Doomes of men
Wet with teares still'd from the eyes,
Of the flinty Destinies;

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