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Would have learn't a softer style,
And have been asham'd to spoyle
His lives sweet story, by the hast,
Of a cruell stop ill plac't.
In the darke volume of our fate,
Whence each leafe of Life hath date,
Where in sad particulars,

The totall summe of Man appeares.
And the short clause of mortall Breath,
Bound in the period of Death,

In all the Booke if any where
Such a tearme as this, spare here
Could have been found 'twould have been read,

Writ in white Letters o're his head :

Or close unto his name annext,
The faire glosse of a fairer Text.
In briefe, if any one were free,
Hee was that one, and onely he.

But he, alas! even hee is dead,
And our hopes faire harvest spread
In the dust. Pitty now spend
All the teares that griefe can lend.
Sad mortality may hide;
In his ashes all her pride;
With this inscription o're his head
All hope of never dying, here lyes dead.

His Epitaph.

Assenger who e're thou art,
Stay a while, and let thy Heart
Take acquaintance of this stone,
Before thou passest further on.
This stone will tell thee that beneath,
Is entomb'd the Crime of Death ;
The ripe endowments of whose mind.
Left his Yeares so much behind,
That numbring of his vertues praise,
Death lost the reckoning of his Dayes;
And believing what they told,
Imagin'd him exceeding old.
In him perfection did set forth
The strength of her united worth.
Him his wisdomes pregnant growth
Made so reverend, even in Youth,
That in the Center of his brest
(Sweet as is the Phænix nest)
Every reconciled Grace
Had their Generall meeting place.
In him Goodnesse joy'd to see
Learning learne Humility.
The splendor of his Birth and Blood
Was but the glosse of his owne Good.
The flourish of his sober Youth
Was the Pride of Naked Truth.

In composure of his face,
Liv'd a faire, but manly Grace.
His mouth was Rhetoricks best mold,
His tongue the Touchstone of her Gold.
What word so e're his Breath kept warme,
Was no word now but a charme:
For all persuasive Graces thence
Suck't their sweetest Influence.
His vertue that within had root,
Could not chuse but shine without.
And th'heart-bred lustre of his worth,
At each corner peeping forth,

Pointed him out in all his wayes,
Circled round in his owne Rayes:
That to his sweetnesse, all mens eyes
Were vow'd Loves flaming Sacrifice.

Him while fresh and fragrant Time
Cherisht in his Golden Prime;

E're Hebe's hand had overlaid
His smooth cheekes with a downy shade;
The rush of Death's unruly wave,
Swept him off into his Grave.

Enough, now (if thou canst) passe on,
For now (alas) not in this stone
(Passenger who e're thou art)
Is he entomb'd, but in thy Heart.

An Epitaph.

Upon Doctor Brooke.


Brooke whose streame so great, so good,
Was lov'd, was honour'd, as a flood:
Whose Bankes the Muses dwelt upon,
More than their owne Helicon ;
Here at length, hath gladly found
A quiet passage under ground;
Meane while his loved bankes now dry,
The Muses with their teares supply.

Upon Ford's two Tragedies.
Loves Sacrifice,


The Broken Heart.


'Hou cheat'st us Ford, mak'st one seeme two by Art. What is Loves Sacrifice, but The broken Heart.

On a foule Morning, being then to take a journey.


Here art thou Sol, while thus the blind fold Day Staggers out of the East, loses her way Stumbling on night? Rouze thee Illustrious Youth, And let no dull mists choake the Lights faire growth. Point here thy beames; ô glance on yonder flocks, And make their fleeces Golden as thy locks. Unfold thy faire front, and there shall appeare Full glory, flaming in her owne free spheare. Gladnesse shall cloath the Earth, we will instile The face of things, an universall smile. Say to the Sullen Morne, thou com'st to court her; And wilt command proud Zephirus to sport her With wanton gales: his balmy breath shall licke The tender drops which tremble on her cheeke; Which rarified, and in a gentle raine On those delicious bankes distill'd againe, Shall rise in a sweet Harvest, which discloses To every blushing Bed of new-borne Roses. Hee'l fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow, And friske in curl'd Maanders; Hee will throw A fragrant Breath suckt from the spicy nest O'th' pretious Phoenix, warme upon her Breast. Hee with a dainty and soft hand will trim, And brush her Azure Mantle, which shall swim In silken Volumes; wheresoe're shee'l tread, Bright clouds like Golden fleeces shall be spread.

Rise then (faire blew-ey'd Maid) rise and discover Thy silver brow, and meet thy Golden lover. See how hee runs, with what a hasty flight, Into thy bosome, bath'd with liquid Light. Fly, fly prophane fogs, farre hence fly away, Taint not the pure streames of the springing Day, With your dull influence; it is for you, To sit and scoule upon Nights heavy brow; Not on the fresh cheekes of the virgin Morne, Where nought but smiles, and ruddy joyes are worne. Fly then, and doe not thinke with her to stay; Let it suffice, shee'l weare no maske to day.

Upon the faire Ethiopian sent to a Gentlewoman.

O here the faire Chariclia! in whom strove So false a Fortune, and so true a Love. Now after all her toyles by Sea and Land,


O may she but arrive at your white hand, Her hopes are crown'd, onely she feares that than, Shee shall appeare true Ethiopian.

On Marriage.

Would be married, but I'de have no Wife,

I a single Life.

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