In faciem Augustiss. Regis à morbillis integram.
Usa redi; vocat alma parens Academia: Noster
En redit, ore suo noster Apollo redit.
Vultus adhuc suus, & vultu sua purpura tantùm
Vivit, & admixtas pergit amare nives.
Tune illas violare genas? tune illa profanis,
Morbe ferox, tentas ire per ora notis?
Tu Phabi faciem tentas, vanissime? Nostra
Nec Phoebe maculas novit habere suas.
Ipsa sui vindex facies morbum indignatur ;
Ipsa sedet radiis ô bene tuta suis:
Quippe illic deus est, cœlumque & sanctius astrum ;
Quippe sub his totus ridet Apollo genis.
Quòd facie Rex tutus erat, quòd cætera talus:
Hinc hominem Rex est fassus, & inde deum.
[On the Frontispiece of Isaacsons Chronologie explaned. F with distinctive Eye, and Mind, you looke
Creation is Gods Booke, wherein he writ
Each Creature, as a Letter filling it.
History is Creations Booke; which showes
To what effects the Series of it goes.
Chronologie's the Booke of Historie, and beares
The just account of Dayes, Moneths, and Yeares.
But Resurrection, in a Later Presse,
And New Edition, is the summe of these.
The Language of these Bookes had all been one,
Had not th' Aspiring Tower of Babylon
Confus'd the Tongues, and in a distance hurl'd
As farre the speech, as men, o'th' new fill'd world.
Set then your eyes in method, and behold
Times embleme, Saturne; who, when store of Gold
Coyn'd the first age, Devour'd that Birth, he fear'd;
Till History, Times eldest Child appear'd;
And Phoenix-like, in spight of Saturnes rage,
Forc'd from her Ashes, Heyres in every age.
From th'rising Sunne, obtaining by just Suit,
A Springs Ingender, and an Autumnes Fruit.
Who in those Volumes at her motion pend,
Unto Creations Alpha doth extend.
Againe ascend, and view Chronology,
By Optick Skill pulling farre History
Neerer; whose Hand the piercing Eagles Eye
Strengthens, to bring remotest Objects nigh.
Under whose Feet, you see the Setting Sunne,
From the darke Gnomon, o're her Volumes runne,
Drown'd in eternall night, never to rise,
Till Resurrection show it to the eyes
Of Earth-worne men; and her shrill Trumpets sound
Affright the Bones of Mortals from the ground.
The Columnes both are crown'd with either Sphere,
To show Chronology and History beare,
No other Culmen than the double Art,
Astronomy, Geography, impart.]
Et hoary Time's vast Bowels be the Grave
To what his Bowels birth and being gave;
Let Nature die, (Phænix-like) from death
Revived Nature takes a second breath;
If on Times right hand, sit faire Historie,
If, from the seed of emptie Ruine, she
Can raise so faire an Harvest: Let Her be
Ne're so farre distant, yet Chronologie
(Sharp-sighted as the Eagles eye, that can
Out-stare the broad-beam'd Dayes Meridian)
Will have a Perspicill to find her out,
And, through the Night of error and dark doubt,
Discerne the Dawne of Truth's eternall ray,
As when the rosie Morne budds into Day.
Now that Time's Empire might be amply fill'd,
Babells bold Artists strive (below) to build
Ruine a Temple; on whose fruitfull fall
History reares her Pyramids more tall
Than were th'Egyptian (by the life these give,
Th'Egyptian Pyramids themselves must live :)
On these she lifts the World; and on their base
Shewes the two termes and limits of Time's race:
That, the Creation is; the Judgement, this;
That, the World's Morning, this her Midnight is.
Upon Mr. Ashton a conformable Citizen.
He modest front of this small floore,
Beleeve me, Reader, can say more
Than many a braver Marble can,
Here lyes a truly honest man.
One whose Conscience was a thing,
That troubled neither Church nor King.
One of those few that in this Towne,
Honour all Preachers, heare their owne.
Sermons he heard, yet not so many
As left no time to practise any.
He heard them reverendly, and then
His practice preach'd them o're agen.
His Parlour-Sermons rather were
Those to the Eye, then to the Eare.
His prayers took their price and strength,
Not from the lowdnesse, nor the length.
He was a Protestant at home,
Not onely in despight of Rome.
He lov'd his Father; yet his zeale
Tore not off his Mothers veile.
To th' Church he did allow her Dresse,
True Beauty, to true Holinesse.
Peace, which he lov'd in Life, did lend
Her hand to bring him to his end.
When age and death call'd for the score,
No surfets were to reckon for.
Death tore not (therefore) but sans strife
Gently untwin'd his thread of Life.
What remaines then, but that Thou
Write these lines, Reader, in thy Brow,
And by his faire Examples light,
Burne in thy Imitation bright.
So while these Lines can but bequeath
A Life perhaps unto his Death;
His better Epitaph shall bee,
His Life still kept alive in Thee.
Lle redit, redit. Hoc populi bona murmura volvunt ; Publicus hoc (audin'?) plausus ad astra refert: Hoc omni sedet in vultu commune serenum; Omnibus hinc una est lætitiæ facies.
Rex noster, lux nostra redit; redeuntis ad ora
Arridet totis Anglia læta genis:
Quisque suos oculos oculis accendit ab istis
Atque novum sacro sumit ab ore diem.
Forte roges tanto quæ digna pericula plausu
Evadat Carolus, quæ mala, quósve metus:
Anne pererrati malè fida volumina ponti
Ausa illum terris penè negare suis:
Hospitis an nimii rursus sibi conscia, tellus
Vix bene speratum reddat Ibera Caput.
Nil horum; nec enim malè fida volumina ponti,
Aut sacrum tellus vidit Ibera caput.
Verus amor tamen hæc sibi falsa pericula fingit:
(Falsa pericla solet fingere verus amor)
At Carolo qui falsa timet, nec vera timeret:
(Vera pericla solet temnere verus amor)
Illi falsa timens, sibi vera pericula temnens,
Non solum est fidus, sed quoque fortis amor.
Interea nostri satis ille est causa tri[u]mphi:
Et satis (ah!) nostri causa doloris erat.
Causa doloris erat Carolus, sospes licèt esset;
Anglia quòd saltem dicere posset, Abest.
Et satis est nostri Carolus nunc causa triumphi;
Dicere quòd saltem possumus, Ille redit.
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