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Or Thus.

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.

An Epitaph

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.

Rex Redux.

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 peric'la 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.

Out of Catullus.


Ome and let us live my Deare,
Let us love and never feare,
What the sowrest Fathers say:
Brightest Sol that dyes to day
Lives againe as blith to morrow;
But if we darke sons of sorrow
Set, ô then, how long a Night
Shuts the Eyes of our short light!
Then let amorous kisses dwell
On our lips, begin and tell
A thousand, and a Hundred score,
An Hundred, and a Thousand more,
Till another Thousand smother
That, and that wipe of[f] another.
Thus at last when we have numbred
Many a Thousand, many a Hundred,
Wee'l confound the reckoning quite,
And lose our selves in wild delight:
While our joyes so multiply,
As shall mocke the envious eye.

Ad Principem nondum natum.


Ascere nunc; ô nunc! quid enim, puer alme, moraris? Nulla tibi dederit dulcior hora diem. Ergone tot tardos (ô lente!) morabere menses?

Rex redit. Ipse veni, & dic bone, Gratus ades. Nam quid Ave nostrum? quid nostri verba triumphi? Vagitu meliùs dixeris ista tuo.

At maneas tamen : & nobis nova causa triumphi

Sic demum fueris; nec nova causa tamen:

Nam, quoties Carolo novus aut nova nascitur inf[a]ns,
Revera toties Carolus ipse redit.


To his (supposed) Mistresse.

Ho ere she be,


That not impossible she

That shall command my heart and me;

Where ere she lye,
Lock't up from mortall Eye,
In shady leaves of Destiny;

Till that ripe Birth

Of studied fate stand forth,

And teach her faire steps to our Earth;

Till that Divine

Idea, take a shrine

Of Chrystall flesh, through which to shine;

Meet you her my wishes,

Bespeake her to my blisses,

And be ye call'd my absent kisses.

I wish her Beauty,

That owes not all his Duty

To gaudy Tire, or glistring shoo-ty.

Something more than

Taffata or Tissew can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More than the spoyle

Of shop, or silkewormes Toyle,
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A face thats best

By its owne beauty drest,

And can alone command the rest.

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