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O these, whom DEATH again did wed,
This GRAVE'S their second Marriage-bed;
For though the hand of fate could force
'Twixt SOUL & BODY à Divorce,
It could not sunder man & WI[F]E,
'Cause They Both lived but one life.
Peace, good Reader. Doe not weep.
Peace, The Lovers are asleep.
They, sweet Turtles, folded ly
In the last knott love could ty.
And though they ly as they were dead,
Their Pillow stone, their sheetes of lead,
(Pillow hard, & sheetes not warm)
Love made the bed; They'l take no harm
Let them sleep: let them sleep on.
Till this stormy night be gone,
Till the 'Eternall morrow dawn;
Then the curtaines will be drawn
'And they wake into a light.
Whose day shall never dy in Night.




Ear Reliques of a dislodg'd SOUL, whose lack
Makes many a mourning paper put on black!
O stay a while, ere thou draw in thy head
And wind thy self up close in thy cold bed.
Stay but à little while, untill I call
A summons worthy of thy funerall.
Come then, YOUTH, BEAUTY, & blood!
All the soft powres.

Whose sylken flatteryes swell a few fond howres
Into a false æternity. Come man ;
Hyperbolized NOTHING! know thy span;

Take thine own measure here down, down, & bow
Before thy self in thine idæa; thou
Huge emptynes! contract thy self; & shrinke
All thy Wild circle to a Point. O sink
Lower & lower yet; till thy leane size
Call heavn to look on thee with n[a]rrow eyes.
Lesser & lesser yet; till thou begin
To show a face, fitt to confesse thy Kin,
Thy neig[h]bourhood to NOTHING.
Proud lookes, & lofty eyliddes, here putt on
Your selves in your unfaign'd reflexion,
Here, gallant ladyes! this unpartiall glasse
(Though you be painted) showes you your true face.
These death-seal'd lippes are they dare give the ly
To the lowd Boasts of poor Mortality.
These curtain'd windows, this retired eye
Outstares the liddes of larg-look't tyranny.
This posture is the brave one this that lyes
Thus low, stands up (me thinkes,) thus & defies
The world. All-daring dust & ashes! only you
Of all interpreters read Nature True.








Oe now; and with some daring drugg Bait thy disease. And whilst they tugge, Thou to maintain their pretious strife Spend the dear treasures of thy life. Goe, take physick Doat upon Some big-nam'd composition. Th'Oraculous DOCTOR's mystick bills Certain hard WORDS made into pills, And what at last shalt' gain by these? Only a costlyer disease.


That which makes us have no need
Of physick, that's PHYSICK indeed.
Hark hither, Reader! wilt thou see
Nature her own physitian be?
Wilt' see a man, all his own wealth,
His own musick, his own health;
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well.
Her garments, that upon her sitt
As garments should doe, close & fitt;
A well-cloth'd soul; that's not opp[r]est
Nor choak't with what she should be drest.
A soul sheath'd in a christall shrine;
Through which all her bright features shine;
As when a peice of wanton lawn
A thinne, aerial veil, is drawn

Or'e beauty's face seeming to hide
More sweetly showes the blushing bride.
A soul, whose intellectuall beames
No mists doe mask, no lazy steames.
A happy soul, that all the way,
To HEAVN rides in a summer's day.
Wouldst' see a man, whose well-warm'd blood
Bathes him in a genuine flood!

A man, whose tuned humors be
A seat of rarest harmony?
Wouldst' see blith lookes, fresh cheekes beguil
Age? wouldst see december smile?
Wouldst' see nests of new roses grow
In a bed [o]f re[v]erend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering
Winter's selfe into a S[P]RING.

In summe, wouldst see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?

Whose latest & most leaden houres

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowres; And when life's sweet fable ends,

Soul & body part like freinds;

No quarrells, murmurs, no delay ;
A KISSE, a SIGH, and so away.
This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?
Hark hither; and thy self be HE.


whose weak beeing ruin'd is

Alike if it succeed or if it misse!

Whom ill or good does equally confound
And both the hornes of fate's dilemma wound.
Vain shadow; that dost vanish quite
Both at full noon & perfect night!
The starres have not a possibility
Of blessing Thee.

If thinges then from their end we happy call,
'Tis hope is the most hopelesse thing of all.
Hope, thou bold Taster of delight!
Who in stead of doing so, devourst it quite.
Thou bringst us an estate, yet leav'st us poor
By clogging it with legacyes before.

The joyes which we intire should wed
Come deflour'd-virgins to our bed.
Good fortunes without gain imported be
Such mighty custom's paid to Thee.
For joy like wine kep't close, does better tast;
If it take air before his spirits wast.

Hope fortun's cheating lottery

Where for one prize, an hundred blankes there be.
Fond archer, hope. Who tak'st thine aime so farr
That still or short or wide thine arrowes are;
Thinne empty cloud which th-ey deceives
With shapes that our own fancy gives.
A cloud which gilt & painted now appeares
But must drop presently in teares
When thy false beames o're reason's light prevail,
By IGNES FATUI for north starres we sail.
Brother of fear more gayly clad.

The merryer fool oth two, yet quite as mad.
Sire of repen[t]ance, child of fond desire
That blow'st the chymick & the lover's fire.

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