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In obitum Rev. V. Dris Mansell, Coll. Regin. Mri qui ven. Ds Brooke, interitum proximè secutus est.
Rgo iterum in lacrymas, & sævi murmura planctûs Ire jubet tragicâ mors iterata manu? Scilicet illa novas quæ jam fert dextra sagittas, Dextra priore recens sanguine stillat adhuc. Vos ô, quos sociâ Lachesis propè miscuit urnâ, Et vicina colus vix sinit esse duos; Ite ô, quos nostri jungunt consortia damni; Per nostras lacrymas ô nimis ite pares! Ite per Elysias felici tramite valles.
Et sociis animos conciliate viis. Illic ingentes ultrò confundite manes,
Noscat & æternam mutua dextra fidem.
Communes eadem spargantur in otia curæ,
Atque idem felix poscat utrumque labor.
Nectaræ simul ite vagis sermonibus horæ :
Nox trahat alternas continuata vices.
Una cibos ferat, una suas vocet arbor in umbras.
Ambobus faciles herba det una toros.
Certum erit interea quanto sit major habenda,
Quàm quæ per vitam est, mortis amicitia.
LUKE 2. Quærit Jesum suum Maria, &c.
Nd is he gone, whom these armes held but now? Their hope, their vow? Did ever greife, & joy in one poore heart Soe soone change part?
Hee's gone. the fair'st flower, that e're bosome drest, My soules sweet rest.
My wombes chast pride is gone, my heaven-borne boy; And where is joy?
& his lov'd steppes to wait upon,
My joy is gone.
hee are gone; my greife, & I
Alone must ly.
not leaving with me, till he come,
One smile at home.
Oh come then. bring Thy mother her lost joy:
Oh come, sweet boy.
Make hast, & come, or e're my greife, & I
Make hast, & dy.
Peace, heart! the heavens are angry.
Rival thy teares.
I was mistaken.
some faire sphæære, or other
Was thy blest mother.
What, but the fairest heaven, could owne the birth
Of soe faire earth?
Yet sure thou did'st lodge heere. this wombe of mine
Was once call'd thine.
Oft have these armes thy cradle envied,
Beguil'd thy bed.
Oft to thy easy eares hath this shrill tongue
Trembled, & sung.
Oft have I wrapt thy slumbers in soft aires,
And stroak't thy cares.
Oft hath this
hand those silken casements kept,
While their sunnes slept.
Oft have my hungry kisses made thine eyes
Too early rise.
Oft have I spoild my kisses daintiest diet,
To spare thy quiet.
Oft from this breast to thine my love-tost heart
Hath leapt, to part.
Oft have these
Dawne then to
Oft my lost soule have I bin glad to seeke
On thy soft cheeke.
armes alas! show'd to these eyes
Their now lost joyes.
me, thou morne of mine owne day,
And lett heaven stay.
Oh, would'st thou heere still fixe thy faire abode,
My bosome God:
What hinders, but my bosome still might be
Thy heaven to Thee?
Whosoever shall loose his life &c. MATH. 16. 25.
Oe I may gaine thy death, my life I'le give.
(My life's thy death, & in thy death I live.) Or else, my life, I'le hide thee in his grave, By three daies losse æternally to save.
In cicatrices Domini Jesu.
Ome, brave soldjers, come, & see
Mighty love's Artillery.
This was the conquering dart; & loe
There shines his quiver, there his bow.
These the passive weapons are,
That made great Love, a man of warre.
The quiver, that he bore, did bide
Soe neare, it prov'd his very side.
In it there sate but one sole dart;
A peircing one. his peirced heart.
His weapons were nor steele, nor brasse:
The weapon, that he wore, he was.
For bow his unbent hand did serve,
Well strung with many a broken nerve.
Strange the quiver, bow, & dart!
A bloody side, & hand, & heart!
But now the feild is wonne : & they
(The dust of Warre cleane wip'd away)
The weapons now of triumph be,
That were before of Victorie.
In amorem divinum (Hermannus Hugo).
Eternall love! what 'tis to love thee well,
None, but himselfe, who feeles it, none can tell.
But oh, what to be lov'd of thee as well,
None, not himselfe, who feeles it, none can tell.
Upon a Gnatt burnt in a candle.
Perish there, & thanke thy selfe.
Thou deserv'st thy life to loose,
For distracting such a Muse.
Was it thy ambitious aime.
By thy death to purchase fame?
Didst thou hope he would in pitty
Have bestow'd a funerall ditty
On thy ghoast? & thou in that
To have outlived Virgills gnatt?
No. the treason, thou hast wrought,
Might forbid the[e] such a thought.
If that night's worke doe miscarry,
Or a syllable but vary,
A greater foe thou shalt me find,
The destruction of thy kind.
Phoebus, to revenge thy fault,
In a fiery trapp thee caught;
That thy winged mates might know it,
And not dare disturbe a Poet.
Deare, & wretched was thy sport,
Since thyselfe was crushed for't.
Scarcely had that life a breath,
Yet it found a double death;
Playing in the golden flames,
Thou fell'st into an inky Thames;
Scorch'd, & drown'd. That petty sunne A pretty Icarus hath undone.