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Noe. none of these ravish't those virgin roses,
The Muses, & the Graces fragrant posies.
Wch, while they smiling sate upon his face,
They often kist, & in the sugred place
Left many a starry teare, to thinke how soone
The golden harvest of our joyes, the noone
Of all our glorious hopes should fade,
And be eclipsed with an envious shade.
Noe. 'twas old doting Death, who stealing by,
Dragging his crooked burthen, look't awry,
And streight his amorous syth (greedy of blisse)
Murdred the earth's just pride with a rude kisse.
A winged Herald, gladd of soe sweet a prey,
Snatch't upp the falling starre, soe richly gay,
And plants it in a precious perfum'd bedd,
Amongst those Lillies, wch his bosome bredd.
Where round about hovers with silver wing
A golden summer, an æternall spring.
Now that his root such fruit againe may beare,
Let each eye water't with a courteous teare.

An Elegie on the death of Dr. Porter.
Tay, silver-footed Came, strive not to wed


Fixe heere thy wat'ry eyes upon these towers,
Unto whose feet in reverence of the powers,
That there inhabite, thou on every day
With trembling lippes an humble kisse do'st pay.
See all in mourning now; the walles are jett,
With pearly papers carelesly besett.
Whose snowy cheekes, least joy should be exprest,
The weeping pen with sable teares hath drest.
Their wronged beauties speake a Tragoedy,
Somewhat more horrid than an Elegy.
Pure, & unmixed cruelty they tell,
Wch poseth mischeife's selfe to Parallel.
Justice hath lost her hand, the law her head;
Peace is an Orphan now; her father's dead.
Honesties nurse, Vertues blest Guardian,
That heavenly mortall, that Seraphick man.
Enough is said, now, if thou canst crowd on
Thy lazy crawling streames, pri'thee be gone,
And murmur forth thy woes to every flower,
That on thy bankes sitts in a verdant bower,
And is instructed by thy glassy wave

To paint its perfum'd face wth colours brave.
In vailes of dust their silken heads they'le hide,
As if the oft departing sunne had dy'd.
Goe learne that fatall Quire, soe sprucely dight
In downy surplisses, & vestments white,
To sing their saddest Dirges, such as may
Make their scar'd soules take wing, & fly away.
Lett thy swolne breast discharge thy strugling gro
To th' churlish rocks; & teach the stubborne sto
To melt in gentle drops, lett them be heard
Of all proud Neptunes silver-sheilded guard;
That greife may crack that string, & now untie
Their shackled tongues to chant an Elegie.
Whisper thy plaints to th' Oceans curteous eares,
Then weepe thyselfe into a sea of teares.

A thousand Helicons the Muses send
In a bright Christall tide, to thee they tend,
Leaving those mines of Nectar, their sweet fountaines,
They force a lilly path through rosy mountaines.
Feare not to dy with greife; all bubling eyes
Are teeming now with store of fresh supplies.


T th' Ivory Tribunall of your hand

A doe trembling star

Knowing 'tis in the doome of your sweet Eye
Whether the Muse they cloth shall live or die.
Live shee, or dye to Fame; each Leafe you meet
Is her Lifes wing, or her death's winding-sheet.


Hough now 'tis neither May nor June
And Nightingales are out of tune,
Yet in these leaves (Faire one) there lyes
(Sworne servant to your sweetest Eyes)
A Nightingale, who may shee spread
In your white bosome her chast bed,
Spite of all the Maiden snow
Those pure untroden pathes can show,
You streight shall see her wake and rise
Taking fresh Life from your fayre Eyes.
And with clasp't winges proclayme a Spring
Where Love and shee shall sit and sing:
For lodg'd so ne're your sweetest throte
What Nightingale can loose her noate?
Nor lett her kinred birds complayne
Because shee breakes the yeares old raigne :
For lett them know shee's none of those
Hedge-Quiristers whose Musicke owes
Onely such straynes as serve to keepe
Sad shades and sing dull Night asleepe.
No shee's a Priestesse of that Grove
The holy chappell of chast Love
Your Virgin bosome. Then what e're
Poore Lawes divide the publicke yeare,
Whose revolutions wait upon
The wild turnes of the wanton Sun;
Bee you the Lady of Loves Yeere:
Where your Eyes shine his Suns appeare:
There all the yeare is Loves long Spring.
There all the year Loves Nightingales
shall sitt and sing.

Out of Grotius his Tragedy of Christes sufferinges.
Thou the Span of whose Omnipotence

graspe the fate of thinges, and share th' events
Of future chance! the world's grand Sire; and mine
Before the world. Obedient lo! I joyne
An æquall pace thus farre; thy word my deedes
Have flow'd together. if ought further needes
I shrinke not but thus ready stand to beare
(ffor else why came I?) ev'n what e're I feare.
Yett o what end? where does the period dwell
Of my sad labours? no day yett could tell
My soule shee was secure. Still have I borne
A still increasing burden; worse hath torne
His way through bad, to my successive hurt.
I left my glorious Fathers star-pav'd Court
E' borne was banish't; borne was glad t' embrace
A poore (yea scarce a) roofe. whose narrow place
Was not so much as cleane; a stable kind;
The best my cradle and my birth could find.
Then was I knowne; and knowne unluckily
A weake a wretched child; ev'n then was ĺ
For Juryes king an enemy, even worth
His feare; the circle of a yeares round growth
Was not yett full, (a time that to my age
Made litle, not a litle to his rage)

When a wild sword ev'n from their brests, did lop
The Mothers Joyes in an untimely crop.
The search of one child (cruell industry!)
Was losse of multitudes; and missing mee
A bloud drunke errour spilt the costly ayme

Of their mad sin; (how great! and yett how vayne!)
I cal'd a hundred miracles to tell

The world my father, then does envy swell
And breake upon mee: my owne virtues height
Hurtes mee far worse then Herods highest spite;
A riddle! (father) still acknowledg'd thine
Am still refus'd; before the Infant Shrine
Of my weake feet the Persian Magi lay
And left their Mithra for my star: this they.

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