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recreations for vacant houres, not the grand businesse of his soule.
To the former Qualifications I might adde that which would crowne them all, his rare moderation in diet (almost Lessian temperance) he never created a Muse out of distempers, nor (with our Canary scribblers) cast any strange mists of surfets before the Intelectuall beames of his mind or memory, the latter of which, he was so much a master of, that he bad there under locke and key in readinesse, the richest treasures of the best Greek and Latine Poets, some of which Authors bee had more at his command by heart, than others that onely read their works, to retaine little, and understand lesse.
Enough Reader, I intend not a volume of praises larger than his booke, nor need I longer transport thee to think over bis vast perfections, I will conclude all that I have impartially writ of this Learned young Gent. (now dead to us) as be bimselfe doth, with the last line of his Poem upon Bishop Andrews Picture before his Sermons
-Look on his following leaves, and see him breath.
Hat bright soft thing is this
A watry Diamond; from whence The very terme I thinke was found, The water of a Diamond.
O'tis not a teare,
'Tis a star about to drop
From thine eye its spheare,
O'tis a teare,
Too true a teare; for no sad eyne
Raine so true a teare as thine; Each drop leaving a place so deare, Weeps for it self, is its owne teare.
Such a Pearle as this is
Such the Maiden gem
Peeps from her Parent stem,
Faire drop, why quak'st thou so?
The dust shall never be thy bed;
Thus carried up on high,
(For to heaven thou must goe) Sweetly shalt thou lye,
And in soft slumbers bath thy woe,
Till the singing Orbes awake thee,
There thy selfe shalt bee
An eye, but not a weeping one,
Whether th' had'st rather there have shone,
On the water of our Lords Baptisme.
Ach blest drop, on each blest limme,
On the baptized Ethiopian.
LEt it no longer be a forlorne hope
Hee's washt, his gloomy skin a peacefull shade
A black-fac'd house will love.
On the miracle of multiplyed Loaves.
Ee here an easie Feast that knowes no wound,
A subtle Harvest of unbounded bread,
What would ye more? Here food it selfe is fed.
Upon the Sepulcher of our Lord.
Ere where our Lord once laid his head
The Widows Mites.
Wo Mites, two drops, yet all her house and land Falls from a steady heart though trembling hand: The others wanton wealth foams high and brave; The other cast away, she onely gave.