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In faciem Augustiss. Regis à morbillis integram. Usa redi; vocat alma parens Academia : Noster
: En redit, ore suo noster Apollo redit. Vultus adhuc suus, & vultu sua purpura tantùm
Vivit, & admixtas pergit amare nives.
Morbe ferox, tentas ire per ora notis?
Nec Phæbe maculas novit habere suas.
Ipsa sedet radiis ô bene tuta suis:
Quippe sub his totus ridet Apollo genis.
Hinc hominem Rex est fassus, & inde deum.
[On the Frontispiece of Isaacsons Chronologie explaned.
F with distinctive Eye, and Mind, you looke
I ey .
Creation is Gods Booke, wherein he writ
Set then your eyes in method, and behold
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 fillid, Babells bold Artists strive (below) to build Ruine a Temple ; on whose fruitfull fall History reares her Pyramids more tall Than were th'Ægyptian (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 callid 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.
Lle redit, redit. Hoc populi bona murmura volvunt ;
Publicus hoc (audin'?) plausus ad astra refert:
Omnibus hinc una est lætitiæ facies.
Arridet totis Anglia læta genis :
Atque novum sacro sumit ab ore diem. Fortè roges tanto quæ digna pericula plausu
Evadat Carolus, quæ mala, quósve metus: Anne pererrati malè fida volumina ponti
Ausa illum terris penè negare suis :
Vix bene speratum reddat Ibera Caput.
Aut sacrum tellus vidit Ibera caput.
(Falsa peric’la solet fingere verus amor) At Carolo qui falsa timet, nec vera timeret:
(Vera peric' la solet temnere verus amor) Mi falsa timens, sibi vera pericula temnens,
Non solùm est fidus, sed quoque fortis amor. Interea nostri satis ille est causa tri[u]mphi :
Et satis (ah!) nostri causa doloris erat.
Anglia quòd saltem dicere posset, Abest.
Dicere quòd saltem possumus, Ille redit.