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O Dea syderei seu tu stirps alma Tonantis &c.

Right Goddesse, (whether Jove thy father be;
Or Jove a father will be made by thee)
Oh crowne these praie'rs (mov'd in a happy hower)
But with one cordiall smile for Cloe. that power
Of Loue's all-daring hand, that makes me burne,
Makes me confess't. Oh, doe not thou with scorne,
Great Nymph, o'relooke my lownesse. heav'n you know
And all their fellow Deities will bow

Even to the naked'st vowes. thou art my fate;
To thee the Parcæ have given up of late
My threds of life. if then I shall not live
By thee; by thee yet lett me die. this give,
High beauties soveraigne, that my funeral flames
May draw their first breath from thy starry beames.
The Phoenix selfe shall not more proudly burne,
That fetcheth fresh life from her fruitfull urne.

An Elegy upon the Death of Mr. Stanninow,


Fellow of Queenes Colledge.

Ath aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine,
To frozen Caucasus his flight now tane?
Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd
His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a fleecy clowd?
Is th' earth disrobed of her apron white,
Kind winter's guift, & in a greene one dight?
Doth she beginne to dandle in her lappe
Her painted infants, fedd with pleasant pappe,
Wch their bright father in a pretious showre

From heavens sweet milky streame doth gently powre?
Doth blith Apollo cloath the heavens with joye,
And with a golden wave wash cleane away
Those durty smutches, wch their faire fronts wore,
And make them laugh, wch frown'd, & wept before?
If heaven hath now forgot to weepe; ô then
Wt meane these showres of teares amongst us men?
These Cataracts of griefe, that dare ev'n vie
With th' richest clowds their pearly treasurie?
If winters gone, whence this untimely cold,
That on these snowy limmes hath laid such hold?
What more than winter hath that dire art found,
These purple currents hedg'd with violets round.
To corrallize, wch softly wont to slide
In crimson waveletts, & in scarlet tide?
If Flora's darlings now awake from sleepe,
And out of their greene mantletts dare to peepe :
O tell me then, what rude outragious blast
Forc't this prime flowre of youth to make such hast
To hide his blooming glories, & bequeath
His balmy treasure to the bedd of death?
'Twas not the frozen zone; One sparke of fire,
Shott from his flaming eye, had thaw'd it's ire,
And made it burne in love: 'Twas not the rage,
And too ungentle nippe of frosty age:

'Twas not the chast, & purer snow, whose nest
Was in the modest Nunnery of his brest:

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
Thy maiden
streames soe soone to Neptunes bed:
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 Tragedy,
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 groanes
To th' churlish rocks; & teach the stubborne stones
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.

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