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Nor could incomprehensibleness deter
Me from thus trying to imprison her?
Which when I saw that a strict grave could do,
I saw not why verse might not do so too.
Verse hath a middle nature; Heav'n keeps souls,
The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrolls.

DONNE'S POEMS.

One, whose clear body was so pure and thin,
Because it need disguise no thought within;
'T was but a through-light scarf her mind t' enroll;
Or exhalation breath'd out from her soul:
One, whom all men, who durst no more, admir'd:
And whom, whoe'er had worth enough, desir'd.
As, when a temple 's built, saints emulate
To which of them it shall be consecrate.
But as when Heav'n looks on us with new eyes,
Those new stars every artist exercise;
What place they should assign to them, they doubt,
Argue, and agree not, till those stars go out :
So the world study'd whose this piece should be,
Till she can be no body's else, nor she:
But like a lamp of balsamum, desir'd
Rather t' adorn than last, she soon expir'd,
Cloth'd in her virgin-white integrity;
For marriage, though it doth not stain, doth die.
To 'scape th' infirmities which wait upon
Woman, she went away before sh' was one;
And the world's busy noise to overcome,
Took so much death as serv'd for opium;
For though she could not, nor could choose to die,

A FUNERAL ELEGY.

'Tis loss to trust a tomb with such a guest,
Or to confine her in a marble chest,
Alas! what's marble, jeat, or porphyry,
Priz'd with the chrysolite of either eye,
Or with those pearls and rubies which she was?
Join the two Indies in one tomb, 't is glass;
And so is all to her materials,
Though every inch were ten Escurials;
Yet she 's demolish'd: can we keep her then
In works of hands, or of the wits of men?
Can these memorials, rags of paper, give

He which, not knowing her sad history,
Should come to read the book of Destiny,

Life to that name, by which name they must live? Sh' hath yielded to too long an ecstasy.
Sickly, alas! short liv'd, abortive be
Those carcass verses, whose soul is not she;
And can she, who no longer would be she,
(Being such a tabernacle) stoop to be
In paper wrap'd; or when she would not lie
In such an house, dwell in an elegy?
But 't is no matter; we may well allow
Verse to live so long as the world will now,
For her death wounded it. The world contains
Princes for arms, and counsellors for brains;
Lawyers for tongues, divines for hearts, and more
The rich for stomachs, and for backs the poor;
The officers for hands; merchants for feet,
By which remote and distant countries meet:
But those fine spirits, which do tune and set
This organ, are those pieces, which beget
Wonder and love; and these were she; and she
Being spent, the world must needs decrepit be:
For since death will proceed to triumph still,
He can find nothing after her to kill,
Except the world itself; so great was she,
Thus brave and confident may nature be,
Death cannot give her such another blow,
Because she cannot such another show.
But must we say she's dead? may 't not be said,
That as a sundred clock is piecemeallaid,
Not to be lost, but by the maker's hand,
Repolish'd, without errour then to stand;
Or, as the Afric Niger stream enwombs
Itself into the earth, and after comes
(Having first made a natural bridge, to pass
For many leagues) far greater than it was,
May 't not be said, that her grave shall restore
Her greater, purer, firmer than before?
Heav'n may say this, and joy in 't; but can we,
Who live, and lack her here, this 'vantage see?
What is 't to us, alas! if there have been
An angel made a throne, or cherubin ?
We lose by 't: and as aged men are glad,
Being tasteless grown, to joy in joys they had;
So now the sick-starv'd world must feed upon
This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.
Rejoice then, Nature and this world, that you,
Fearing the last fire's hast'ning to subdue
Your force and vigour, ere it were near gone,
Wisely bestow'd and laid it all on one;

How fair and chaste, humble and high, sh' had been,
Much promis'd, much perform'd, at not fifteen,
And measuring future things by things before,
Should turn the leaf to read, and read no more,
Would think that either Destiny mistook,
Or that some leaves were torn out of the book;
But 't is not so: Fate did but usber ber
To years of reason's use, and then infer
Her destiny to herself, which liberty
She took, but for thus much, thus much to die;
Her modesty not suffering her to be
Fellow-commissioner with Destiny,
She did no more but die; if after her
Any shall live, which dare true good prefer,
Every such person is her delegate,
T'accomplish that which should have been her fate.
They shall make up that book, and shall have thanks
Of fate and her, for filling up their blanks.
For future virtuous deeds are legacies,
Which from the gift of her example rise;
And 't is in Heav'n part of spiritual mirth,
To see how well the good play her on Earth.

OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.

WHEREIN, BY OCCASION OF THE RELIGIOUS DEATH OF
MRS. ELIZABETH DRURY, THE INCOMMODITIES OF THE
SOUL IN THIS LIFE, AND HER EXALTATION IN THE NEXT,
ARE CONTEMPLATED.

THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY.

The harbinger to the progress.

Two souls move here, and mine (a third) must move
Paces of admiration and of love.

Thy soul (dear virgin) whose this tribute is,
Mov'd from this mortal sphere to lively bliss;
And yet moves still, and still aspires to see
The world's last day, thy glory's full degree:
Like as those stars, which thou o'erlookest far,
Are in their place, aud yet still moved are:

No soul (whilst with the luggage of this clay
It clogged is) can follow thee half way;
Or see thy flight, which doth our thoughts outgo
So fast, as now the lightning moves but slow.
But now thou art as high in Heaven flown,

As Heav'n's from us; what soul besides thine own
Can tell thy joys, or say, he can relate
Thy glorious journals in that blessed state?
I envy thee (rich soul) I envy thee,
Although I cannot yet thy glory see:
And thou (great spirit) which hers follow'd hast
So fast, as none can follow thine so fast;
So far, as none can follow thine so far,
(And if this flesh did not the passage bar,
Hadst caught her) let me wonder at thy flight,
Which long agon hadst lost the vulgar sight,
And now mak'st proud the better eyes, that they
Can see thee lessen'd in thine airy way;
So while thou mak'st her soul by progress known,
Thou mak'st a noble progress of thine own;
From this world's carcass having mounted high
To that pure life of immortality;

Since thine aspiring thoughts themselves so raise,
That more may not beseem a creature's praise;
Yet still thou vow'st her more, and every year
Mak'st a new progress, whilst thou wand'rest here;
Still upward mount; and let thy maker's praise
Honour thy Laura, and adorn thy lays:
And since thy Muse her head in Heaven shrouds,
Oh let her never stoop below the clouds:
And if those glorious sainted souls may know
Or what we do, or what we sing below,
Those acts, those songs shall still content them best,
Which praise those awful pow'rs, that make them
bless'd.

OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.

THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY.

NOTHING Could make me sooner to confess,
That this world had an everlastingness,
Than to consider that a year is run,
Since both this lower world's, and the Sun's sun,
The lustre and the vigour of this all
Did set; 't were blasphemy to say, did fall.
But as a ship, which hath struck sail, doth run
By force of that force, which before it won:
Or as sometimes in a beheaded man,
Though at those two red seas, which freely ran,
One from the trunk, another from the head,
His soul be sail'd to her eternal bed,

His eyes will twinkle, and his tongue will roll,
As though he beck'ned and call'd back his soul,
He grasps his hands, and he pulls up his feet,
And seems to reach, and to step forth to meet
His soul; when all these motions, which we saw,
Are but as ice, which crackles at a thaw:
Or as a lute, which in moist weather rings
Her knell alone, by cracking of her strings;
So struggles this dead world, now she is gone:
For there is motion in corruption.

As some days are at the creation nam'd,
Before the Sun, the which fram'd days, was fram'd:
So after this Sun 's set some show appears,
And orderly vicissitude of years.
Yet a new deluge, and of Lethe flood,
Hath drown'd us all; all have forgot all good,

Forgetting her, the main reserve of all;
Yet in this deluge, gross and general,
Thou seest me strive for life; my life shall be
To be hereafter prais'd for praising thee,
Immortal maid, who though thou would'st refuse
The name of mother, be unto my Muse
A father, since her chaste ambition is
Yearly to bring forth such a child as this.
These hymns may work on future wits, and so
May great grand-children of thy praises grow;
And so, though not revive, embalm and spice
The world, which else would putrify with vice.
For thus man may extend thy progeny,
Until man do but vanish, and not die.
These hymns thy issue may increase so long,
As till God's great venite change the song.
Thirst for that time, O my insatiate soul,
And serve thy thirst with God's safe-sealing bowl.
Be thirsty still, and drink still, till thou go
To th' only health; to be hydroptic so,
Forget this rotten world; and unto thee
Let thine own times as an old story be;
Be not concern'd: study not why, or when;
Do not so much as not believe a man.

For though to err be worst, to try truths forth,
Is far more business than this world is worth.
The world is but a carcass; thou art fed
By it, but as a worm that carcass bred;
And why should'st thou, poor worm, consider more
When this world will grow better than before?
Than those thy fellow worms do think upon
That carcass's last resurrection?

Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
As of old clothes cast off a year ago.
To be thus stupid is alacrity;
Men thus lethargic have best memory.

Look upward, that's towards her, whose happy state
We now lament not, but congratulate
She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
Where all sat hark'ning how her youthful age
Should be employ'd, because in all she did
Some figure of the golden times was hid.
Who could not lack whate'er this world could give,
Because she was the form that made it live;
Nor could complain that this world was unfit
To be stay'd in then, when she was in it.
She, that first try'd indifferent desires
By virtue, and virtue by religious fires;
She, to whose person paradise adher'd;
As courts to princes: she, whose eyes enspher'd
Star-light enough, t' have made the south control
(Had she been there) the star-full northern pole;
She, she is gone; she's gone: when thou know'st this,
What fragmentary rubbish this world is
Thou know'st, and that it is not worth a thought;
He honours it too much that thinks it nought.
Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom,
Which brings a taper to the outward room,
Whence thou spy'st first a little glimmering light,
And after brings it nearer to thy sight:

For such approaches doth Heav'n make in death:
Think thyself labouring now with broken breath,
And think those broken and soft notes to be
Division, and thy happiest harmony.
Think thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slack;
And think that but unbinding of a pack,
To take one precious thing, thy soul, from thence,
Think thyself parch'd with fever's violence,
Anger thine ague more, by calling it
Thy physic; chide the slackness of the fit.

Think that thou hear'st thy knell, and think no more,
But that, as bells call'd thee to church before,
So this to the triumphant church calls thee.
Think Satan's serjeants round about the be,
And think that but for legacies they thrust;
Give one thy pride, t' another give thy lust:
Give them those sins, which they gave thee before,
And trust th' immaculate blood to wash thy score.
Think thy friends weeping round, and think that they
Weep but because they go not yet thy way.
Think that they close thine eyes, and think in this,
That they confess much in the world amiss,
Who dare not trust a dead man's eye with that,
Which they from God and angels cover not.
Think that they shroud thee up, and think from
They re-invest thee in white innocence. [thence,
Think that thy body rots, and (if so low,
Thy soul exalted so, thy thoughts can go)
Think thee a prince, who of themselves create
Worms, which insensibly devour their state:
Think that they bury thee, and think that right
Lays thee to sleep but a Saint Lucie's night.
Think these things cheerfully, and if thou be
Drowsy, or slack, remember then that she,
She, whose complexion was so even made,
That which of her ingredients should invade
The other three, no fear, no art could guess;
So far were all remov'd from more or less:
But as in mithridate, or just perfumes,
Where all good things being met, no one presumes
To govern, or to triumph on the rest,
Only because all were, no part was best;
And as, though all do know, that quantities
Are made of lines, and lines from points arise,
None can these lines or quantities unjoint,
And say, this is a line, or this a point;
So though the elements and humours were
In her, one could not say, this governs there;
Whose even constitution might have won
Any disease to venture on the Sun,
Rather than her; and make a spirit fear,
That he too disuniting subject were ;

To whose proportions if we would compare
Cubes, they're unstable; circles, angular;
She, who was such a chain as Fate employs
To bring mankind all fortunes it enjoys,
So fast, so even wrought, as one would think
No accident could threaten any link;
She, she embrac'd a sickness, gave it meat,
The purest blood and breath that e'er it eat;
And hath taught us, that though a good man hath
Title to Heav'n, and plead it by his faith,
And though he may pretend a conquest, since
Heav'n was content to suffer violence;
Yea, though he plead a long possession too, [do)
(For they're in Heav'n on Earth, who Heav'n's works
Though he had right, and pow'r, and place before,
Yet Death must usher and unlock the door.
Think further on thyself, my soul, and think
How thou at first wast made but in a sink ;
Think, that it argued some infirmity,
That those two souls, which then thou found'st in me,
Thou fed'st upon, and drew'st into thee both
My second soul of sense, and first of growth.
Think but how poor thoù wast, how obnoxious,
Whom a small lump of flesh could poison thus.
This curdled milk, this poor unletter'd whelp,
My body, could, beyond escape or help,
Infect thee with original sin, and thou
Could'st neither then refuse, nor leave it now.

Think, that no stubborn sullen anchorit,
Which fix'd t' a pillar, or a grave, doth sit
Bedded, and bath'd in all his ordures, dwells
So foully, as our souls in their first-built cells:
Think in how poor a prison thou dost lie,
After enabled but to suck, and cry;

Think, when 't was grown to most, 't was a poor ina,
A province pack'd up in two yards of skin,
And that usurp'd, or threaten'd with a rage
Of sicknesses, or, their true mother, age:
But think that Death bath now enfranchis'd thee,
Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty.
Think, that a rusty piece discharg'd is flown
In pieces, and the bullet is his own,
And freely flies: this to thy soul allow,

Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch'd but

now,

And think this slow-pac'd soul, which late did cleave
T'a body, and went but by the body's leave,
Twenty perchance or thirty miles a day,
Dispatches in a minute all the way
'Twixt Heav'n and Earth; she stays not in the air,
To look what meteors there themselves prepare;
She carries no desire to know, nor sense,
Whether th' air's middle region be intense;
For th' element of fire, she doth not know,
Whether she pass'd by such a place or no;
She baits not at the Moon, nor cares to try
Whether in that new world men live and die.
Venus retards her not, t' inquire how she
Can (being one star) Hesper and Vesper be;
He, that charm'd Argus' eyes, sweet Mercury,
Works not on her, who now is grown all eye;
Who, if she meet the body of the Sun,

Goes through, not staying till his course be run;
Who finds in Mars his camp no corps of guard,
Nor is by Jove, nor by his father, barr'd;
But ere she can consider how she went,

At once is at and through the firmament.
And as these stars were but so many beads
Strung on one string, speed undistinguish'd leads
Her through those spheres, as through those beads
a string,

Whose quick succession makes it still one thing:
As doth the pith, which, lest our bodies slack,
Strings fast the little bones of neck and back;
So by the soul doth Death string Heav'n and Earth;
For when our soul enjoys this her third birth,
(Creation gave her one, a second grace)
Heaven is near and present to her face;
As colours are and objects in a room,
Where darkness was before, when tapers come.
This must, my soul, thy long-short progress be
Tadvance these thoughts; remember then that she,
She, whose fair body no such prison was,
But that a soul might well be pleas'd to pass
An age in her; she, whose rich beauty lent
Mintage to other beauties, for they went
But for so much as they were like to her;
She, in whose body (if we dare prefer
This low world to so high a mark as she)
The western treasure, eastern spicery,
Europe, and Afric, aud the unknown rest
Were easily found, or what in them was best ;
And when we 've made this large discovery
Of all, in her some one part then will be
Twenty such parts, whose plenty and riches is
Enough to make twenty such worlds as this;
She, whom had they known, who did first betroth
The tutelar angels, and assigned one both

To nations, cities, and to companies,
To functions, offices, and dignities,
And to each several man, to him and him,
They would have giv'n her one for every limb;
She, of whose soul if we may say, 't was gold,
Her body was th' electrum, and did hold
Many degrees of that; we understood
Her by her sight; her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,
That one might almost say, her body thought;
She, she thus richly and largely hous'd, is gone,
And chides us, slow-pac'd snails, who crawl upon
Our prison's prison, Earth, nor think us well,
Longer than whilst we bear our brittle shell.
But 't were but little to have chang'd our room,
If, as we were in this our living tomb
Oppress'd with ignorance, we still were so.
Poor soul, in this thy flesh what dost thou know?
Thou know'st thyself so little, as thou know'st not
How thou didst die, nor how thou wast begot.
Thon neither know'st how thou at first cam'st in,
Nor how thou took'st the poison of man's sin;
Nor dost thou (though thou know'st that thou art so)
By what way thou art made immortal, know.
Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehend
Even thyself, yea, though thou would'st but bend
To know thy body. Have not all souls thought
For many ages, that our body 's wrought
Of air, and fire, and other elements?

And now they think of new ingredients.
And one soul thinks one, and another way
Another thinks, and 't is an even lay.
Know'st thou but how the stone doth enter in
The bladder's cave, and never break the skin?
Know'st thou how blood, which to the heart doth
flow,

So much good, as would make as many more:
She, whose example they must all implore,
Who would, or do, or think well, and confess
That all the virtuous actions they express,
Are but a new and worse edition

Of her some one thought, or one action:
She, who in th' art of knowing Heav'n was grown
Here upon Earth to such perfection,

That she hath, ever since to Heav'n she came,
(In a far fairer print) but read the same;
She, she not satisfy'd with all this weight,
(For so much knowledge, as would over-freight
Another, did but ballast her) is gone
As well t' enjoy as get perfection;
And calls us after her, in that she took
(Taking herself) our best and worthiest book.
Return not, my soul, from this ecstasy,
And meditation of what thou shalt be,
To earthly thoughts, till it to thee appear,
With whom thy conversation must be there.
With whom wilt thou converse? what station
Canst thou choose out free from infection,
That will not give thee theirs, nor drink in thine?
Shalt thou not find a spungy slack divine
Drink and suck in th' instructions of great men,
And for the word of God vent them again?
Are there not some courts (and then no things be.
So like as courts) which in this let us see,
That wits and tongues of libellers are weak,
Because they do more ill than these can speak?
The poison 's gone through all, poisons affect
Chiefly the chiefest parts; but some effect
In nails, and hairs, yea, excrements will show;
So lies the poison of sin in the most low.
Up, up, my drowsy soul, where thy new ear
Shall in the angels' songs no discord hear;
Where thou shalt see the blessed mother-maid
Joy in not being that which men have said;
Where she 's exalted more for being good,
Than for her interest of motherhood:
Up to those patriarchs, which did longer sit
Expecting Christ, than they 've enjoy'd him yet:
Up to those prophets, which now gladly see
Their prophecies grown to be history:
Up to th' apostles, who did bravely run

Doth from one ventricle to th' other go?
And for the putrid stuff which thou dost spit,
Know'st thou how thy lungs have attracted it?
There are no passages, so that there is
(For ought thou know'st) piercing of substances.
And of those many opinions, which men raise
Of nails and hairs, dost thou know which to praise?
What hope have we to know ourselves, when we
Know not the least things, which for our use be?
We see in authors, too stiff to recant,
An hundred controverses of an ant;
And yet one watches, starves, freezes, and sweats,
To know but catechisms and alphabets
Of unconcerning things, matters of fact;
How others on our stage their parts did act:
What Cæsar did, yea, or what Cicero said.
Why grass is green, or why our blood is red,
Are mysteries which none have reach'd unto;
In this low form, poor soul, what wilt thou do?
Oh! when wilt thou shake off this pedantry,
Of being taught by sense and fantasy?
Thou look'st through spectacles; small things seem
great
Below; but up unto the watch-tower get,
And see all things despoil'd of fallacies:
Thou shalt not peep through lattices of eyes,
Nor hear through labyrinths of ears, nor learn
By circuit or collections to discern;

In Heav'n thou straight know'st all concerning it,
And what concerns it not, shall straight forget.
There thou (but in no other school) may'st be
Perchance as learned, and as full as she;
She, who all libraries had throughly read
At home in her own thoughts, and practised

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All the Sun's course, with more light than the Sun:
Up to those martyrs, who did calmly bleed
Oil to th' apostle's lamps, dew to their seed:
Up to those virgins, who thought, that almost
They made joint-tenants with the Holy Ghost,
If they to any should his temple give:
Up, up, for in that squadron there doth live
She, who hath carry'd thither new degrees
(As to their number) to their dignities:
She, who being to herself a state, enjoy'd
All royalties, which any state employ'd;
For she made wars, and triumph'd; reason still
Did not o'erthrow, but rectify her will:
And she made peace; for no peace is like this,
That beauty and chastity together kiss:
She did high justice, for she crucify'd
Ev'ry first motion of rebellion's pride:
And she gave pardons, and was liberal,
For, only herself except, she pardon'd all:
She coin'd, in this, that her impression gave
To all our actions all the worth they have:

She gave protections; the thoughts of her breast
Satan's rude officers could ne'er arrest.
As these prerogatives, being met in one,
Made her a sovereign state; religion

Made her a church; and these two made her all.
She, who was all this all, and could not fall
To worse, by company, (for she was still
More antidote than all the world was ill)
She, she doth leave it, and by death survive
All this in Heav'n; whither who doth not strive
The more, because she 's there, he doth not know
That accidental joys in Heav'n do grow.
But pause, my soul; and study, ere thou fall
On accidental joys, th' essential.

Still before accessories do abide

DONNE'S POEMS.

'T is such a ful), and such a filling good,
Had th' angels once look'd on him, they had stood.
To fill the place of one of them, or more,
She, whom we celebrate, is gone before :
She, who had here so much essential joy,
As no chance could distract, much less destroy;
Who with God's presence was acquainted so,
(Hearing, and speaking to him) as to know
His face in any natural stone or tree,
Better than when in images they be:
Who kept by diligent devotion

God's image in such reparation
Within her heart, that what decay was grown,
Was her first parents' fault, and not her own:
Who, being solicited to any act,

Still heard God pleading his safe pre-contract:
Who by a faithful confidence was here
Betroth'd to God, and now is married there;
Whose twilights were more clear than our mid-day;
Who dream'd devoutlier than most use to pray:
Who being here fill'd with grace, yet strove to be
Both where more grace and more capacity
At once is given she to Heav'n is gone,
Who made this world in some proportion
A Heav'n, and here became unto us all,
Joy (as our joys admit) essential.
But could this low world joys essential touch,
Heav'n's accidental joys would pass them much.
How poor and lame must then our casual be?
If thy prince will his subjects to call thee
My lord, and this do swell thee, thou art then,
By being greater, grown to be less man.
When no physician of redress can speak,
A joyful casual violence may break

A trial, must the principal be try'd.
And what essential joy canst thou expect
Here upon Earth? what permanent effect
Of transitory causes? Dost thou love
Beauty? (And beauty worthiest is to move)
Poor cozen'd cozener, that she, and that thou,
Which did begin to love, are neither now.
You are both fluid, chang'd since yesterday;
Next day repairs (but i!l) last day's decay.
Nor are (although the river keep the name)
Yesterday's waters and to day's the same.
So flows her face, and thine eyes; neither now
That saint, nor pilgrim, which your loving vow
Concern'd, remains; but whilst you think you be
Constant, you 're hourly in inconstancy.
Honour may have pretence unto our love,
Because that God did live so long above
Without this honour, and then lov'd it so,
That he at last made creatures to bestow
Honour on him; not that he needed it,
But that to his hands man might grow more fit.
But since all honours from inferiors flow,
(For they do give it; princes do but show
Whom they would have so honour'd) and that this A dangerous apostem in thy breast;
On such opinions and capacities

Is built, as rise and fall, to more and less,
Alas! 't is but a casual happiness.
Hath ever any man t' himself assign'd
This or that happiness t' arrest his mind,
But that another man, which takes a worse,
Thinks him a fool for having ta'en that course?
They who did labour Babel's tow'r t' erect,
Might have consider'd, that for that effect
All this whole solid Earth could not allow,
Nor furnish forth materials enow;
And that his centre, to raise such a place,
Was far too little to have been the base:
No more affords this world foundation
T' erect true joy, were all the means in one.
But as the heathen made them several gods
Of all God's benefits, and all his rods,
(For as the wine, and corn, and onions are
Gods unto them, so agues be, and war)
And as by changing that whole precious gold
To such small copper coins, they lost the old,
And lost their only God, who ever must
Be sought alone, and not in such a thrust:
So much mankind true happiness mistakes;
No joy enjoys that man, that many makes.
Then, soul, to thy first pitch work up again;
Know that all lines, which circles do contain,
For once that they the centre touch, do touch
Twice the circumference; and be thou such,
Double on Heav'n thy thoughts, on Earth employ'd;
All will not serve; only who have enjoy'd
The sight of God in fulness, can think it;
For it is both the object and the wit.
This is essential joy, where neither he
Can suffer diminution, nor we;

And whilst thou joy'st in this, the dangerous rest,
The bag may rise up, and so strangle thee.
What e'er was casual, may ever be:

What should the nature change? or make the same
Certain, which was but casual when it came?
All casual joy doth loud and plainly say,
Only by coming, that it can away.
Only in Heav'n joy's strength is never spent,
And accidental things are permanent.
Joy of a soul's arrival ne'er decays;
(For that soul ever joys, and ever stays)
Joy, that their last great consummation
Approaches in the resurrection;
When earthly bodies more celestial
Shall be than angels were; for they could fall;
This kind of joy doth every day admit
Degrees of growth, but none of losing it.
In this fresh joy, 't is no small part that she,
She, in whose goodness he that names degree,
Doth injure her; ('t is loss to be call'd best,
There where the stuff is not such as the rest;)
She, who left such a body as even she
Only in Heav'n could learn, how it can be
Made better; for she rather was two souls,
Or like to full on both sides-written rolls,
Where minds might read upon the outward skin
As strong records for God, as minds within:
She, who, by making full perfection grow,
Pieces circle, and still keeps it so,

Long'd for, and longing for 't, to Heav'n is gone,
Where she receives and gives addition.
Here in a place, where misdevotion frames

A thousand prayers to saints, whose very names
The ancient church knew not, Heav'n knows not yet,
And where what laws of poetry admit,

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