DEATH'S LECTURE

AND THE
FUNERAL

OF
A YOUNG GENTLEMAN,
D

Ear Reliques of a dislodg’d Soul, whose lack
Makes

many a mourning paper put on black!
O stay a while, ere thou draw in thy head
And wind thy self up close in thy cold bed.
Stay but a little while, untill I call
A summons worthy of thy funerall.
Come then, Youth, BEAUTY, & blood!

All the soft powres. Whose sylken fatteryes swell a few fond howres Into a false æternity. Come man ; Hyperbolized Nothing! know thy span; Take thine own measure here down, down, & bow Before thy self in thine idæa; thou Huge emptynes ! contract thy self; & shrinke All thy Wild circle to a Point. O sink Lower & lower yet; till thy leane size Call heavn to look on thee with n[a]rrow eyes. Lesser & lesser yet; till thou begin To show a face, fitt to confesse thy Kin, Thy neig[h]bourhood to NOTHING. Proud lookes, & lofty eyliddes, here putt on Your selves in your unfaign'd reflexion, Here, gallant ladyes ! this unpartiall glasse (Though you be painted) showes you your true face. These death-seal'd lippes are they dare give the ly To the lowd Boasts of poor Mortality. These curtain'd windows, this retired eye Outstares the liddes of larg-look't tyranny. This posture is the brave one this that lyes Thus low, stands up (me thinkes,) thus & defies The world. All-daring dust & ashes ! only you

Of all interpreters read Nature True.

TEMPERANCE.

E.

OF THE

CHEAP PHYSITIAN

UPON

THE TRANSLATION OF

LESSIU S.

G

Oe now; and with some daring drugg
Bait thy disease. And whilst they tugge,

,
Thou to maintain their pretious strife
Spend the dear treasures of thy life.
Goe, take physick Doat upon
Some big-nam'd composition.
Th’Oraculous Doctor's mystick bills;
Certain hard Words made into pills,
And what at last shalt' gain by these ?
Only a costlyer disease.
That which makes us have no need
Of physick, that's Physick indeed.
Hark hither, Reader! wilt thou see
Nature her own physitian be?
Wilt' see a man, all his own wealth,
His own musick, his own health ;
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well.
Her garments, that upon her sitt
As garments should doe, close & fitt;
A well-cloth'd soul ; that's not opp[r]est
Nor choak't with what she should be drest.
A soul sheath'd in a christall shrine;
Through which all her bright features shine ;
As when a peice of wanton lawn
A thinne, aeriall veil, is drawn

Or’e beauty's face seeming to hide
More sweetly showes the blushing bride.
A soul, whose intellectuall beames
No mists doe mask, no lazy steames.
A happy soul, that all the way,
To Heave rides in a summer's day.
Wouldst' see a man, whose well-warm'd blood
Bathes him in a genuine flood !
A man, whose tuned humors be
A seat of rarest harmony?
Wouldst' see blith lookes, fresh cheekes beguil
Age? wouldst see december smile?
Wouldst' see nests of new roses grow
In a bed [0]f re[v]erend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering
Winter's selfe into a S[P]RING.
In summe, wouldst see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest & most leaden houres
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowres ;
And when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul & body part like freinds;
No quarrells, murmurs, no delay ;
A Kisse, a Sigh, and so away.
This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?
Hark hither; and thy self be He.

H O P E.

Ope whose weak beeing ruin'd is

!

Whom ill or good does equally confound
And both the hornes of fate's dilemma wound.

Vain shadow; that dost vanish quite

Both at full noon & perfect night! The starres have not a possibility

Of blessing Thee.
If thinges then from their end we happy call,
'Tis hope is the most hopelesse thing of all.

Hope, thou bold Taster of delight!
Who in stead of doing so, devourst it quite.
Thou bringst us an estate, yet leav’st us poor
By clogging it with legacyes before.

The joyes which we intire should wed

Come deflour’d-virgins to our bed. Good fortunes without gain imported be

Such mighty custom's paid to Thee. For joy like wine kep't close, does better tast; If it take air before his spirits wast.

Hope fortun's cheating lottery Where for one prize, an hundred blankes there be. Fond archer, hope. Who tak'st thine aime so farr That still or short or wide thine arrowes are ;

Thinne empty cloud which th-ey deceives

With shapes that our own fancy gives. A cloud which gilt & painted now appeares

But must drop presently in teares
When thy false beames o're reason’s light prevail,
By Ignes Fatui for north starres we sail.

Brother of fear more gayly clad.
The merryer fool oth two, yet quite as mad.
Sire of repen[t]ance, child of fond desire
That blow'st the chymick & the lover's fire.

Still leading them insensibly'on

With the strong witchcraft of Anon. By thee the one does changing nature through

Her endlesse labyrinth's pursue, And th’other chases woman ;

while she goes More wayes & turnes then hunted nature knowes.

M. COWLEY.