« PreviousContinue »
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 had 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 his vast perfections, I will conclude all that I have impartially writ of this Learned young Gent. (now dead to us) as he himselfe 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
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
The Rose buds sweet lip kisses;
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, An eye of heaven; or still shine here, In th' Heaven of Maries eye a teare.
On the water of our Lords Baptisme.
Ach blest drop, on each blest limme,
On the baptized Æthiopian.
Et it no longer be a forlorne hope
And now, I doubt not, the Eternall Dove,
On the miracle of multiplyed Loaves.
Ee here an easie Feast that knowes no wound, That under Hungers Teeth will needs be found, 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