For fure fo well inftructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd Characters.
VIII.

Or fhould I thence, hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the Mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would foon unbofom all their Echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

Might think th' Infection of my forrows loud, Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

This Subject the Author finding to be above the years be bad, when he wrote it, and nothing fatisfy'd with what was begun, left it unfinisht.

F

On TIM E.

LY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,

Whofe fpeed is but the heavy Plummet's pace;
And glut thy felf with what thy womb devours;
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal drofs;

So little is our lofs,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou haft entomb'd, And last of all thy greedy felf confum'd,

Then long Eternity fhall greet our blifs

With an individual kifs,

And joy fhall overtake us as a flood;
When every thing, that is fincerely good,

And

And perfectly divine,

With Truth, and Peace, and Love fhall ever fhine About the fupreme Throne

Of him, t'whose happy-making fight alone,

When once our Heav'nly-guided Soul fhall climb, Then all this Earthy groffness quit,

Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever fit, [O Time. Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee,

YE

Upon the Circumcifion.

E flaming Pow'rs, and Winged Warriours
bright,

That erft with Mufick, and triumphant Song,
First heard by happy watchful Shepherds Ear,
So fweetly fung your Joy the clouds along
Through the foft filence of the lift'ning night;
Now mourn, and if fad fhare with us to bear
Your fiery effence can distil no tear,
Burn in your fighs, and borrow

Seas wept from our deep forrow;

He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilere
Enter'd the World, now bleeds to give us cafe;
Alas, how foon our fin

Sore doth begin

His Infancy to feize!

more exceeding love, or law more just?
Juft law indeed, but more exceeding love!
For we by rightful doom remediless
Were loft in Death, till he that dwelt above
High thron'd in fecret blifs, for us frail duft

Emptied

Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness;

And that great Cov'nant which we still tranfgrefs Intirely fatisfi'd,

And the full wrath befide

Of vengeful Justice bore for our excefs,

And feals obedience first with wounding fmart

This day but oh! ere long

Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.

At a folemn Mufick.

Left pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'n's joy,

Verfe,

and

Wed your divine founds, and mixt pow'r employ,
Dead things with imbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd phantafie present
That undisturbed Song of pure content,
Ay fung before the faphire-colour'd throne
To him, that fits thereon,

With Saintly shout, and folemn Jubilee,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel-trumpets blow,
And the Cherubic hoft in thousand Choirs
Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With thofe juft Spirits, that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devout and holy Pfalms

Singing everlastingly;

That we on Earth with undifcording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noife ;

As once we did, till difproportion'd fin

Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din Broke the fair Musick that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd In perfect Diapafon, whilst they stood

In firft obedience, and their state of good,

O may we foon again renew that Song,

And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long To his celestial confort us unite,

To live with him, and fing in endless morn of light.

AN

EPITAPH

ΟΝ ΤΗ Ε

Marchionefs of Winchester.

T

HIS rich Marble doth inter

The honour'd Wife of Winchester. A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir, Befides what her Virtues fair

Added to her noble Birth,

More than she could own from Earth,
Summers three times eight fave one
She had told, alas! too soon,

After

After fo fhort time of breath,

To house with darkness, and with death :
Yet had the number of her days
Been as compleat as her praise,
Nature and fate had had no ftrife
In giving limit to her life.

Her high Birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;

The Virgin choir for her request
The God, that fits at marriage-feaft;
He at their invoking came,

But with a scarce-well-lighted flame;
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might difcern a Cyprefs bud.

Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely Son,
And now with fecond hope fhe goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But, whether by mischance or blame,
Atropos for Lucina came;

And with remorseless cruelty

Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree :
The hapless babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth;
And the languisht Mother's womb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I feen fome tender flip
Sav'd with care from Winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by fome unheedy fwain,
Who only thought to crop the flower
New hot up from vernal fhower;

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