POEMS.  
BY THOMAS PHILIPOTT, Master of Arts, (Sometimes) Of Clare-Hall in Cambridge.  
LONDON, Printed by R. A. for Henry Shepheard, and William Ley, and are to be sold at the Bible in Tower-street, and at Paul's Chain, near doctor's Commons. M.DC.XLVI.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, As well by the merit of virtue, as desert of birth, MILDMAY, Earl of Westmoreland, Baron Despenser, and Bergherst.  
MY LORD,  
Be pleased to shed one beam on these tender sprigs of laurel, which will raise them up to that growth, that their shadow will be able to screen me from the heat of censure, I have (through a throng of other business) pressed so far as to present them to your view; my zeal to be known to your Lordship (who is known to be the public Assertor of Letters) obliged me to offer them up to your name, and if you think the sacrifice not worthy of the Altar, let it be burnt, and the flame of it will be so happy as to give me light to see my error ●hat durst presume to consecrate things of so low an estimate, without either sap or verdure, to the shelter of so high a Patron; so shall I (by my humility) entitle myself to your pity, that could not (by my poesy) endear myself to your praise; for I know (my Lord) that your mercy and justice are so equally wound up together, that you can at once both judge and forgive, him who shall aspire to no further happiness then to be acknowledged  
The humblest of your Servants, Thomas Philipott.   

To the Reader.  
REader, thou mayst without affrightment look  
Within the pages of this guiltless Book;  
For here no satire, masking in disguise,  
Amongst these leaves in Ambuscado lies:  
No Snake does lurk amongst these flowers, to cast  
Her poison forth, and men's fair honours blast;  
And though some stain the paper, when they write,  
And so defile, and fully its chaste white  
With lines of lust, that to wipe out that sin,  
It even wants white to do its penance in;  
Yet I no goat's blood in my ink will spill,  
To make loose lines flow from my tainted Quill;  
No soot or gall I'll mingle, to possess  
My words with an invective bitterness,  
Although (perchance) to make them seem more tart,  
I may some salt to season them impart:  
No, no, the wool o'th' Lamb I'll only take,  
And that my principallest Ingredient make:  
So that what ere my teeming Pen shall vent,  
Shall, though not witty, yet be innocent.  
T. P.   

To the author.  
ENCOMIASTICON.  
'TIs poetry thou writ'st, Latines call't Verse,  
Because it turns off Active, smooth and Terse,  
Greeks call'em rhythm, and Metre, when in sweet  
Numbers, and measure they do fitly meet;  
These rise, and bravely fly,  
heightened by fantasy,  
And make true poesy,  
Which many miss, that try.  
A Poet as thou art, 
Poeta nascitur, non fit.  (I may be sworn)  
Was not so made, but rather so was borne.  
And I may say, when I read many a line,  
Graced with high influence, thou art divine;  
The various style endears it to us more,  
Embroidered with Conceptions amplest store,  
Wits curious tapestry,  
Hymns, Past'ralls, Elegies,  
Observatives, divinity,  
Philosophic Scrutinies;  
It may be called a FLORILEGE for all,  
That have not time for studies general.  
Philomusus. T. C.   

POEMS  

On the beholding his face in a glass.  
Sure if this mirror has limned out to me  
My faces true and faithful imagery,  
My cheeks do yet lie fallow, and my brow  
Is not yet furrowed with Times rugged plow;  
No hair, as yet, has clothed my naked chin,  
Nor wrinkle rumpelled, or purled up my skin;  
Nor has my head one hair, by Cares expense,  
White with the powder of Experience:  
But when more years shall fit on me, and age  
Shall dress me with his livery, and engage  
This structure of my flesh to droop, and cares  
Shall into reverend grey have did my hairs,  
And I again (perhaps) expose my face  
To the impartial censure of my glass,  
My shadow will inform me, that it bears  
(Like me) th'impressions too of many years,  
When shivering agues do congeal the blood,  
And fevers melt again that purple flood:  
When I lie floating in a sea of rheum,  
Being tossed with every melancholy fume:  
This by its withered aspect will declare  
It symptoms does of the same sickness wear:  
Nay, when stern death with a rude hand does seek  
To pluck the Roses out from either cheek,  
To plant his lilies there, and does dispense  
To every languishing, and vanquished sense,  
A chill benumning damp: could I then view  
The sad resemblance of that ashy hue,  
That blasts my cheeks, that shadow would put on  
The same appearance of complexion.  
How brittle and how transitory then  
Are all those props that Nature leans on, when  
I from this faithful mirror can descry,  
My shadow is as permanent as I?   

On the sight of a Clock.  
HOw fruitless our designs would prove, if we  
Should be possessed with so much vanity,  
As with our frail endeavours, to assay  
To stop the winged hours in their way?  
Or fondly seek to chain up Time, and try  
To make him with our wild desires comply,  
Since leaden plummets hung upon his feet,  
Not clog we see, but make his pace more fleet.   

On a Gentlewoman dying in childbed of an abortive Daughter.  
WHat near alliance was between the grave  
Of this dead infant, and the place that gave  
First life to't? Here was a sad mystery  
Worked up itself, both Life and Death, we see,  
Were Inmates in one house, making the womb,  
At once become a Birth-place and a Tomb?  
The mother too, as if she meant t'improve,  
In every fatal circumstance her love,  
When this unpolished infant died, her breath  
Resigned, that she might wait on it in death:  
And in one Monument might sleep by her,  
To whom before she was a sepulchre.   

On a Gentlewoman much deformed with the small pox.  

WHat hath this pretty fair misdone,  
That angry Heaven so soon  
Mistook the fatal place,  
And buried all her beauty in her face?   

Each hole may be a sepulchre,  
Now fitly to inter  
Those, whom her coy disdain,  
And nice contempt, has immaturely slain.   

Yet lest so great a loss should lack,  
It's ceremonious black,  
She wears it in her eyes,  
To mourn at her own beauty's Obsequies.   

She needs no gloss to veil those scars,  
And those Hebrew Characters,  
Which (like letters) do display  
The story of her Beauties sad decay.   

That moisture shall embalm them, I  
Will pour from either eye,  
So that those scars she wears,  
Shall need no other Ceruse, but my tears.    

On Julia, throwing snowballs at him.  
WHilst Julia did her snowballs at me hit,  
She did into my bosom too transmit  
A sudden flame; 'tis strange that hea● should flow  
From such a frosty principle, as snow:  
Sure those successive glances which did rise  
From the bright Orbs of her refulgent eyes,  
Made some impression on those balls, and so  
Subverted the cold property of snow:  
Yet as that flame which in my heart did reign  
And darted fire from thence on every vein,  
Was caused by snow, so when I did but rest  
My hand upon the Alps of her white breast,  
The snow that lay dispersed o'er that chaste seat,  
Straight curbed the uproar of my former heat.  
Strange miracle, my Julia has the art  
At once with snow to heat and cool my heart.   

To Sir Henry New, upon his re-edifying the Church of Charleton in Kent.  
SIR;  
YOu need no Parian or Egyptian stone  
To build a Tomb for you, your name alone  
Shall stand, your monument which shall out vie  
Those fading Trophies in stability,  
You have the basis of no structures fixed  
On widow's ruins, or the mortar mixed  
With orphan's tears▪ you wish the melting skies  
May wet your fields, and not your tenant's eyes,  
Moisten it with their dew, you build no shrine  
To lavish riot, where sin's made divine,  
And idolised, you sacrifice no wealth  
At Bacchus' Altar, nor give up your health  
An offering to't, or to evacuate rheum  
Do you exhale whole manors into fume;  
No Sir, you have employed your coin so well,  
That God himself will be accountable  
For what y''ave spent, y''ave laid your treasure in  
So inaccessible a magazine;  
No sacrilegious robber shall purloin  
Or rust embase the value of your coin:  
y''ave built a house where God himself will dwell,  
And stand himself there his own sentinel;  
Let others sit and brood upon that Ore  
Which they've collected from the Indian shore,  
And put themselves to the expense of care,  
For a wild unthrift, you make God your heir.   

On the sight of a Rivelet, that eight foot off from its Fountain disembogues itself into the Medway.  
NO sooner did' this pregnant spring distil  
Out of her watery womb this purling rill,  
But see how eagerly it rushes down  
Itself, in Medwayes neighbouring stream to drown;  
And even at its first birth falls upon  
A ruinous precipi●ation;  
Like some unwary heir, who being of age  
To act an unthrifts part, upon the stage  
O'th' world, and newly weaned from the embrace  
Of his deceased Parent, does deface  
His heritage with ●ot, and makes haste  
To let himself loose into lavish wast,  
Pouring out his Revenues, to advance  
Vice in each gay and pompous circumstance,  
With such profuseness, that he straight is found  
Plunged in the usurers books, and there he's drowned:  
And as the river when it has enlarged  
Its channel with that rill the spring discharged  
Into its liquid womb, gliding away  
With thankless speed, its vassalage to pay  
To the bl●w Sea-god, does no more reflect,  
But steals th' spring that fed, it with neglect;  
Even so the usurer when his bags swell high  
And grow affected with a pleurisy,  
Which was with this loose unthrifts ruins fed,  
And (like some flies) from his corruptions bred,  
Calls in each wandering glance, and passing by  
He ne'er looks back, lest it be with an eye  
Of scorn, not pity, nor will deign to know  
Him from whose spring his streams of wealth did flow.   

On M. Jo. Joscelin, dying of a fever.  
What heat was this which scorched my joscelins' heart?  
And licked that oil up which each vital part  
Is daily moistened with? what heaps of flames  
Chequered the azure front' spice of his veins  
With crimson spots? how did their fervour pearl  
His sinews? and his skins fair margin curl  
Into a shriveled lump? as if that he  
Was even grown Aetna's epitome,  
And might be licenced to be canonised  
Now for a Saint, since he was sacrificed  
To death in fire, and had even undergone  
By frying, with a fever, martyrdom,  
Which did each part with such continuance burn,  
His bed itself was even become his urn?  
Yet could my tears this privilege have gained,  
To have appeased that ravenous flame which reigned  
Within him, he had not been yet possessed  
With the cold sleep, nor gone so soon to rest:  
But this accrues yet to his future glory,  
When time shall read the annals of his story,  
'Twill find, it was no abject malady  
That forced his active spirit hence, to fly  
Into th' Elysian shades, no trembling fit  
Of a blood-shaking Ague made him quit,  
And render up his tenement of clay,  
No slow consumption melted him away,  
Making him seem to his spectators so,  
As if h''ve been a corpse a year ago:  
But that he fell by coaping in a duel  
With a more noble fever, and was fuel  
Only for that disease, with which they say,  
The world itself shall labour i'th' last day.   

To a Gentlewoman singing.  
Sure Philomel's transformed to human shape,  
For who but she could practise such a rape  
On our ensnared sense, with the calm noise  
That echoes forth from her seraphic voice?  
Each angel that is guardian to a Sphere,  
Desists from whirling round his Orb, to hear  
Her warble her tuned lays, the sullen North,  
Who in distempered murmurs, bellows forth  
A rude defiance to the swelling deep,  
Is by her voices music rocked asleep.  
When all the winds do sally fo●h t'engage  
The elements in mutiny, and wage  
A conflict 'mongst themselves, they straight take truce  
To listen to her voice, which does infuse,  
Such charms into them, that they straight comply  
In gentle whispers with her harmony:  
Swans hearing her but sing, do straight concur  
In a melodious symphony with her:  
Yet (oh sad fate) straining a note too high  
To equal hers, do straight expire and die.  
Copernicus' pupils may go on  
Now to protect his wild assertion,  
And say the earth doth circularly move,  
Whilst the dull Planets in their Sphere above  
Stand still like idle gazers on, since she  
Has by the miracle of her harmony,  
accomplished this, for at her charming call  
Thrilled forth in an enchanting madrigal,  
The earth appears to move, the knotite rock  
And aged oak, as if they meant to mock  
Nature's decrees, assemble in loose rings  
And shake their active feet when she but sings,  
Whilst my joyed spirits too, with nimble strain  
Make haste to dance lavaltoes in each vein.   

On the death of M. Francis Thornhill, slain in a single duel  
What stratagems inexorable death  
Does muster up to rob us of our breath?  
Sometimes he sends a fever to take in  
Our forts of earth, sometimes the gout, to win  
Our ruinous tenements, which being repelled  
And their assaul●s by strength of nature quelled,  
He straight employs the sword, petard and gun,  
With all the Engines of destruction;  
To raze our citadels of clay, which we  
Accomplished in the fate of Thornhill see,  
Who though his heart and vitals bore about  
Vigour enough to keep diseases out:  
Yet see how soon the sword had found the art  
To cut the cordage that made fast his heart.  
And soul, which thence flew heavenwards, there to be  
Indenisoned into eternity.  
For though it swam in a red stream from hence  
I'm confident 'twas white with innocence:  
But shall his blood, exhale to air, the earth  
Was moistened with, no 'twill produce a birth,  
Of odorous flowers, to whom there shall accrue  
(As if they wept for him) a constant dew;  
Which on the ruins of his earth shall flow;  
And when the wind from the cold North does blow,  
congeal into a pearly mass, so he  
Invested with a shroud of pearl shall be.   

On a Farmer, who having buried five of his children of the Plague, planted on each of their graves an appletree.  
YOu whose bold thoughts do prompt you on to glory  
I'th' number of your issue, view the story  
Of this afflicted Villager, since he  
Was by th'increase of a fair progeny  
Made happy, till just God, for man's offence,  
Employed th'infection of a Pestilence  
T'annoy the world, which five of's children gave  
Up tothth' possession of the lavish grave.  
But see what glorious piety can dwell  
I'th' narrow circuit of an humble Cell,  
To preserve life in their remembrance, he  
Establishes on each grave an appletree,  
By that quaint Hier●glyphick to declare  
He was their tree, and they his apples were,  
Which in his estimate did far out vie  
In tenderness the apple of his eye;  
And though stern death had been so much unkind,  
To pluck the fruit and leave the tree behind,  
Yet in that action, he did but show,  
That they untimely to their graves did go:  
To show in time, what we must likewise do,  
Branches, Trunk, Root, and all must follow too.   

An Epitaph on Mrs. E. W.  
REader, if thy indulgent eyes can spare  
But so much brine as will make up a tear,  
Let piety engage thee here to lave  
That moisture out upon this beauty's grave,  
That so the turf bedewed with it, may teem  
Roses and odorous Violets, to redeem  
(By pow'ring forth a balmy dew) her dust  
From putrid vapours, and her tomb from rust:  
For modesty, truth, zeal, and meekness have  
A sad interment too, within her grave,  
Nay even all the virtues are become  
Her Inmates, and do lodge within her tomb;  
So that she forced us, when she lived, to say,  
She was an angel clothed in weeds of clay,  
Which to approve when her fair soul was cloyed  
With the world's tumults (which yet still enjoyed  
A calm of peace, 'mongst all the noise of men)  
She threw off earth, and fled to heaven again.   

On the approach of night.  
WHy comes forth night arrayed in black, when day  
Does (like an exhalation) melt away?  
Why hang so many lights i'th' vault o'th' sky?  
As if night furnished out some obsequy?  
Why are her tears in dews so often shed?  
The reason is, she mourns 'cause day is dead.   

Considerations upon eternity.  
IMmense eternity! of thee what part  
Shall I define, since thou a circle art?  
And when in thee (like the reviving sun)  
I look for end, I find thee but begun.  
When I thy first beginning would survey,  
I find thou ne'er hadst none: when I assay  
To sound thy depth, thy depth I find to be  
A vast and bottomless profundity.  
Could we pluck back those wasted years which are  
Inroled in times moth-eaten Register,  
And that collected mass of ages lay  
Within a scale, we soon should find they'd weigh,  
Balanced with thee, no more when all is done,  
Then if we pois●d an atom with the sun.  
Who then would dote on life which only shrouds  
The soul in slime and earth, which death unclouds,  
But not annihilates; or fan that fire  
Which will but breathed upon by wind expire,  
Whose flame though't be by nature blown about  
The heart and brain, the colic can put out:  
Who would piece up his tenement of clay  
With so much art, when rheums may wash't away,  
And dropsies drown it? or one sudden gust  
Of a chill Ague shake it into dust,  
When with a fever it so long may burn  
It may be both the ashes and the urn:  
When its whole frame at once may be shook down  
With th'earth-quake of a wild convulsion;  
Why should I in a heap of painted dust  
Or guilded rubbish then put any trust?  
Whose chief ingredients are our shivering fears,  
And thrilling sighs, whose cement is our tears,  
Which kneaded it to shape, on which has been  
God's impress stamped till 'twas razed out by sin.  
Nor shall this sullied medal be refined  
Till it be in the general fire calcined;  
On which, when 'tis new moulded, God will deign  
To coune the image of his face again:  
Whose impress time shall then no more deface,  
Nor sin its value any more embase:  
When thus both soul and body are combined  
In one strict union, and so close intwin'd  
They ne'er shall be divorced, they both shall be  
Admitted into immortality:  
Upon whose wings, winged too with their own love,  
And innocence, they both shall soar above  
The pitch of human thoughts, and with an eye  
Purged from blind vapours and dull mists, descry  
Those various Essences, whose forms will be  
Limned out i'th' mirror of the trinity;  
And all the old Ida's range about  
By which at first they both were copied out.  
Next gaze on the Apostles, who do make  
(In heaven) a new and second zodiac,  
For they were the 12 signs, through which the Sun  
Of righteousness, his course on earth did run.  
Then view the Martyrs, from the sacred reak  
Of whose pure flames, the light of truth did break;  
Who though they waded through a crimson flood,  
Which had no spring to feed it but their blood,  
And all besmeared with purple, soared from hence,  
Sit clothed in the white Rabes of innocence;  
Whilst thus the eye is charmed, the ear shall be  
Entranced with such melodious harmony,  
That if the soul were not so closely tied,  
And to the body glorified, allied  
In such a loving mixture, we might fear  
That 'twould again be stolen out at the ear.  
Thus some eternally shall gaze upon  
That Orb of Light, the blessed Vision,  
And so to everliving joys aspire,  
Whilst others melt in never-dying fire,  
Which powers forth flames, but yet displays no light,  
Which will both burn, and freeze the damned wight:  
Where outward tortures shall corrode each sense,  
And inward fret into the conscience,  
Where all arithmetic will be aghast  
To calculate the years of torture past;  
And bind them up in numbers, but to tell  
The years to come, will be a second Hell;  
For when ten thousand, thousands years are told,  
And all those thousand thousands years are rolled  
About their Sphere, and Myriads more are done,  
And yet alas, all is but now begun;  
The wretched and captived soul will cry,  
Oh that I once might live or once might die:  
Lord tear the Mountains up, and throw them all  
Upon my wretched head, that I may fall  
Into a heap of atoms, and may be  
Seen not of any, lest it be of thee;  
Unlock the Caverns of the earth, and find  
Amongst those dusky Cells some angry wind,  
Whose wild impetuous Gusts so long may blow  
Upon my house of earth, until it throw  
The rubbish in some wilderness, or thrust  
The thin remains of my disbanded dust  
Into some gloomy Vault, where none shall tell,  
To glean them up, so thou forgive me hell.   

A divine hymn.  
O Thou who art all light, from whose pure beams  
The infant daylight streams,  
And to whose Lustre all the throng of stars  
Those mystic Characters,  
Writ in the dusky volume of the Night,  
Do owe their stock of Light;  
Who when the Sun, i'th' nonage of the year,  
Like a Bridegroom does appear,  
Sweet with the Balmy Perfumes of the East,  
With Lights Embroidery dressed,  
And spangled o'er with brightness, does array  
That Planet with each Ray  
He glitters with, a powerful spark inspire  
Of thy celestial fire  
Into my frozen heart, that there may be  
A flame blown up in me,  
Whose light may shine like the meridian sun  
In the dark horizon  
Of my benighted soul, and thence distil  
Into a pious rill  
Of contrite tears, those clouds which do control  
The prospect of my soul,  
That so the beams of faith may clearly shine  
Amidst its crystalline,  
That I may by th'infusion of their light  
Learn to spell Christ's cross aright.  
And as one touch from Moses did unlock  
The casket of the rock,  
And thawed its liquid treasures to repel  
The thirst of Israel;  
So let this flame dissolve that mass of sin  
That lies wrapped up within  
The chambers of my heart, that there may rise  
Two fountains in my eyes,  
Which may put out those scorching flames, which were  
First fed and kindled there,  
By that same hot Artillery which lust  
Into my eyeballs thrust;  
And as when fevers blaze within the blood,  
And parch that purple flood,  
The sparks and embers of them, are by heat  
Stilled from the pores in sweat;  
So when sin flames within me and does roll  
Its heat about my soul,  
And sparkles in each faculty, my eyes  
Being lust's Incendiaries.  
Oh let this inward sickness by that fire  
Devotion does inspire,  
Be stilled out, at those pores o'th' soul, my eyes,  
In a liquid sacrifice,  
Which gathering into one heap, may swell  
Into a holy well,  
Wherein when the old Dragon wounds me, I  
May bathe incessantly,  
And having washed my festered wounds, may be  
Sure both at once of cure and victory.   

On the death of a Prince, a Meditation.  
IN what a silence Princes pass away,  
When they're enfranchised from their shells of clay?  
No thunderclap rung out this hero's knell,  
And in loud accents to the world did tell,  
He was deceased; no trembling earthquake shook  
The frame o'th' world, as if 'twere palsy-strook.  
There was no bearded Comet did arise,  
To light a torch up at his Obsequies;  
And though so many men should have deceased  
When his great soul was from the flesh released,  
That Charon's vessel should have ceased to float,  
And he have cried, give me another boat;  
Not any yet resigned their vital breath,  
Obsequiously to wait on him, in death;  
Thus we may see, Fates unrelenting knife  
Will even cut a Prince's thread of life;  
Nor can his spreading power enforce its strength,  
Or his Dominions extend its length,  
If from the urn his name first issue forth,  
Not his tall titles or unfathomed worth,  
Can this Prerogative, or Charter give,  
That he his cheap dull vassal shall outlive;  
And though the eyes o'th' multitude before  
Followed his presence, and did even adore  
The earth that propped his feet, yet when the rust,  
Of's monument shall mingle with his dust,  
Contracted to a span, and the rude wind  
Shall his abbreviated ashes find,  
They cannot from his blast be so exempt,  
But that he will disperse them to contempt;  
So many graves his dust shall (he being dead)  
Obtain, yet he be nowhere buried:  
Who then in Titles, crowns, or Wealth would trust,  
Since he can scarce assure himself his dust?  
Even in the grave shall so protected be,  
It shall be freed from foreign injury.   

To a Lady viewing herself in her glass.  
LADY;  
WHen sickness, Death's pale Herald does display  
His ensigns in your face, and does array  
Your drooping beauty with an ashy hue,  
You straight take counsel of your glass, to view  
How much those roses, that their blushes shed  
O'er either cheek, are shrunk, or withered:  
When any spot that lustre does embase,  
Which does improve the beauty of your face,  
You have recourse unto your glass, to see  
What part dares shelter that enormity;  
When you with any fashion would comply,  
You to your mirror straight employ your eye,  
To be informed, what correspondence there  
Your shadow does with your fair substance bear:  
If in your painting there some error be,  
Or in your dress an incongruity,  
You from your glass a certain pattern take,  
By which yourself you even a shadow make.  
Since then in all things you yourself apply  
Still to this crystal Index, to descry  
Each blemish in your dress, and each defect  
That clouds your beauty, and by that correct  
All trespasses, you may instructed be,  
By this, to know too your mortality;  
Since that frail Tenement you so perfume  
With clouds of Mitrhe, and Cassia, and consume  
So much to piece it up, it may repel  
Th' assaults of Age, and be defensible  
'Gainst Times rude Onsets, will scon fade away,  
And languish to a ruinous decay;  
And by its transitoriness declare,  
That you yourself, your shadow's emblem are.   

On the death of Sir Simon Harcourt, slain at the taking in of Carigs-Main Castle in Ireland.  
MAy that pure flame which heated Harcourt's breast,  
Break from the gloomy confines of that Chest  
Which circumscribes his hallowed dust, and sink  
Like a spent Meteor down into my ink;  
That that dull juice its heat may so refine,  
Each drop of it may prove like that, divine,  
With which each verse of mine embalmed shall be,  
And like his fame last to eternity;  
At common funerals each vulgar quill  
Into some broken rapture can distil,  
And with the watery tribute of the eye  
Dissolve into some easy elegy:  
Should we not then pay to this honoured hearse  
Our griefs dressed up in more refined Verse,  
And mix with it such a large stream of brine,  
It might these precious relics even enshrine?  
The grateful wind would from his ashes sweep  
Such clouds of dust, that if we could not weep,  
'Twould throw them thence into our barren eyes,  
And (though unwilling) force some tears to rise:  
I am no laureate, nor does any Bay  
Surround my Temples, if it did, I'd lay  
That wreath (brave Harcourt) on thy Tomb, that we  
At once might crown thy victory, and thee.  
But though I wear no bays, in either eye  
Is worn a tear, sorrow's best livery;  
In which I'll steep each verse, that so their brine  
May distribute some salt to every line:  
And when my barren and exhausted eyes  
Grow bankrupt in their watery Obsequies,  
And spend their stock too soon, those stars which shined  
To light thee into th' world, and did unwind  
The Fate of thy great actions, sure will turn  
To tears, and drop in jelly on thy urn:  
Though thus two fountains flow from either eye,  
T'embalme thy dust, my fancy yet is dry:  
But pardon me, that on thy hallowed tomb  
I've stuck no Epitaph, which might become  
An Index to past ages, and display  
To times to come, how (through that purple sea  
Which from thy wounds in such a deluge ran)  
Thy soul passed o'er to th' Land of Canaan,  
White with her innocence, alas no stone  
Would serve to bear the sad Inscription;  
For even that Marble that is put in trust,  
To be the wardrobe for thy weeds of dust,  
Will to deplore so great a loss (my fears  
Tell me) be instinct too melt into tears.   

On a Gentlewoman struck blind with the small Pox.  
WHat have we poor unhappy mortals done,  
Such an Eclipse is cast o'er beauty's sun?  
What? was this cloud let loose to veil its light,  
'Cause it too much astonished our dull sight?  
Or did some goddess, fearing we might pay  
A Superstitious homage to each ray,  
This beauty's eyes poured forth, become unkind,  
And to prevent this tribute strike her blind?  
Or are her eyes preserved? and cannot we,  
Blinded by too much light their lustre see?  
Or has Jove fixed them in the starry Sphere,  
To shine by night, as they by day shone here?  
If so; no more let lovers from afar  
Court the loose aspect of the Cyprian star;  
Nor let the erring Mariner no more  
Worship the Laedan stars, nor yet implore  
With volleys of loud sighs, they would dispense  
From their kind Orb propitious influence:  
For her refulgent sparkling eyes, that were  
On earth, the brightest stars in beauty's Sphere,  
And shone with such a clear and constant light,  
That Our Horizon was by them made bright,  
Shine forth in heaven, a Constellation, now,  
And will, from their auspicious Orb, endow  
Lovers with such mild influx, at their birth,  
That heaven they've found above, they'll find on earth;  
And to the sailor that has lost his way  
'Mongst the wild Alps and Deserts of the Sea,  
Dart such clear beams that they shall steer him right,  
So that he'll need no Pilot, but their light.   

On the death of M. George Sandys.  
WHen that Arabian bird, the Phoenix dies,  
Who on her pile of spices bedrid lies,  
And does t'herselfe a sacrifice become,  
Making her grave an Altar, and a womb,  
T'enclose her pregnant dust, she can redeem  
Those ruins she herself has made, and teem  
With a new Phoenix: but now Sandys is gone,  
And melted to a dissolution,  
I'th' Furnace of a fever, can his urn  
An equal fine, or interest return  
For those remains it keeps? Alas, we here  
Are wholly beggared; for his sepulchre  
Is like some thrifty Steward, put in trust  
To take account of every grain of dust  
That moulders from the fabric of his clay,  
But when the general fire which the last day  
Shall sparkle with, shall a new flame inspire  
Into his urn, and that poetic fire  
Which was so long an Inmate to his breast,  
Shall be called forth from out that Marble Chest,  
Where it now lies raked up amongst the dust,  
And embers of his clay; and when that rust  
That chokes it up, shall be dispersed, the light  
Of this enfranchised flame shall shine so bright  
Amidst our horizon, 'twill seem to be  
The Constellation of all poetry.  
Tell me not then, that pyramids disband,  
And drop to dust; that times ungentle hand  
Has crushed into an indigested mass,  
And heap of ruins, obelisks of brass,  
That our perfidious tombs (as loath to say  
We once had life and being too) decay;  
And that those Flowers of Beauty which do grow  
In ladies' cheeks, amidst a bed of snow,  
Are withered on their stalk; or that one Gust  
Of a bleak Ague can resolve to dust  
Those hands which did a Globe and sceptre hold,  
Or that that head which wore a crown of Gold,  
May be wraped up within a shroud of Lead,  
Neglected, and forgot, since Sandys is dead;  
Within whose breast Wits Empire seemed to be,  
And in whose brain a Mine of poetry:  
For who'll not now confess, that Time's that Moth  
Which frets into all Art, and Nature both,  
Since he who seemed within his active Brain  
So much of salt and verdure to contain,  
He might have ever been preserved, is gone,  
And shrunk away into corruption:  
But these excursions their Conception owe  
To passion, or from our wild fancies flow;  
All that we now can do is to return  
Some Flowers of poesy unto his urn,  
Which being burnt in his own funeral flame,  
we'll offer up, as Incense, to his name,  
Which yet by scent and colour will be known  
T'have sprung from him, and t'have been first his own.  
And if these Flowers cannot so presume  
His name, but that 'twill (Maugre these) consume,  
Our tears strewed on it, will repeal that Fate,  
And in his withered fame, new life create;  
As when the treasures of the Spring are croped  
And by untimely Martyrdom unloped,  
From off their stalk, we can their death reprieve,  
And a new life by water to them give:  
So now when Sandys like the Springs flowery birth,  
By deaths rude scythe is mowed from off the earth,  
And thrown into a grave, to wither there  
Into a heap of ashes, though no tear  
Can piece his dust together, we may weep  
A Bath of tears, in which we yet may steep  
His memory, which will (like Aeson) when  
'Tis thus manured, grow fresh and young again;  
And being thus embalmed, a relic lie  
To be adored by all posterity.   

On the sight of some rare Pieces and Monuments of antiquity, in an Antiquaries study.  
LEt Aeson's story wast away, and be  
No more transcribed unto posterity:  
It must now wither, and despite of all  
His powerful baths, and moistening juices, shall  
Grow wrinkled o'er with age, decease, and have  
(Being dead) t'entomb it in, no other grave,  
But dark forgetfulness; where it shall lie  
For ever, buried in obscurity.  
For, now Antiquity itself, with years  
Grown white and hoary, with long age, appears  
Here fresh and vigorous; things which Ages passed  
Crumbled away, and did decay so fast,  
They were even thought in a Consumption then,  
Do here rise up in a full Youth again:  
Times Aesculapius has done this; for He  
'Gainst the disease of Time, a remedy  
Prescribes, beyond all drugs: He has the Art  
T'embalme the fame of things; yet, not impart,  
To keep them so that they shall ne'er consume,  
Whole clouds of myrrh, Spice, Cassia, and Perfume:  
And, as the Loadstone Iron can call out,  
When 'tis beleaguered, and even walled about  
With other wild confused heaps of dust;  
So, when men's names grow fretted with the rust  
Age strews upon them, and they seem to be  
Lost in the ruins of mortality;  
He, from that rude and blended mass, can bring  
Their dead remembrance out, and can new wing  
Those thus raised up to life, and make them fly  
'Bove Times wide reach, up to eternity:  
He can piece up men's scattered dust, his hands  
Manage a powerful sceptre, that commands  
Even Fate itself, with which he can make blunt  
The Teeth of Time, which, ostrich-like, were wont  
To feed on iron, piles of brass devour,  
And nature's beauty, like a moth, deflower.  
In fine, this study is the public Ark  
In which the memories of men embark;  
Which, being here reprieved from death, do shun  
The being drowned in deep Oblivion.   

An Epithalamium.  
THe Bride is up: Go, bid the Negro creep  
Into the watery bowels of the Deep,  
To gather up those orient pearls, which dwell  
In the contracted casket of a shell:  
Command him to examine every rock,  
To pluck off Diamonds from that craggy stock,  
And hang them all on her, that so the light  
That breaks from her clear eyes, may make them bright.  
Behold, the active Bridegroom does appear  
Fresh as the Sun, i'th' nonage of the year,  
Whilst every flower unclasps its leaves, as he  
Walks by, as if they did delight to be  
Enlivened with those odours, which his breath  
Does (like rich perfumes) to the air bequeathe.  
And now he meets his Bride, whilst from their eyes  
A numerous constellation seems to rise:  
So that each one which views them from afar,  
Thinks that each glance of theirs darts forth a star.  
And now the Priest has (with his nuptial Bands)  
At once united both their hearts and hands.  
And, though the Essence of their chaste delight  
Must be prorogued, till Day be masked with Night:  
Yet see, their souls prevent their body's bliss,  
Both making haste to couple in a kiss;  
Whilst on those twisted beams their eyeballs shed,  
They even seem each others hearts to thread:  
So that, their eyes the body's office do,  
In mingling thus; and beget Babies too.   

On a Nymph portrayed in stone, that poured forth two spouts of water from her eyes into a Garden.  
THink that this Statue which now courts your view,  
Was once a virgin of that glorious hue,  
Set out and furnished with such charming grace,  
Each durst affirm she had an angel's face;  
But as those minerals, which the teeming Earth,  
Combining with the Sun, improves with birth,  
Do through the womb o'th' Mine their veins diffuse,  
That metals like themselves they may produce:  
Even so that rocky hardness, which was bred  
Within the caverns of her heart, did spread  
A drowsy numbness thorough every sense,  
Whose chillness all those Organs did condense,  
That gave attendance on the brain, (the Throne  
Where Life and Motion sit installed) to stone:  
But 'cause before those sparkling rays, her eyes  
Poured forth, did make each heart love sacrifice;  
Thy spouts of tears, though turned to stone, distil,  
As if they wept for those their scum did kill.   

On one dead of a dropsy.  
We need not here be lavish, and let fall  
Our tears, as tribute, to this funeral,  
Since here we see the Body did resent,  
And even, by private instinct, so lament  
The souls departure, that it did appear,  
Transformed by grief, to one continued tear.   

To a Gentlewoman viewing herself in her glass.  
Cruel fair one, think this glass,  
Wherein you now behold your face,  
Was composed of one who died  
For love of you, since he applied  
His liquid and dissolving eyes,  
So long with tears to sacrifice  
To your disdain, that to relieve  
His Bankrupt and impoverished grief  
With a fresh stock of moisture, he  
Melted to a spring, which see  
The cold, but charitable North,  
(Lest a fountain of such worth  
Should, by vulgar lips, be tasted,  
Or profanely be exhausted)  
Congealed into a crystal mass,  
Of which was formed this looking-glass:  
And as your Figure fair did rest,  
Within this Lovers living breast,  
So still you see it doth appear,  
Though turned to crystal, harboured here   

An elegy offered up to the memory of Anna Countess of Caernarvon  
An Introduction to the elegy.  
THose Flowers of beauty, lily, Violet,  
And blushing Rose, which were by Nature set  
In fair Caernarvons cheek, and seemed to grow,  
(Strange wonder I) there amidst a bed of Snow,  
By deaths rude hand now from their stalk are rent,  
And thrown (alas) into a Monument,  
Where they will wither into dust, and be  
The types of human mutability.  
If then these short-lived flowers could not give  
But so much verdure, as would make her live,  
Even in her worser part, her earth, what spice,  
Or balmy d●uggs, shall we then sacrifice,  
T'embalme her name, since there can nothing be  
That will do this, but flowers of poesy,  
Which I have strewed upon't; and, though they fail,  
Such aromatic odours to exhale,  
As may this memory of hers perfume:  
They'll so preserve it, it shall ne'er consume.   

The elegy.  
FOr all those various streams which do entomb  
Themselves within the ocean's liquid womb,  
The Sea pays Impost, and an interest brings  
Back to the Earth, when it refines to Springs  
The brackish billows, and those waters strains  
To Brooks, and weaves them into all her veins.  
If the kind waves refund their tribute thus,  
What fine, or use, wilt thou pay back to us,  
Unhappy Earth, for these deplored Remaines  
Which now manure thy shrunk and withered veins?  
Canst thou unsluce thy thrifty pores, and power  
From those alembics such a swelling shower  
Of unctuous dew? it may her dust o'errun,  
And rescue it from putrefaction:  
So that no colony of worms shall dare  
To plant themselves within her sepulchre:  
And, canst thou then, from thy cold womb dispense  
Such vapours, and chill damps, they may condense  
That heap of dew to sheets of ice, that She  
Enshrined within a crystal cloud may be:  
So that the sacred ruins of her dust  
May not disband to atoms, by the gust  
Of any saucy wind, or be exempt  
From their cold urn, and scattered to contempt:  
Canst thou for that rich blood thy lavish breast  
Hath swallowed up, repay thy Interest  
In purple Flowers? which being thawed with heat;  
May from their pores such fragrant odours sweat,  
They may perfume those Vapours, which her tomb  
Throws out in mists from its corrupted womb;  
And more refine the air, then if the spring  
Did to her urn, its verdant treasures bring;  
But if the needy barren earth repine  
To pay back any Interest; or Fine,  
Unto her Grave; my sighs shall be perfume,  
To air her Dust, and such a flood of rheum  
Shall from mine eyes break loose, that in few years,  
Her tomb itself shall be embalmed with tears;  
Which being thus manured and softened, shall  
Teem with the Rose, and Violet, and all  
The fragrant Issue of the Spring, whose Flowers  
Shall always be distilling pious Showers  
Of Balmy dew, as if they meant to show,  
That since their first original they drew  
From out her urn, they gratefully let fall  
Those tears as Rights due to her funeral;  
But why do I appeal to stones and flowers,  
And from their melting pores expect new showers,  
To stock my tears, since Nature too should be  
Herself (in grief) Competitrix with me?  
For sure her casquets broke, and fall'n to dust.  
To which (as her Exchequer) she did trust:  
The Balmy Perfumes of the Phoenix nest,  
And all the treasurers of the rifled East;  
Wherein she circumscribed the wealthy toils,  
The drudging silkworm spins, and all the spoils  
Of ransacked Elements, for in this fair  
Both Indies with their wealth contracted were:  
This piece of winnowed earth, which she did strew  
With Roses, and pale lilies, where they grew  
In kind, and reconciled mixtures, is  
Now crumbled to a heap of Atomis.  
This Star which shone with such refulgent light,  
Our Orb of State was by its rays made bright,  
Is stolen (alas) out of our Horizon,  
And dropped to slime and putrefaction;  
But stay bold Pen, bespatter not her dust,  
Can her remains shrink into slime or rust,  
When every weed that grows about her urn  
Shall by my tears to Nard and balsam turn?  
But where does zeal transport me? 'tis a fault,  
(Sure) to disturb the silence of her vault,  
And break that slumber, which like Opium  
Resolved to vapour, hangs about her Tomb:  
What though deaths impious hand move a disguise  
Of putrid scales, and threw it o'er her eyes,  
Lest being blinded by their Light, his Dart  
Might have groap'd out its way, t'have found her heart.  
The last day's flame shall burn these Scales away,  
And in her eyes kindle a second day;  
What though amidst our Orb, a star she shone,  
In Heaven she shines a Constellation:  
What though those liquid Saphires which each vein  
Of hers, within her Azure channels did contain,  
And those two blushing Rubies Nature thrust  
Into her lips, be sullied with the dust  
Of her own ruins, when the general Fire  
Again refines them, they shall sparkle higher  
Than all the Eastern gems: for sure the Tomb  
Is of a near Alliance, to the womb,  
For as before the Infant can put on  
Symptoms of figure or proportion,  
It must first lie a shuffled embryo  
Packed up within the Cell o'th' womb; even so  
When she has lain a mass of ruins, till  
The Trump at God's great Audit, with its shrill  
And awful voice shall summon, and enjoin  
Each Tomb its drowsy relics to resign,  
Who sleep in dust, that so the Grave may be  
Both Womb, and midwife to eternity:  
Those Rubies, saphires, Diamonds, which are  
Now lost i'th' Rubbish of her Sepulchre,  
Shall be redeemed, and purged from every stain  
That does benight their lustre, and again  
Be knit into one Frame, within which Cell  
Eternity shall as an Inmate dwell.  
Then leave we thee unto thyself, fair soul,  
Exalted far above the rude control  
Of Fate, or the assault of Time, and see  
From thy bright Orb how every entity  
The Womb of Nature teems with, comes forth lame,  
And full of disproportion in the Frame,  
And Structure of its parts, since thou art one,  
Who wert the pattern for Prefection;  
The world lies gasping too: for, 'tis no doubt,  
But at that wound its life-blood bubbled out,  
Which death defaced thee with, and if there be  
Things yet whose parts display some harmony,  
'tis but thy dole of beauty they engross,  
Those that want that, are crippled in thy loss.   

Her Epitaph.  
REader, this Tomb preserves in trust  
Beauty itself resolved to dust,  
●or this Marble does enclose  
the lily, Violet and Rose,  
Beauty's Ingredients; which within  
●his shell do lie to be again  
●atch'd into flowers, and adorn  
●hat naked earth which clothes her urn,  
When thou knowest this, unsluice thy eyes,  
To mourn at beauty's Obsequies,  
And weep so long, till there appears  
About her tomb a Sea of Tears;  
That she may, when the world expires,  
Gasping in its funeral Fires,  
And to purge those sins away,  
Which it contracted every day,  
Does to itself a sacrifice become,  
Rise, like a second Venus, from her tomb.   

An elegy on Robert Earl of Caernarvon, slain at the battle of Newberie.  
WHoever will unsluce his eyes, and lave  
A stream of pious tears out on this Grave,  
Sure, cannot think those Obsequies misspent,  
He shall lay out upon this Monument:  
For, from the stone thus softened by his Eyes,  
So many springs of laurel shall arise,  
That Passengers shall think this tomb the Cell,  
Where unplumed victory did ever dwell.  
For even she herself, when Dormer died,  
Wounded through him, lay bleeding by his side;  
But he is dead without a sigh or groan,  
Vented by the world's Genius, to bemoan  
His sad decease? for sure, his loss should be  
Sighed out to us, in no less elegy.  
Do not the grateful Elements conspire  
To pay some tribute back for that brave fire  
Which warmed his bosom? and does now enshrine  
Itself in theirs, which sure will so refine  
Their dull and sluggish matter, that 'twill be  
Improved again to its first purity;  
It from that foam each wrinkled billow strews  
On the embroidered shore a Venus rose,  
No less, sure, than a Mars or Hermes must  
Rise from each grain of his unblemished dust,  
If every Roman Victor could allow  
Each act of his a Statue, and endow  
His name with Trophies, that it ne'er might rust,  
Or be obscurely buried in his dust:  
We must impoverish each Corinthian Mine,  
And rob the Parian Quarries, to enshrine  
His name in Marble, for his actions will  
Each Page in times successive annals fill.  
What Cataracts of shot, what storms of lead  
Were oft let loose on his unshaken head?  
That those which viewed him from a far, began  
Much to suspect they saw a Leaden man:  
But when they saw him with such speed invade  
And break the body of a Troop, it made  
Them change that Faith, and think that he had been  
Converted to some winged Cherubin;  
Or else so brief and sudden was his Flight,  
Transformed into a nimble beam of Light.  
But shall that flame which did so clearly burn  
Within his breast, lie raked up in his urn,  
Until the last days general Fire transmit  
A second light to re-enkindle it?  
No sure, his tomb cannot so check that Flame,  
But 'twill break forth to shine about his name,  
Or in some bright and shaggy Comet rise,  
To light a torch at his own Obsequies.   

A pastoral courtship.  
Fair Julia let the heat of Love  
Which within thy Heart does move,  
And there is lodged as in its Sphere,  
Still from thine eyes each briny tear,  
In which dull sorrow thou dost steep,  
And never teach thy eyes to weep,  
But when some transcendent joy  
Does thy glutted senses cloy.  
Thou art nature's Magazine,  
Or her casket rather, in  
Whose narrow precincts she hath penned  
The treasure that both Indies sent:  
I'th' closets of thy lips she locks  
The blushing Rubies of the Rocks:  
In the store-house of each eye  
Her refulgent Diamonds lie:  
In thy teeth her pearl she puts,  
And in each vein a sapphire shuts:  
Thy hair contains the gold o'th' West:  
Thy breath the spices of the East:  
And o'er thy skins fair Margent's drawn  
A curtain of the finest Lawn:  
So that those lilies sweet, which dare  
With thee in whiteness to compare,  
To expiate so black a sin,  
Want white to do their penance in,  
And their vanquished heads do bow,  
In veneration of thy brow.  
See how the flowers and plants combine,  
And their odorous leaves untwine,  
That in those sweet Exchecquers they  
May that stock of spices lay,  
Which (like Eastern winds) thy breath  
Does to'th perfumed air bequeathe.  
Canst thou these drooping flowers fair  
With thy powerful beams repair,  
And animate? and shall not I  
Light a flame up at thine eye?  
See how those Diamonds are dismayed,  
With which thy bosom is arrayed,  
Because the splendour that does rise  
From the Chrysolites of thy eyes,  
Does transcend their feeble light,  
And look as drowsy, as if night  
Lay hid in them, and will, I fear,  
Each melt into an envious tear:  
Canst thou thaw these, and shall not I  
With those tears that either eye  
From their briny Springs impart,  
Melt the hardness of thy heart?  
If thou art barren in desire,  
And canst not burn in equal fire,  
Those sighs which from my bosom flow,  
A flame throughout my breast shall blow;  
And those frequent tears I'll shed  
From the cisterns of my head,  
Shall so manure thy heart, thou'lt be  
Fruitful straight in love like me.   

On a spark of fire fixing on a gentlewoman's breast.  
Fair Julia sitting by the fire,  
An amorous spark, with hot desire,  
Flew to her breast, but could not melt  
The chaste snow there, which when it felt,  
And that resistance it did bide,  
For grief it blushed, and so it died.  
Yet lest it should prove aught unkind,  
It contrite ashes left behind.   

On a spark fastening on a gentlewoman's cheek.  
IF this small spark which bore so thin a blaze,  
Could in each part so much resentment raise,  
And to your cheek so much of anguish waft,  
And on your skins unblemished margin graft  
Such signals of its rigour; oh than deem  
What torments of a far more high esteem,  
My martyred heart must struggle with, which fries  
In flames of Love, first kindled by your eyes.   

Ad Joannem Harmarum, Libellum De Lue Venereâ exarantem.  
QVas tibi praetendam grates, quae dona rependam,  
Harmare, aut meritò ingenti quae serta refundam?  
Qui gravidam morbis primo conamine Lernam,  
Praegnantem malis foecundam discutis Hydram;  
Vt faceres tantas prima Incrementaruinas,  
Crudi & nascentis tituli, tu coeca recludis  
Arcana herbarum, & Naturae scrinia pandis,  
Tu clausae exerces latebrosa cubilia terrae;  
Pug●acem abstrusis Mineram quibus eruis antris,  
Ex●riae quae cruda luis cunabula damnet,  
Et restag nantem morbi transfundet humorem,  
Tuque poros reseras, cutisque suburbia solvis,  
Vt tomes excussi laxata per ostia morbi  
Effluat, & tenues sefe detrudat in auras;  
Tu blando Aetnaeas subducis clystere flammas,  
Et jecur immiti castigas putre Güaco,  
Atque abster sivis terges polluta Diaetis  
Viscera, tranquillo demulces pectora succo;  
Qui rheuma effu sum torpenti compede sistat:  
Herculeos tua jam manus est enixa labores,  
Herculeos tua jam manus est partura triumphos:  
Nam faust●è à pigro faecum detersit acervo  
Augiae sta●ulum vappasque excussit inertes:  
Suspecta Herculcae tandem est ac aemula clavae,  
Quae foecunda tuae famulatur gloria pennae,  
Nam Luis indomitae Lernam, & nova monstra subegit.   

On the death of the much admired and much lamented, Mr. Francis Quarles.  
AMongst that solemn train of Friends, which sing  
Thy Dirge (great soul) and to thy Name do b●ing,  
As to some shrine, the sacrifice of praise,  
Deign to accept these course and homespun lays:  
Alas, what can the world expect from me,  
As tribute to thy Hearse, since if there be  
Within me any flame, or heat divine,  
That warms my breast, 'twas kindled first by thine;  
And from that pure and active Fire did come,  
Which is locked up i'th' casket of thy Tomb,  
Whose heat (perchance) may thaw my barren eyes,  
And make them shed some watery Obsequies,  
But cannot make my drowsy fancy flame,  
In sad and pious raptures to thy Name;  
Or light some Poem up, whose glimmering rays,  
About thy Name in time to come might blaze;  
Or if it could, that sickly Flame would be,  
But a dim Index to thy memory,  
And only here remain like those few bright  
Streaks in the air, when the expiring light  
Is blind with darkness, and the day is done,  
To tell the world that there has been a Sun.  
As he that would disband the Diamond, must  
Encounter it with its own proper dust:  
So he that would enshrine thy Name in Verse,  
Or strew some Epitaph upon thy Hearse,  
Can never any pure, or noble fire,  
Into his dull unactive thoughts inspire,  
Unless that Fire his fancy burns with, be  
First lighted by a spark that flew from thee;  
And as when he that frames a watch, would see  
What loose distemper, or infirmity,  
Is in the fabric, how the wheels are set,  
Or with what pace the sickly pulse does beat,  
Straight to the Sun applies his eye, and can  
Cure the disease by his Meridian:  
So he that would write well, and write of thee,  
And regularly wind up an elegy,  
And in such equal poise his fancy set,  
The pulse might with well-paced numbers beat,  
Must all his lines proportion, and make fit  
To go by the Meridian of thy wit.  
Thus from the dusky confines of thy urn,  
Thou shalt again to th'bankrupt world return:  
And after death (Fame shall thee so prefer)  
Be to thyself thy own Executer,  
That all our sums of wit may seem to be  
But only Legacies paid in by thee.   

His Epitaph.  
REader, this tomb is put in trust,  
To keep a heap of learned dust,  
Which, we dare presume, will shun  
The Fate of putrefaction.  
For, that salt which did remain  
Cloistered up within his brain,  
Will so preserve his relics, they  
Shall never languish, or decay:  
However, let our eyes return  
Streams of tears unto his urn:  
For, those his relics sure will free  
From all corruptibility:  
Or else, contracting into one,  
Will grow another Helicon.  
Nor have we any cause to fear,  
That we shall want the Muses there:  
For, when he died, they did become  
Themselves the Inmates to his tomb.   

A thankful acknowledgement to those benefactors that contributed to the re-edifying of Clare-Hall in Cambridge.  
SHould we entomb your benefits within  
Unthankful silence, so deformed a sin  
No tears would expiate, we might seem to be  
Astonished by some drowsy lethargy,  
Or blasted with some Apoplectique Fit,  
Which had at once congealed both brain and wit;  
We therefore to your Names devoutly pay  
The tribute of our thanks, and would defray  
Our debt in nobler coin, could we but vie  
In words, with our big thoughts, or amplify  
Our hands, as wide as we can do our souls;  
But this in us our thrifty Fate controls:  
For you have snatched us from the earth, where we  
Lay wrapped up in our own deformity,  
And have reduced a House that was become,  
Both to itself and Founders name, a tomb,  
And like th'Idaea of the Chaos, lay  
Deformed, and indigested by decay,  
To shape and beavite, and do so prolong  
Its fading lustre, it again grows young,  
Like withered Aeson, so that now we trust,  
'twill phoenixlike revive from out its dust,  
And grow into one fabric (though 'twas shrunk  
Before into a scattered heap, and sunk  
Almost beneath its ruins) to upbraid  
The coldness of these times, which does invade  
Each hand, and so benumbs it, that we see  
It cannot open unto charity;  
But to improve, and widen out each Name  
Of yours, to such a pacious length of Fame,  
They may survive, till time and they become  
Both Tenants, and both Inmates to one tomb:  
So that when Mauselaeum's shrink to dust,  
And obelisks of brass disband with rust,  
When Pyramids themselves dissolve, and lie  
(Maugre their height) low in obscurity;  
And all those swelling piles preceding time  
Established, only to blanch o'er their crimes;  
Or fortify some name, against the rage  
Of Fate, and the rude batteries of age  
Shall be dispersed to ashes, and be spent,  
Clare-Hill shall be your lasting Monument.  
And, though in other tombs you'd shrink away,  
And melt into corruption, and decay,  
Your Fame this Charter to itself can give,  
Within this Monument you'll ever live.   

Upon the sight of a tomb.  
WElcome thou common Wardrobe, where we lay  
(When we throw off the luggage of our clay)  
Our weeds of earth, here the dull Peasant shall  
(Biting the pomp only o'th' funeral)  
Sleep even as warm under his turf alone,  
As Kings beneath their coverlets of stone.  
Here slave, and tyrant, in this Marble Cell,  
Shall calmly meet, and both together dwell,  
Mingled into one heap of dust: here those  
That to improve their interest, do pose,  
And tire their wearied thoughts out, to display  
Some Engine, by whose powerful succour, they  
May clasp their wide and vast design, will find,  
When they have stretched endeavour, to unwind  
Their wild attempts, this Earth is but a ball,  
Which when they struggle for to grasp, will fall  
To dust between their hands, and never suffice  
Their spacious thoughts, till't stop both mouth and eyes.  
Here those refulgent eyes, that from their bright,  
And radiant stock of glances, shed such light  
Through every part of our dark Orb, they shone  
A Constellation in our Horizon,  
Like two inanimate blind cinders, must  
Lie raked up in a shuffled heap of dust:  
Nay and that fire, which did so often dart  
Flame into Lovers breasts, till either heart  
Glowed with a mutual fervour, must be here  
Drowned in the deluge of a funeral tear,  
And in this cabinet of ruins lie,  
A tribute paid unto mortality:  
Only those nobler and eternal Fires  
Devotion in our melting souls inspires,  
Shall (when this frame sinks into dust, and all  
The heat that warms this mass of earth, shall fall  
Into some gloomy vault) soar upwards, hence,  
Borne on the wings of peace, and innocence.   

On myself being sick of a fever.  
LOrd, I confess, I do not know  
Whether my dust shall yet, or no,  
I'th' furnace of this fever, be  
Calcined into eternity:  
Whether through this red Sea of blood,  
Which in such a swelling flood  
From the unsluced channel ran,  
I shall pass o'er to Canaan:  
Or that these sweats shall wash away  
From off my soul that heap of clay,  
In which, as in some narrow shell,  
She, like some lazy snail, did dwell:  
If it be now thy fatal doom,  
That I must melt into a Tomb,  
There by the last day's fire once more  
To be made refined o'er,  
And so receive thy stamp again,  
No more to be razed out by sin;  
And that this Flame I glow with, shall  
Into my hollow Marble fall,  
Then warm my soul with heavenly fire,  
That as these smoky heats expire,  
I being winged with that may fly  
Up to immortality.   

On the noise of Thunder.  
BY Nature w'are informed, that when a Cloud  
Vapours endowed with heat and cold do shroud  
The active hot, the sluggish cold assail  
So long, till both dissolve their watery jail,  
And break their watery chains, when through the air,  
The glittering lightning spreads its fluent hair;  
So from those factious strugglings, and those throws  
This clouds o'erladen womb is torn with, grows;  
That dismal clashing, and the noise we hear,  
Which so amazes the astonished ear:  
But these are but conjectures, it may bring  
Its rise and growth from a far higher spring;  
For some malignant Exhalations,  
Drawn from a Mine of Sulphur, by the sun's  
Reflex may be inflamed, or else that Fire  
The upper Region darts, may Flame inspire:  
Nay more, some sullen Vapour, which like Hay,  
Being long bound up in liquid fetters, may  
Give fire unto itself, or there may be  
Some other dark and gloomy cause, which we  
Cannot, whilst dust hangs in our eyes descry,  
Which may become its first incendiary:  
God has locked up the Meteors in a mist,  
Which skreenes them from our sight, could we untwist  
The second causes, and divide that Line  
That Nature ties, yet could we not untwine  
The threads they're woven out of, or unwind  
The Mint, where their first Principles were coined.  
Lord, when thou speak'st in thunder from thy Throne,  
The echo of thy voice shall be a groan;  
When thou unclaspest the windows of the Skies,  
Supreme divinity, unsluice mine eyes,  
That when the spangled air its lightning wears,  
Those Flames may be put out with contrite tears.   

On one cured of the Stone.  
Our first original from stones we drew,  
Ere since Deucalion and old Pyrrha threw  
Stones into men, and since by a defect  
In Nature, and the sins we daily act,  
We hatch that in us, which declares to all,  
We something of our first original  
Still treasure up, which is preserved within  
The caverns of the Lungs, or Reins, and in  
The circuit of the Bladder, which we try  
To crush, by each approved remedy,  
Which perad venture scatters it, yet still  
We leave untouched the root that fed this ill,  
We may the stone i'th' Bladder cure, its true,  
And that that grates upon the Reins subdue;  
But yet no oil, no Antidote, or Art,  
But only Grace, can cure the stone i'th' Heart.   

A Parley between an Epicure and a Christian.  Ep 
Why dost thou thus deface thyself with tears,  
Before thou'rt tenanted by years?  
Call in those briny showers of dew, thine eyes  
Contribute as sad Obsequies,  
To the untinely funeral of that grace,  
Which did before adorn thy face.  Ch. 
Fond man, those tears are by mine eyes allowed,  
To serve me for a crystal shroud,  
In whose thin folds, I my old man may hide,  
By contrition mortified;  
And with these drops wipe off those spots of sin,  
Which have so stained my soul within.  Ep. 
But why with throngs of g●ones do you enlarge  
The theme of sorrow, and discharge  
Volleys of sighs, that breath were better spent,  
In tricking up a compliment,  
By which you might a Lady's heart surprise,  
And yet her breast ne'er prejudice.  Ch. 
Vain man, these sighs, I like my proxy send  
To Heaven, that there they may attend  
My scaling that b●ight Mansion, and be  
My Advocates to plead for me,  
When all by God's citation summoned are,  
To be arraigned at his Bar.  Ep. 
But I adjure you to inform me, why  
You to such ha●sh austerity  
Farm out each hour, and to such strictness wed  
Your life? as if y''ve long been dead,  
And your soul only moved a corpse, your frame  
Such rigid fasts, to curb and tame  
Your carnal tumults banishing delight,  
The Confines of your Appetite:  
Desist this rigour on yourself to act;  
Since y'are not able to detect,  
Whether or no, when you your breath resign;  
Any part of you shall decline  
Th'arrest of Death, since Fate says all must go,  
But whither, who can living know?  Ch. 
Fool, therefore do I thus attempt to curb  
Those passions, that would disturb  
My purer thoughts, my flesh with fasts impair,  
And employ my tongue in prayer,  
Checking the wild rebellions of my earth,  
And strangling of them in their birth;  
That being devested of that earthy weight,  
Which did oppress, and clog my Faith,  
I might on wings of Contemplation fly,  
And soar beyond the vaulted sky;  
And by the scrutiny of Faith, optics see,  
What place in Heaven's designed for me,  Ep. 
What is that Faith you vaunt of? I have read  
Natures large Book, contemplated  
Philosophies mysteries, but ne'er could know  
The cause from whence Faith first did flow.  Ch. 
You may in quest of nature's secrets end  
Myriads of years, and ages spend,  
Till you all knowledge to yourself engross,  
Yet ne'er know Faith, till you can spell Christ's cross.   

A Collation between Death and Sleep.  
DEath, and his drowsy kinsman, Sleep, agree  
In all the symptoms of conformity;  
●leep's caused by eating, for the natural heat  
Entices exhalations from the meat,  
Transfused to Chylus, which the brain possess  
With an intoxicating drowsiness;  
Death too by fatal eating first came in,  
When our first Parents wilfully did sin,  
And offered violence to God's Decree,  
Tasting the fruit of the forbidden tree:  
And as when sooty night her darkness sheds  
Through the vast Concave of the air, and spreads  
A veil o'er bright Hyperion, we divest  
Our bodies, to compose ourselves to rest:  
So our enfranchised souls shall like wise be  
Disrobed o'th' weeds of their mortality,  
When death shall an eternal night disperse  
Through all those Functions that with life commerce.  
And as when the great eye o'th' day displays,  
In the illuminated air, his rays,  
The Light dispersed in glimpses does inspire  
Our hands again our bodies to attire;  
So when the Trump at the last day shall all  
By its shr●ll Summons to God's Audit call,  
And Christ's the Sun of righteousness shall come,  
To distribute to th' world a public Doom,  
Our mouldered and disbanded bodies must  
Quit the close confines of their beds of dust,  
To clothe again our widowed souls, and be  
Enstated both with immortality.   

In seipsum Febre iterum correptum, & pene confectum  
HEn me, Qualis edax liquefactis Ossibus Ignis,  
Incubat? attritas quae lassat Flamma Medullas,  
Quis Calor in Cineres redigit sinuosa Cerebri  
Tegmina? quae tortos laxant Incendia nervos?  
Quaeque fatiscentes obstipant Nubila sensus,  
Et caecos volvunt adinertia Lumina Fumos?  
Vt plane Aetnaei sum maesta Figura Camini;  
Nam veluti Ignivemi serpunt è vertice Clivi,  
Vndantes flammae fumis, & sulphure anhelat  
Moestus Apex montis, coctoque bitumine fervet:  
Dum glacie obstrictus torpèt pes montis inerti  
Qua Boreae afflatus torpentes evomit aeuras,  
Quae macra effusis obstipant arva pruinis:  
Frigora Plumatae sic dum nivis aemula, pigros  
Invasere pedes, caelefacta per Ilia serpunt  
Foecundi flammis ignes, qui naribus balant  
Perque Apicem capitis, fumo sa incendia volvunt.  
In me congestas fundat puer Hydrius undas  
Huc glomerent Plëades nimbisque impactus Orion  
Implicit as nubes, & densa volumina aquarum  
Hic reserunt, calidas quae sic effusa Favillas  
Ignitae febris deleant, quâ totus aduror,  
Et quâ marcentes populantur sanguinis artus  
Flamma potest febris tantos vibrare dolores?  
O Deus aeterrae est qualis tunc flamma Gehennae?   

On himself being stung by a Wasp.  
When first this busy testy Wasp did fix  
His sting in me, and did his venom mix  
With my untainted blood, my skin begun  
To swell to an Imposthumation.  
How did each part by sympathy complain,  
Stretched and distorted on the rack of pain?  
What flames did this incendiary fling  
From out the narrow quiver of his sting,  
Into each part? which through my veins were thrown,  
And through each Nerve and artery were blown.  
If then a Wasp can so afflict each sense,  
How great must be the sting of conscience?   

On the nativity of our Saviour.  
Who can forget that ne'er forgotten night,  
That sparkled with such unaccustomed Light?  
Wherein when darkness had shut in the day,  
A Sun at midnight did his beams display;  
And God who man's frail house of earth composed  
Himself in a frail house of earth enclosed,  
Who did control the Fire, air, Sea, and Earth,  
Was clad with all these four, and had a birth  
In time, who was begotten before time,  
Received a birth, or th' early Sun did climb  
Th' ascent o'th' East, whom the vast air, and Main,  
And Precincts of the earth could not confain,  
Is circumscribed now in so brief a room,  
he's lodged i'th' circuit of a virgin's womb;  
Who light to him, that was all Light, did give,  
And made him, who was life itself, to live:  
Who in her arms bore him, whose hand controls  
The massy Globe, and bears up both the poles:  
And what improved the Miracle begun,  
He was at once her Father, Spouse and son:  
Who than his Mother was by far more old  
Yet equal age, did with his Father hold,  
Who was a child, yet with his word did make  
The world, and with his voice this world can shake:  
Now Truths great Oracle itself was come,  
The faithless Oracles were strucken dumb.  
No marvel if the Shepherds ran to see  
Him, that should every shepherd's Shepherd be:  
Who was the Door, through whom a certain way  
To find out life, for all lost sheep there lay:  
And though this Sun of righteousness did lie  
Wrapped up in (louds of dark Obscurity,  
Yet he could such a stock of light allow,  
As did the Heavens with a new Starendow,  
Which with its beams did gratefully attend  
Him, who at first those streams of light did lend,  
And by the Conduct of its rays did bring  
The Eastern Kings to see their heavenly King.  
And though all Stars, by nature's laws, does run  
A course contrariant to the course o'th' Sun;  
Yet lo, her Statutes violated were,  
For here the Sun was followed by a star.   

On Christ's Passion, a Descant  
Darkness had now closed up the world's bright eye,  
And drawn a mask of vapours o'er the sky;  
And all the beamy tapers of the night  
In sable clouds had muffled up their light.  
'twas piety called in their beams, th've been  
Found accessary else to such a sin,  
They ne'er could have assoilled, though from their spheres  
They should themselves have dropped i'th' shape of tears:  
They had lent light and influence to betray  
Him, from whose light they borrowed every ray.  
When with her pitchy Exhalation  
Night had thus veiled the lustre of the sun,  
A Cataract of armed men did pour  
Themselves into that Garden, where each flower  
By th' Incense of those Prayers that Christ expired  
A balmy stock of fresh Perfumes acquired:  
And being now broke in, did forthwith run  
With glimmering torches, to find out the Sun;  
Yet could not this thick cloud of men benight  
This glorious Lamp, the fountain of all light,  
Till th' interposing of false Judas lips  
Obscured his beams, and caused a black Eclipse:  
Yet when he snatched his treacherous lips away,  
He straight shot forth such a refulgent Ray,  
The soldiers by their darkened eyes did find,  
Th' excellency o'th' Object struck them blind:  
But as a dying taper, when it streams  
Its fainting light forth in contracted beams,  
Musters together all its sickly rays,  
With those to stock and furnish out one blaze;  
Our Saviour, so to intimate, that He  
Still held a League with his divinity,  
Cited together such a stock of Light,  
That He astonished the dull gazer's sight,  
And by a sudden damp even struck them blind  
That were made so before i'th' eye o'th' mind,  
Scattering them all to th' Earth, when they were even  
About to captivate the King of Heaven;  
But when he summoned in his beams to be  
Again wrapped up in his humanity,  
And he appeared to them in's old array,  
Clothed in a garment woven out of clay,  
Not spangled o'er with those majestic rays,  
Which did at once enlighten and amaze,  
They straight invade him; and his guiltless hands  
Twisted in one with wreaths of cords, (whosebands  
Loosed them) then guard him to the Judgement-hall,  
Who had for guard the choir angelical.  
And now th' high Priest is brought to be accused  
Before the high Priest, who scoffed at, and traduced  
Him, unto whom he his own Priesthood owed,  
And from which Spring all other Priesthood flowed:  
And then transmitted him, (who once shall come  
To doom all Mankind) to receive his doom  
From Pilate's mouth, who though there did arise  
Thick Exhalation from those Calumnies  
The black-mouth Jews belched forth, could clearly see,  
Through those dark vapours Christ's integrity;  
And did his Innocence so much resent,  
That he decreed to wave his punishment,  
And leave Barrahas, to be offered on  
Their Altar, for his expiation:  
But they to their first purposes did cleave  
With so much malice, they their King did leave,  
And chose an abject thief, unhappy they,  
To let Barabbas steal their hearts away:  
Which when he saw, and that they still went on  
T'exact of him Christ's Crucifixion,  
He left them to their rage, and from his blood  
Washed his pale hands, who with a crimson flood  
Washed off our sins, so that for this black deed  
Water itself did expiation need.  
When thus the Jews their Saviour had surprised  
(Who for their sins was to be sacrificed)  
They to a feeble Pillar straight did chain  
The Pillar that did nature's Frame sustain,  
And with rude stripes to plough his back begin,  
Whose stripes do heal' the wounds imposed by sin:  
The soldiers next with supple knees do bring  
A faigued hail unto their teall King,  
And with a crown of thorns his head empound,  
Who with a crown of glory could surround  
Their wretched heads, then spit at, and despise  
Him, that with spital gave the blind man eyes:  
(Strange prodigy, the King of Kings has none  
But spital for his holy unction)  
And with those hands he gave them does embase  
With scars the sacred impress of his face:  
His body with a scarlet Robe they dress,  
Who clothes the naked with his righteousness;  
And for an awful sceptre in his hand,  
They place a Reed, whose sceptre does command  
The spacious Bulk of Nature, and controls  
That massiie Globe that hangs between the Poles.  
When they had thus a cloud of hatred shed  
In showers of scoffs upon his guiltless head,  
They lead him to mount Calvary, where he  
Was to wind up his direful tragedy;  
And by the way enforced himself to bear  
His cross, which was reciprocally there  
To bear up him, where being arrived, he's laid  
Upon the cross, his Altar to be made,  
The public Sacrifice, and expiate  
The guilt of Sin, and crush the power of Fate:  
And now made ragged with his wounds, and rent  
With inward torture, being embossed, and spent  
With this last agony, he did address  
Himself t'impiore some julip, to suppress  
The flames of thirst; the Jews did straight prefer  
A punge, which was bedewed with vinegar,  
To calm his scorching thirst, who did unlock  
The stony casket of the barren Rock,  
And thawed its liquid treasures, to redress  
That thirst, which Israel scorched i'th' wilderness:  
Yet though he cleft that Rock, he could not part  
The rock contracted in each Jewish heart.  
When Christ had tasted this sour Opiate,  
And saw the prophecies had spun their Fate,  
His breath exhaled to purge the air, and he  
Resigned his tired and wearied soul, to be  
Transported, on the downy wings of bliss,  
Up to the spangled vault of Paradise;  
And with it flew the good thieves soul, who even  
Stole life at death, and made a theft of Heaven:  
But lest that Christ, with such neglect should fall,  
He might want Rites to grace his funeral,  
The Sun called in his light, to specify,  
That men dust do that which he durst not see;  
Day put on Night, lest she should seem to lack,  
For so great loss, her Ceremonious Black;  
The palsied Earth so shook, as if her womb,  
She meant to open, and become his Tomb;  
The Dead deserted their cold urns, to see  
Him, that o'er Death could claim a victory:  
So that it seems, even Nature here did turn  
A Mourner too, t'attend him to his urn:  
And now, being dead, a spear was through his side,  
By a rude hand dismissed, which wound may hide  
Our numerous sins, or if there be not room,  
We may inter them all within his Tomb:  
The soldiers too, in lots their fortunes drew,  
To see to whom Christ's garments would accrue,  
As a just Prize, they dreaded to dissect  
His seamless Coat, yet that we daily act,  
Which by these barbarous soldiers ne'er was done,  
We part his Coat by our division.  
Whilst thus Christ's vestments were in lottery,  
Exposed a prey to Fortune, Joseph, he  
Pilate (with eyes thawed into tears) implored  
Christ's body torn with wounds might be restored:  
Thrice happy man, the Body he obtains,  
And his own soul too by that purchase gains;  
And having now his lawful Boon fulfilled,  
He gathered all those balms that were distilled  
From weeping Trees, and took those unctuous tears,  
That Myrrah in a Tree imprisoned wears,  
And made this confluence of balsams meet  
All in Christ's wounds, that they might make it sweet;  
Then in white linen did his corpse enshrine,  
Whose innocence did clothe his sins as sine:  
And next, this sacred relic did inter  
In the dark climate of a sepulchre,  
Hewn in a Rock: Oh! who'd not breathe a groan?  
The Rock itself is laid beneath a Stone.   

A divine Aspiration.  
O Thou who art the good Samaritan,  
Whose hand, when sin both strips and woundeth, can  
Shed such a balm upon us, 'twill ensure  
Those wounds from rankling, and improve their cure.  
Be, as thou art, the emblem of the Vine,  
And in my wounds pour in thy oil, and wine.  
And, as thou heretofore the rock didst part,  
So with thy grace, Lord, cleave my stony heart.  
Naile to thy cross my sins, and let them have  
A room to bury them within thy grave.  
Thy stripes can heal my stripes, thy righteousness  
My Scarlet sins with its white robe can dress.  
The water laved out at thy wounded side,  
Will wash my guilt off, and that supple tide  
Which from that fluce in such full streams did bleed.  
My soul, even hunger-starved with sin, shall feed.  
Thy wounds shall be my wounds, thy tears shall be  
My tears; for, thy whole passion was for me.  
Let thy all-saving merits but entwine  
My tottering faith; thy heaven too shall be mine.   

On the future burning of the World.  
NO more shall the o're-laden clouds dissolve  
In spouts of rain, and so the world involve  
In a wild deluge, which shall swell so high,  
It's to wring height shall tempt the vaulted sky;  
And even invite the sullen stars, to wear  
Upon each glittering beam a mourning tear;  
Which they again shall mutually let fall,  
As a Rite due to the world's funeral.  
No more shall wary mankind, to beguile  
The rage o'th' Flood, lurk in a wooden I'll:  
But when the tainted world is so defiled  
With her pollutions, and so deeply soiled  
With the dark spots of sin, that 'twere but vain  
To think, that water should wipe off each stain  
That sullies it; God will display his ire  
In cataracts of all-consuming fire,  
With which this Globe of Earth so long shall burn,  
Till it into repentant ashes turn:  
And, till, at last, it but one Torch become,  
To light expiring Nature to her tomb.   

On a Gentleman buried in one grave with his daughter, before deceased.  
REader, those sleep beneath this stone,  
Whom life made two first out of one;  
But having now resigned their breath,  
They will grow one again by death.  
For, should we on his grave intrude,  
To view how much vicissitude  
Attends on Nature, and how she  
Masks herself in variety  
Of numerous shapes, and after dare  
To paddle in his sepulchre,  
Amongst his dust, we might infer,  
He was shuffled into her.  
For, time determines, that both must  
Resolve into one heap of dust:  
But when the world itself expires,  
Panting with heat, and God requires  
Each gloomy vault, and hollow tomb,  
To open its corrupted womb,  
And give their ashes, which were penned,  
And cased up there, enfranchisement,  
That being re-edified, they may  
No more be obvious to decay,  
Or nature's Tumults, this last birth  
Will disunite their mingled Earth:  
And, as their first life did divide them, so  
This second life again will make them two.   

On thought of our Resurrection.  
Who can be of so cowed a soul, he'd fear  
To be regenerate i'th' sepulchre,  
Since who exactly looks into the tomb,  
Shall find 'tis but the emblem of the womb,  
To which we're not confined, but trusted, so,  
As if we lay there in deposito:  
For, when our dust is gathered into th'urne,  
It lies but hostage till the soul's return.  
And, as the Phoenix, when she gasping lies  
Upon her tragic pile of Spiceries,  
And glows with heat, her fleshy cinders must,  
By the sun's rays, be martyred first to dust,  
Before her pregnant ashes can redeem  
Themselves from ruin, or again can teem  
With a new Phoenix: so, before this earth  
We bear about us, can improve its birth  
To immortality, its whole compact  
Must first be so disjointed, and so slacked,  
It fall to dust; and then 'twill moulded be  
To such a body, that eternity  
Itself shall farm that Tenement, which shall  
No more be obvious to a funeral.  
And, as before men can compile, or frame  
Their glasses, they their ashes first i'th' flame  
Transfuse to crystal; so, before our dust  
Can be assoiled from excrements, or rust,  
Raveled amongst it by our tombs, and be  
Improved to such a clear transparency,  
It shall no more encumber, or control  
The eye from taking a survey o'th' soul,  
It must be by the general fire refined,  
And be to a translucent mass calcined:  
So shall each tomb become God's Mint, where He  
(Our earth being purged from all impurity)  
Will on it coin the Image of his Face,  
Which Time no more, nor death shall ne'er deface.   
FINIS.   

The Table.  

ON the beholding his face in a glass. pag. 1  
On the sight of a Clock. p. 2  
On a Gentlewoman dying in childbed of an abortive Daughter. ibid.  
On a Gentlewoman much deformed with the small Pox. p. 3  
OnJulia, throwing snowballs at him. ibid.  
To Sir Henry New, upon his re-edifying the Church ofCharleton in Kent. p. 4  
On the sight of a Rivelet, that eight foot off from its fountain disembogues itself into the Medway. p. 5  
On Mr. Jo. Joscelin, dying of a fever. p. 6  
To a Gentlewoman singing. p. 7  
Upon the death of Mr. Francis Thornhill. p. 8  
Upon a Farmer, who having buried five of his children of the Plague, planted on each of their graves an appletree. p. 9  
An Epitaph on Mris. E. W. Z ibid.  
Upon the approach of night. p. 10  
Considerations upon eternity. ibid.  
A divine hymn. pag. 13  
On the death of a Prince. p. 15  
To a Lady viewing herself in her glass. p. 16  
On the death of Sir Simon Harcourt. p. 17  
On a Gentlewoman struck blind with the small Pox. p. 18  
On the death of Mr. George Sandys. p. 19  
On the sight of some rare Pieces and Monuments of antiquity, in an Antiquaries Study. p. 21  
An Epithalamium. p. 23  
On a Nymph portrayed in stone, that poured forth two spouts of water from her eyes into a Garden. p. 24  
On one dead of a dropsy. ibid.  
To a Gentlewoman viewing herself in her glass. p. 25  
An elegy offered up to the memory of Anne Countess of Caernarvon. ibid.  
Her Epitaph. p. 29  
An elegy onRobert Earl of Caernarvon. p. 30  
A pastoral courtship. p. 31  
On a spark of fire fixing on a gentlewoman's breast. p. 33  
On a spark fastening on a gentlewoman's cheek. ibid.  
Ad Joannem Harmarum, Libellum de Lue Venereâ exarantem. p. 34  
On the death of Mr. Francis Quarles. p. 35  
His Epitaph. p. 36  
A thankful acknowledgement to those benefactors that contributed to the re-edifying of Clare-Hall in Cambridge. p. 37  
Upon the sight of a Tomb. p. 38  
On the Author being sick of a fever. p. 39  
On the noise of Thunder. p. 41  
On one cured of the Stone. p. 41  
A Parley between an Epicure and a Christian. p. 42  
A Collation betwèen Death and Sleep. p. 43  
In seipsum Febre iterùm correptum, & penè confectum. p. 44  
On himself being stung by a Wasp. p. 45  
On the nativity of our Saviour. pag. 46  
On Christ's Passion, a Descant. p. 47  
A Divine Aspiration. p. 52  
On the future burning of the World. ibid.  
On a Gentleman buried in one grave with his Daughter before deceased. p. 53  
On thought of our Resurrection. p. 54   
FINIS.