For sure so well instructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd Characters.

VIII.
Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the Mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would soon unborom all their Echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguild)

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

This Subjeet the Author finding to be above the years

be kad, when he wrote it, and nothing Satisfy'd wirb what was begun, left it unfinisht.

On T I M E.

NLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,

Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy Plummet's pace; And glut thy self with what thy womb devours; Which is no more than what is fake and vain, And merely mortal dross; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain. For when as each thing bad thou haft entombid, And last of all thy greedy self confam'd, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss, And joy shall overtake us as a flood ; 'When every thing, that is fincerely good,

And

And perfe&tly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of him, t'whose happy-making light alone,
When once our Heav'nly-guided Soul Mall 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,

Y bright

Upon the Circumcision.
E Aaming Pow'rs, and Winged Warriours

bright,
That erst with Musick, and triumphant Song,
First heard by happy watchful Shepherds Ear,
So sweetly sung your Joy the clouds along
Through the soft silence of the list’ning night;
Now mourn, and if sad mare with us to bear
Your fiery essence can distil no tear,
Burn in your fighs, and borrow
Seas wept from our deep sorrow;
He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilere
Enter'd the World, now bleeds to give us ease;
Alas, how foon our sin
Sore doth begin

His Infancy to seize !
O more exceeding love, or law more juft?
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!
For we by rightful doom remediless
Were lost in Death, till he that dwelt above
High thron'd in secret bliss, for us frail dust

Emptied

Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness;
And that great Cov'nant which we fill transgrese
Intirely satisfi'd,
And the full wrath beside
Of vengeful Justice bore for our excess,
And seals obedience first with wounding smart
This day: but oh! ere long
Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart,

BE

At a folemn Mufick.
Left pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'n's joy,
Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and

Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt pow'r employ,
Dead things with imbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd phantasie present
That undisturbed Song of pure content,
Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To him, that fits thereon,
With Saintly shout, and folemn Jubilee,
Where the bright Şeraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel-trumpets blow,
And the Cherubic host in thousand Choirs
Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With those juft Spirits, that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devout and holy Psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on Earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise ;

As once we did, till disproportion'd an
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 (way'd
In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood
In first 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.

E P I T A P H

ON THE
Marchioness of Winchester.
T

\HIS rich Marble doth inter

The honour'd Wife of Winchester,
A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir,
Besides what her Virtues fair
Added to her noble Birth,
More than the could own from Earth,
Summers three times eight save one
She had told, alas! too soon,

Arci

After so short 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-feast;
He at their invoking came,
But with a scarce-well-lighted flame ;
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might discern a Cypress bud.
Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely Son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But, whether by mischance or blame,
Arropos 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 seen some tender Nip
Sav‘d with care from Winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by some unheedy (wain,
Who only thought to crop the flower
New Mot up from vernal shower ;