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But the fair blokom hangs the head
Side-ways, as on a dying bed,
And those Pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears,
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her haft'ning Funeral.
Gentle Lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have ;
After this thy travel for
Sweet reft feize thee evermore,
That, to give the world increase,
Shortned hast thy own life's lease.
Here, besides the sorrowing
That thy noble House doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan,
Wept for thee in Helicon,
And some Flowers, and some bays,
For thy Herse, to strew the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name ;
Whilft thou, bright Saint, high fit'st in glory,
Next her, much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
Who after years of barrenness,
The highly favour'd Joseph bore
To him, that serv'd for her before;
And at her next birth, much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the bosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light:
There with thee, new welcome Saint,
Like fortunes may her foul acquaint,


With thee there clad in radiant Theon,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

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OW the bright Morning-Star, Day's harbin

Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flow'ry May; who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that doft inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and Greves are of thy Dressing,

Hill and Dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we falute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

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HAT needs my Shakespear for his honour'd

The labour of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid ?
Dear Son of memory, great heir, of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Haft built thy self a live-long Monument,
For whilft, to th' name of low-endeavouring art
Thy ealy numbers flow, and that each heart


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Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Doft make us Marble with too much conceivings
And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp doft lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.

On the University Carrier, who

ficken'd in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, bay reason of the Plague.

ERE lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his HR

girt, And here, Alas ! hath laid him in the dirt; Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one He's here stuck in a sough, and overthrown. 'Twas such a shifter, that, if truth were known, Death was half glad when he had got him down; For he had any time these ten years, full, Dodg'd with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bulle, And surely death could never have prevaild, Had not his weekly course of carriage faild: But lately finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journey's end was come, And that he had ta'en up his latest Inn, In the kind Office of a Chamberlain [night, Shew'd him his room where he mus lodge that Pull'd off his Boots, and took away the light.


If any ask for him, it shall be said,
Hobson has supt, and's newly gone to bed.


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Another on the same.
ER E lieth one, who did most truly prove

That he could never die while he could move:
So hung his destiny, never to rot
While he might ftill jogg on and keep his trot,
Made of Sphear-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time:
And like an Engine mov'd with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceas'd, he ended strait.
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradi&tion to affirm,
Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
Meerly to drive the time away, he ficken'd,
Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quicken’d:
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch’d,
If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
But vow, though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,
For one Carrier put down to make fix bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He dy'd for heaviness that his Cart went light:
His leisure told him that his time was come,
And lack of load made his life burdensom,
That even to his last breath (there be that say't)
As he were prest to death, he cry'd more weight;


But had his doings lafted as they were,
He had been an immortal Carrier.
Obedient to the Moon, he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the Seas,
Yet (ftrange to think) his wain was his increase :
His letters are deliver'd all and gone,
Only remains this Superscription.


On the new Forcers of Conscience

under the Long PARLIAMENT, Ecause you have thrown off your Prelate Lord

And with stiff Vows renounc'd his Liturgie, To seize the widow'd whore Pluralitie

From them, whose fin ye envy'd, not abhorr’d; Dare ye for this adjure the Civil Sword

To force our Consciences, that Chrift set free,
And ride us with a classic Hierarchy

Taught ye by meer A. S. and Rotherford !
Mon whose Life, Learning, Faith, and pure Intent

Would have been held in high Efteem with Paul,

Must now be nam'd and printed Hereticks,
By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye-call.

But we do hope to find out all your tricks, [Trent,
Your plots, and packing, worse than those of

That so the Parliament May with their wholesome and preventive tears Clip your Phylacteries, though baulk your Ears,

And succour our juft Fears; When they shall read this clearly in your charge, New Presayter is but old Priest writ Large.

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