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And some flowers, and some bays,
For thy hearse, to strew the Mays,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;
Whilst thou, bright saint, high sitt'st in glory,
Next her, much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian shepherdess,
Who after years of barrenness,
The highly favoured Joseph bore
To him that served 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 soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No marchioness, but now a queen.
SONG ON MAY MORNING.
AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC POET, W. SHAKESPEARE.
What needs my Shakespeare, for his honour'd bones,
The labour of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallow'd relics 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,
Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving;
And, so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER,
Who sickened in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reason of the Plague.
Here lies old Hobson; death hath broke his 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 slough, 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 this ten years full,
Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.
And surely death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd;
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
Show'd him his room where he must lodge that night;
Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light:
If any ask for him, it shall be said,
Hobson has supp'd, and's newly gone to bed.
ANOTHER ON THE SAME.
Here lieth one, who did most truly prove
But, had his doings lasted 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 (strange to think) his wain was his increase:
His letters are deliver'd all, and gone,
Only remains this superscription.
EPIGRAM ON SALMASIUS'S HUNDREDA.
Who taught Salmasius, that French chattering pye
To aim at English, and Hundreda cry?
The starving rascal, flush'd with just a hundred
English Jacobusses, Hundreda blunder'd:
An outlaw'd king's last stock. A hundred more
Would make him pimp for the antichristian whore;
And in Rome's praise employ his poison'd breath,
Who threaten'd once to stink the pope to death.
ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE UNDER THE
Because you have thrown off your prelate lord,
Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword
To force our consciences that Christ set free,
Men whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent,
But we do hope to find out all your tricks,
Your plots and packing, worse than those of Trent,
That so the Parliament
Clip your phylacteries, though baulk your ears,
I TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY
I low soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;
III. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.
Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms,
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
If deed of honour did thee ever please,
Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
He can requite thee, for he knows the charms
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
Went to the ground: and the repeated air
IV. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY.
Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth
The better part with Mary and with Ruth
Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,
Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends
V. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
Daughter to that good Earl, once President
Till sad the breaking of that Parliament
Though later born than to have known the days
So well your words his noble virtues praise,