Yet had the number of her days Her high birth, and her graces fweet, The Virgin, quire for her request He at their invoking came But with a scarce-well-lighted flame; And now with fecond hope fhe goes, But whether by mifchance or blame Atropos for Lucina came; And And the languisht Mother's Womb Was not long a living Tomb. So have I seen fome tender flip, And those Pearls of dew fhe wears, Prove to be prefaging tears Which the fad morn had let fall On her haft'ning Funeral. Gentle Lady may thy grave Peace and quiet ever have; After this thy travel fore That to give the World encreafe, Shortned haft thy own life's lease, That thy noble House doth bring, Here be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in Helicon, And fome Flowers, and some Bays, For thy Herfe, to ftrew the ways, Sent thee from the banks of Came, Devoted to thy virtuous name; Whilft thou, bright Saint, high fit'ft in glory, Next her much like to thee in story, Who after years of barrenness, The highly favour'd Jofeph bore To him that ferv'd for her before, And at her next birth, much like thee, Far within the bosom bright. There with thee, new welcom Saint, SONG. SONG. On May Morning. OW the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger, Now Comes dancing from theEaft,and leads with her The Flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws, The yellow Cowflip, and the pale Primrose. Hail bounteous May that dost inspire Mirth and Youth and warm defire, Woods and Groves are of thy dreffing, Hill and Dale doth boast thy bleffing. Thus we falute thee with our early Song, And welcome thee, and with thee long. On SHAKESPEAR. 1630. WHA HAT needs my Shakespear, for his honour'd Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid Dear Son of memory, great heir of Fame, What need'st thou fuch weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Haft built thy felf a live-long Monument. On the University Carrier, who fickn'd in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reafon of the Plague. H® Ere lies old Hobfon, Death hath broke his girt, And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt, Or elfe the ways being foul, twenty to one, He's here stuck in a flough, and overthrown. 'Twas fuch 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, Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull. And |