Imatges de pàgina
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Yet had the number of her days
Been as compleat as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no ftrife
In giving limit to her life.

Her high birth, and her graces fweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;

The Virgin, quire for her request
The God that fits at marriage feaft;

He at their invoking came

But with a scarce-well-lighted flame;
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might difcern a Cyprefs bud.
Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely Son,

And now with fecond hope fhe goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;

But whether by mifchance or blame

Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorfelefs cruelty
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree:
The hapless Babe before his birth:
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,

And

And the languisht Mother's Womb

Was not long a living Tomb.

So have I seen fome tender flip,
Sav'd with care from Winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by fome unheedy fwain,
Who only thought to crop the flow'r
New shot up from vernal show'r;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways, as on a dying bed,

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
Sweet reft feife thee evermore,

That to give the World encreafe,

Shortned haft thy own life's lease,
Here, befides the forrowing

That thy noble House doth bring,

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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,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,

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,
Through pangs fled to felicity,

Far within the bosom bright.
Of blazing Majefty and Light,

There with thee, new welcom Saint,
Like fortunes may her foul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant fheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

SONG.

SONG. On May Morning.

OW the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger,

Now

Comes dancing from theEaft,and leads with her

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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
The labour of an age in piled Stones,Bones,

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 fuch weak witness of thy name?

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Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Haft built thy felf a live-long Monument.
For whilft to th' fhame of flow-endeavouring art
Thy eafie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu❜d Book,
Thofe Delphick lines with deep impreffion took,
Then thou our fancy of it felf bereaving,
Doft make us Marble with too much conceiving;
And fo Sepulcher'd in fuch pomp doft lie,
That Kings for fuch a Tomb would wish to die.

On the University Carrier, who fickn'd in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reafon of the Plague.

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

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