And those that cannot live from him asunder,
Ungratefully shall strive to keep him under:
In worth and excellence he fhall out-go them,
Yet being above them, he shall be below them;
From others he shall stand in need of nothing,
Yet on his Brothers fhall depend for Clothing,
To find a Foe it shall not be his hap,
And Peace shall lull him in her flow'ry lap:
Yet fhall he live in ftrife, and at his door
Devouring War fhall never cease to roar:
Yea, it fhall be his natural property
To harbour those that are at enmity.

What pow'r, what force, what mighty spell, if not
Your learned hands, can loose this Gordian knot?

The next Quantity and Quality Spake in Profe, then Relation was call'd by his name.

R

Ivers arise; whether thou be the Son

Of utmost Tweed, or Oofe, or gulphie Dun, Or Trent, who like some earth-born Giant spreads His thirty Arms along th' indented Meads, Or fullen Mole that runneth underneath, Or Severn swift, guilty of Maidens death,

Or rockie Avon, or of fedgie Lee,

Or coaly Tine, or ancient hallowed Dee,

Or Humber loud that keeps the Scythians Name, Or Medway smooth, or royal towred Thame. The rest was Profe.

The PASSION.

I.

RE-while of Mufick, and Ethereal mirth,

E Wherewith the ftage of Air and Earth did ring,

And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,
My Muse with Angels did divide to fing;
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

In wintry folftice like the shorten'd light,
Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.
II.

For now to forrow muft I tune my fong,

And fet my Harp to notes of faddeft wo,

Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere-long,

Dangers, and fnares, and wrongs, and worse than fo, Which he for us did freely undergo.

.Moft

Most perfect Heroe, try'd in heaviest plight

Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight. III.

He fov'rain Priest stooping his regal head.

That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly Tabernacle entered,

His ftarry front low-rooft beneath the skies;
O what a mask was there, what a disguise!

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his Brethrens fide, IV.

These latter scenes confine my roving verfe,
To this Horizon is my Phebus bound:
His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings, otherwhere are found;
Loud o'er the reft Cremona's Trump doth found;
Me fofter airsbefit, and softer strings

Of Lute, or Viol ftill, more apt for mournful things.
V.

Befriend me Night, best Patroness of grief,

Over the Pole thy thickest mantle throw,

And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,

That Heav'n and Earth are colour'd with my wo;

My forrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have washt a wannish [white.

VI.

See fee the Chariot, and those rufhing wheels,
That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood,
My spirit fome tranfporting Cherub feels,

To bear me where the Towers of Salem stood,
Once glorious Towers, now funk in guiltless blood;
There doth my Soul in holy vifion fit

In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecftatick fit.
VII.

Mine eye hath found that fad Sepulchral rock
That was the Casket of Heav'n's richest store;
And here though grief my feeble hands up lock,
Yet on the foftned Quarry would I score
My plaining verfe as lively as before;

For fure fo well inftructed are my tears,

That they would fitly fall in order'd Characters. VIII.

Or fhould I thence hurried on viewless wing, Take up a weeping on the Mountains wild, The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring Would foon unbofom all their Echoes mild, And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

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

This Subject the Author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing fatisfy'd with what was begun, left it unfinisht.

On TIME.

LY envious Time, 'till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,

Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace; And glut thy felf with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross;

So little is our lofs,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou haft entomb'd,

And last of all thy greedy felf confum'd,
Then long Eternity fhall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;

And Joy fhall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is fincerely good,

And