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Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ,
To him that sits thereon,
VIII. An Empitaph on the Marchioness of Winchester
This rich marble doth inter
A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir, Besides what her virtues fair Added to her noble birth, More than she could own from earth. Summers three-times-eight, save one, She had told; alas too soon, After so short time of breath, To house with darkness, and with death, Yet had the number of her days Been as complete as was her praise, Nature and Fate had had no strife In giving limit to her life. Her high birth, and her graces sweet . Quickly found a lover meet; The virgin quire for her request The god that sits at marriage feasts He at their invoking came But with a scarce well-lighted flame ; And in his garland as he stood Ye might discern a cypress bud. Once had the early matrons run To greet her of a lovely son, And now with second hope she goes, And calls Lucina to her throes; But whether by mischance or blame Atropos for Lucina came; And with remorseless cruelty Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree: The hapless babe before his birth Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languish'd mother's womb Was not long a living tomb. So have I seen some tender slip, Sav'd with care from Winter's nip, The pride of her carnation train, Pluck'd up by some unheedy swain, Who only thought to crop the flow's 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 she wears, Prove to be presaging tears, Which the sad Morn had let fall On her hast’ning funeral. Gentle Lady, may thy grave Peace and quiet. ever have ; After this thy travel sore Sweet rest seize 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 strow the ways, Sent thee from the banks of Came, Devoted to thy virtuous name; Whilst thou, bright saint, high sitst in glory, Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian shepherdess,:
IX. Song. On May morning.
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
X. On Shakspeare, 1630.
What needs my Shakspeare for his honor'd boncs The labor of an age in piled stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
XI. 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 Dodg'd 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,