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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 he goes,
And calls Lucina to her throwS;
But whether by mifchance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;

And with remorfelefs cruelty
Spor'd at once both fruit and tree:
The haplers Babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languifht Mother's Womb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I feen fome tender flip
Sav'd with care from Winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation frain,
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 bloffom hangs the head
Side-ways, as on a dying bed,

And thofe Pearls of dew the wears,
Frove 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 leafe;
Here, besides the forrowing
That thy noble Houfe doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon,

And fome Flowers, and fome Bays,
For thy Herfe, to ftrew the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;bę

Whilft thou, bright Saint, high fit'st in glory,
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian Shepherdefs,

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 filed to felicity,
Far within the boofom 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 Marchionefs, but now a Queen.

SONG. On May Morning.

Now

Ow the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the Haft,and leads with her

The Flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowflip, and the pale Primrofe
Hail bounteous May that doft infpire

Mirth and Youth and warm defire,.

Woods and Groves are of thy dreffing, od dreht
Hill and Dale doth boaft thy bleffing.

Thus we falute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and with thee long.

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On SHAKESPEAR. 1630.

WH

HAT needs my Shakespear, for his honour'd The labour of an age in piled Stones, [Bones, Or that his hallow'd reliques fhould 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? Thou in our wonder and aftonishment

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
hy unvalu'd Book,
Hath from the leaves of thy

Thofe Delphick lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of it felf bereaving,
Doft make us Marble with too much conceiving;
And fo Sepulcher'd in fuch pomp dost lie, 707
That Kings for fuch a Tomb would with 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 Plaguenotice (dur lis

HERE

ERE lies old Hobfon, Death hath broke his girt, And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt, Or else the e the ways being foul, twenty to one, He's here stuck in a flough, and overthrown. 'Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known, Death was half glad when he had him down; For he had any time this ten years full, Dodg'd with him, betwist Cambridge and the Bull. And furely Death could never have prevail'd, Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd; But lately finding him fo long at home,

got

940 36

And thinking now his journeys end was come, 5X And that he had ta'ne up his latest Inn,

In the kind Office of a Chamberlin

Shew'd him his room where he muft lodge that night, Pull'd of his Boots, and took away t

the light: If any ask for him, it fhall be faid, Hebfon has fupt, and's newly gone to bed.

H

Another on the fame.

ERE dieth one, who did moft truly prove

That he could never die while he could move,

So hung his destiny, never to rot

While he might still jogg on and keep his trot,
Made of fphear-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at ftay.

Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time:
And like an Engine mov'd with wheel and waight,
His principles being ceaft, he ended strait,

Reft, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm

Too long vacation hasten'd on his term,
Meerly to drive the time away he sickn'd,
Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickn'd;
Nay, quoth he, on his fwooning bed out stretch'd,
If I mayn't carry, fure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,

But vow, though the crofs Doctors all ftood hearers,
For one Carrier put down to make fix bearers.
Eafe was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He dy'd for heaviness that his Cart went light,
His leifure told him that his time was come,
And lack of load, made his life burdenfom,
That even to his laft breath (there be that fay't)
As he were preft to death, he cry'd more waight;
But had his doings lafted as they were,
He had been an immortal Carrier.
Obedient to the Moon he spent his date
In courfe reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the Seas,
Yet (ftrange to think) his wain was his increase:

His

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