She who hath carried thither new degrees (As to their number) to their dignities; She who, being to herself a state, enjoy'd All royalties which any state employ'd;
For the made wars and triumph'd; reason fill Did not o'erthrow, but rectify her will; And she made peace, for no peace is like this, That beauty and chastity together kiss: She did high justice, for the crucify'd Ev'ry first motion of rebellion's pride; And the gave pardons, and was liberal, For, only herfelf except, fhe pardon'd all: She coin'd in this, that her impreffion gaye To all our actions all the worth they have: She gave protections; the thoughts of her breaft Satan's rude officers could ne'er arreft, As these prerogatives being met in oue Made her a fovereign ftate, religion
Made her a church; and these two made her all. She, who was all this all, and could not fall To worse by company, (for she was still More antidote than all the world was ill) She, the doth leave it, and by death furvive All this in heav'n, whither who doth not strive The more becaufe fhe's there, he doth not know grow. That accidental joys in heav'n do But paufe, my Soul! and ftudy, ere thou fall On accidental joys, th' effential. Still before acceffories do abide
A trial must the principal be try'd. And what effential joy canft thou expect Here upon earth? what permanent effect Of tranfitory causes? Doft thou love Beauty? (and beauty worthiest is to move) Poor cozen'd Cozener! that he, and that thou, Which did begin to love, are neither now; You are both fluid, chang'd fince yesterday; Next day repairs (but ill) last day's decay: Nor are (although the river keep the name) Yesterday's waters and to-day's the fame. So flows her face and thine eyes, neither now That faint nor pilgrim which your loving vow Concern'd, remains; but whilft you think you be Conftant, y' are hourly in inconftancy. Honour may have pretence unto our love, Because that God did live fo long above Without this honour, and then lov'd it fo, That he at laft made creatures to bestow Honour on him; not that he needed it,
But that to his hands man might grow more fit: But fince all honours from inferiors flow, (For they do give it, princes do but show Whom they would have fo honour'd) and that On fuch opinions and capacities
Is built as rife and fall to more and less: Alas! 't is but a cafual happiness. Hath ever any man t' himself affign'd This or that happiness t' arreft his mind, But that another man which takes a worse, Thinks him a fool for having ta'en that course? They who did labour Babel's tow'r t' erect, Might have confider'd, that for that effect All this whole folid earth could not allow, Nor furnish forth materials enow;
And that his centre, to raise fuch a place, Was far too little to have been the base. No more affords this world foundation T' erect true joy, were all the means in one. But as the Heathen made them feveral gods Of all God's benefits and all his rods, (For as the wine, and corn, and onions, are Gods unto them, fo agues be and war) And as by changing that whole precious gold To fuch small copper coins they loft the old, And loft their only God, who ever must Be fought alone, and not in such a thrust: So much mankind true happiness mistakes, No joy enjoys that man that many makes. Then, Soul! to thy first pitch work up again; Know that all lines which circles do contain,' For once that they the centre touch, do touch Twice the circumference; and be thou such; Double on heav'n thy thoughts on earth employ'd ; All will not ferve; only who have enjoy'd The fight of God in fulness can think it ; For it is both the object and the wit. This is effential joy, where neither he Can fuffer diminution nor we;
'Tis fuch a full and fuch a filling good, Had th' angels once look'd on him they had stood. To fill the place of one of them, or more, before; gone She whom we celebrate is She, who had here so much effential joy, As no chance could distract, much less destroy; Who with God's prefence was acquainted fo, (Hearing and fpeaking to him) as to know His face in any natural stone or tree, Better than when in images they be; Who kept, by diligent devotion, God's image in such reparation
Within her heart, that what decay was grown Was her first parents' fault, and not her own; Who, being follicited to any act, Still heard God pleading his fafe procontract; Who by a faithful confidence was here
Betroth'd to God, and now is married there; Whofe twilights were more clear than our mid-day; Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray; Who being here fill'd with grace, yet strove to be Both where more grace and more capacity At once is given: The to heav'n is gone, Who made this world in fome proportion A heav'n, and here became unto us all Joy (as our joys admit) effential.
But could this low world joys effential touch, Heav'n's accidental joys would pass them much. How poor and lame must then our cafual be? If thy prince will his fubjects to call thee My Lord, and this do fwell thee, thou art then, By being greater, grown to be lefs man. When no physician of redress can speak, A joyful cafual violence may break A dangerous apoftem in thy breast,
And whilst thou joy'st in this the dangerous rest, The bag may rife up, and fo ftrangle thee. Whate'er was cafual may ever be.
What should the nature change? or make the same Certain, which was but cafual, when it came ?
All cafual joy doth loud and plainly say, Only by coming, that it can away. Only in heav'n joy's ftrength is never spent, And accidental things are permanent. Joy of a Soul's arrival ne'er decays; (For that Soul ever joys, and ever stays) Joy that their laft great confummation Approaches in the refurrection, When earthly bodies more celestial
Shall be than angels were, for they could fall; This kind of joy doth every day admit Degrees of growth, but none of lofing it. In this fresh joy 'tis no fmall part that the, She, in whole goodness he that names degree Doth injure her; ('tis lofs to be call'd beft, There where the stuff is not fuch as the reft) She, who left fuch a body, as even she Only in heav'n could learn how it can be Made better, for fhe rather was two Souls, Or like to full on both fides-written rolls, Where eyes might read upon the outward skin As ftrong records for God as minds within; She who, by making full perfection grow, Pieces a circle, and ftill keeps it fo,
Long'd for, and longing for't, to heav'n is gone, Where the receives and gives addition. Here in a place, where mis-devotion frames A thousand prayers to faints, whose very names The ancient church knew not, Heav'n knows not yet,
And where what laws of poetry admit, Laws of religion have at the least the same, Immortal Maid! I might invoke thy name. Could any faint provoke that appetite,
Thou here fhouldft make me a French convertite;
But thou wouldst not, nor wouldft thou be
To take this for my fecond year's true rent. Did this coin bear any other stamp than his That gave thee power to do, me to say this? Since his will is that to posterity
Thou fhouldft for life and death a pattern be; And that the world should notice have of this, The purpose and th' authority is his : Thou art the proclamation, and I am
The trumpet, at whofe voice the people came
EPICEDES AND OBSEQUIES
UPON THE DEATHS OF SUNDRY PERSONAGES.
UNTIMELY DEATH OF THE INCOMPARABLE PRINCE HENRY,
Look to me, Faith! and look to my faith, God, For both my centres feel this period. Of weight one centre, one of greatness, is, And reafon is that centre, faith is this;
For into our reafon flow, and there do end, All that this natural world doth comprehend; Quotidian things, and equidistant hence, Shut in for man in one circumference; But for th' enormous greatneffes which are So difproportion'd and so angular, As is God's effence, place, and providence, Where, how, when, what, fouls do departed hence:
These things (eccentric elfe) on faith do strike; Yet neither all nor upon all alike; For Reafon, put t' her beft extenfion, Almost meets Faith, and makes both centres one; And nothing ever came fo near to this As contemplation of that Frince we mifs; For all that Faith might credit, mankind could, Reason still seconded, that this Prince would,
then least moving of the centre make,
On neighbour states, which knew not why to wake,
Till he discover'd what ways he would take; For whom what princes angled, when they try'd Met a torpedo, and were stupify'd;
And others' studies, how he would be bent, Was his great father's greatest instrument, And activ'ft fpirit, to convey and tie This foul of peace unto Chriftianity?
Was it not well believ'd that he would make This general peace th' eternal overtake, And that his times might have stretcht out fo far As to touch those of which they emblems are? For to confirm this juft belief, that now The laft days came, we saw heav'n did allow That, but from his aspect and exercise, In peaceful times rumours of wars should rife. But now this faith is herefy, we must Still stay, and vex our great grandmother Duft. Oh! is God prodigal? Hath he spent his store Of plagues on us, and only now, when more Would eafe us much, doth he grudge mifery,
More than if whole hell belch'd, the world to And will not let's enjoy our curfe, to die?
What must this do, centres distracted fo, That we fee not what to believe or know? Was it not well believ'd till now that he, hole reputation was an extafy,..
As for the earth, thrown loweft down of all, 'Twere an ambition to defire to fall; So God, in our desire to die, doth know Our plot for cafe, in being wrecched fo; Fij
Therefore we live, though fuch a life we have As but fo many mandrake's on his grave. What had his growth and generation done, When, what we are, his putrefaction Suftains in us, earth, which griefs animate? Nor hath our world now other foul than that; And could grief get fo high as heav'n, that quire, Forgetting this their new joy, would defire (With grief to see him) he had stay'd below, To rectify our errors they foreknow.
Is th' other centre, reason, faster then?
Where fhould we look for that, now we're not men?
For if our reafon be our connection
Of caufes, now to us there can be none: For, as if all the fubftances were spent, It were madnefs to inquire of accident; So is 't to look for Reason, he being gone, The only fubject Reason wrought upon. If Fate have fuch a chain, whofe divers links Induftrious men difcerneth, as he thinks, When miracle doth come, and so steal in A new link, man knows not where to begin : At a much deader fault muft reafon be, Death having broke off fuch a link as he. But now for us with bufy proof to come That we 'ave no reason would prove we had fome; So would just lamentations; therefore we May fafelier fay that we are dead than he. So, if our griefs we do not well declare We 'ave double excufe; he's not dead, we are. Yet would not I die yet; for though I be Too narrow to think him as he is he, (Our fouls beft baiting and mid period In her long journey of confidering God). Yet (no difhonour) I can reach him thus, As he embrac'd the fires of love with us. Oh! may I (fince I live) but fee or hear That the-intelligence which mov'd this fphere, I pardon Fate my life: whoe'er thou be Which haft the noble confcience, thou art fhe. I conjure thee by all the charms he spoke, By th' oaths which only you two never broke, By all the fouls ye figh'd, that if you fee Thefe lines, you wish I knew your history. So much, as you two mutual heav'ns were here, I were an angel finging what you were.
TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. MADAM,
I HAVE learned by those laws, wherein I am little converfant, that he which bestows any coft upon the dead, obliges him which is dead, but not his heir. 1 do not therefore fend this paper to your Ladyship that you should thank me for it, or think that I thank you in it; your favours and benefits to me are fo much above my merits, that they are even above my gratitude, if that were to be judged by words which muft exprefs it. But, Madam, fince your noble brother's fortune being your's, the evidences alfo
To the Countess of Bedford.
FAIR Soul! which waft not only, as all fouls b Then when thou waft infused, harmony, But didit continue fo, and now doft bear A part in God's great organ, this whole fpher If looking up to God, or down to us, Thou find that any way is pervious 'Twixt heav'n and earth, and that men's actio Come to your knowledge and affections too, See, and with joy, me to that good degree Of goodness grown that I can ftudy thee, And by thefe meditations refin'd Can unapparel and enlarge my mind, And fo can make, by this foft extaly, This place a map of heav'n, myself of thee. Thou seeft me here at midnight now all reft Time's dead low water, when all minds dive To-morrow's bufinefs, when the lab'rers have Such reft in bed, that their laft churchyard gr Subject to change, will scarce be a type of thi Now when the client, whofe last hearing is To-morrow, fleeps; when the condemned ma (Who when he opes his eyes muft fhut then
Again by death) although fad watch he keep Doth practife dying by a little fleep, Thou at this midnight feeft me, and as foon As that fun rifes to me midnight's noon; All the world grows tranfparent, and I fee Through all, both church and state, in thee;
And I difcern, by favour of this light, Myself, the hardest object of the fight. God is the glafs, as thou, when thou doft fee Him, who fees all, feeft all concerning thee So, yet unglorify'd, I comprehend All in these mirrors of thy ways and end. Though God be our true glass, through whi fee
All, fince the being of all things is he, Yet are the trunks, which do to us derive Things in proportion, fit by perspective, Deeds of good men; for by their being her Virtues indeed remote feem to be near. But where can I affirm or where arrest My thoughts on his deeds? which fhall best?
For fluid virtue cannot be look'd on, Nor can endure a contemplation. on,
As bodies change, and as I do not wear Thofe fpirits, humours, blood, I did last year; And, as if on a stream I fre miné eye, That drop which I look'd on is prefently Paht with more waters from my fight, and gone; So in this fea of virtues can no one Be infifted on. Virtues as rivers pafs,
Yet ftill remains that virtuous man there was And as if man feed on man's flesh, and fo Part of his body to another owe, Yet at the last two perfe& bodies rise, Because God knows where every atom lies; So if one knowledge were made of all thofe Who knew his minutes well, he might difpofe His virtues into names and ranks; but I Should injure Nature, Virtue, and Destiny, Should I divide and difcontinue fo Virtue, which did in one entireness grow: For as he that should fay fpirits are fram'd Of all the pureft parts that can be nam'd, Honours not fpirits half fo much as he Which fays they have no parts but fimple be; So is 't of virtue; for a point and one Are much entirer than a million.
And had Fate meant t' have had his virtues told, It would have let him live to have been old : So then that virtue in feafon, and then this, We might have feen and said that now he is Witty, now wife, now temperate, now juft. In good fhort lives virtues are fain to thrust, And to be fure betimes to get a place,
When they would exercife back time and space. So was it in this perfon, forc'd to be, For lack of time, his own epitome; So to exhibit in few years as much
As all the long-breath'd chroniclers can touch.
As when an angel down from heav'nth fly, Our quick thought cannot keep him company; We cannot think now he is at the fun,
Now through the moon, now through the air doth
Yet when he's come we know he did repair To all 'twixt heav'n and earth, fun, moon, and air; And as this angel in an instant knows, And yet we know this fudden knowledge grows By quick amaffing feveral forms of things Which he fucceffively to order brings, When they, whofe flow-pac'd lame thoughts can- not go
So faft as he, think that he doth not fo; Juft as a perfect reader doth not dwell On every fyllable, nor stay to spell, Yet without doubt he doth diftin&tly fee, And lay together every A and B;
So in fhort-liv'd good men's not understood Each feveral virtue, but the compound good; For they all virtue's paths in that pace tread, As angels go and know, and as men read. O! why should then these men, thefe lumps of balm,
Sent hither the world's tempeft to becalm, Before by deeds they are diffus'd and spread, And to make us alive themselves be dead? O Soul! O Circle! why fo quickly be
Since one foot of thy compass still was plac'd In heav'n, the other might fecurely have pac'd In the most large extent through every path Which the whole world, or man, th' abridgement, hath.
Thou knoweft that though the tropic circles have (Yea, and thofe fmall ones which the poles engrave) All the fame roundnefs, evennefs, and all The endleffnefs of th' equinoctial,
Yet when we come to measure distances, How here, how there, the fun affected is, When he doth faintly work, and when prevail, Only great circles then can be our scale; So though thy circle to thyself exprefs All tending to thy endless happiness, And we, by our good ufe of it, may try Both how to live well (young) and how to die; Yet fince we must be old, and age endures His torrid zone at court and calentures, Of hot ambition, irreligion's ice, Zeal's agues, and hydroptic avarice, (Infirmities which need the fcale of truth, As well as luft and ignorance of youth) Why didft thou not for thefe give med'cines too, And by thy doing tell us what to do? Though as fmall pocket-clocks, whofe every wheel Doth each mifmotion and diftemper feel, Whofe hands get fhaking palfies and whofe ftring (His finews) flackens, and whofe foul, the spring, Expires or languifhes; whofe pulfe, the fly, Either beats not, or beats unevenly;
Whofe voice, the bell, doth rattle or grow dumb, Or idle as men which to their laft hour come; If thefe clocks be not wound, or be wound ftill, Or be not fet, or fet at every will;
So youth is eafieft to deftru&tion, If then we follow all, or follow none.
Yet as in great clocks which in fteeples chime, Plac'd to inform whole towns t' employ their time, An error doth more harm, being general, When small clocks faults only on th' wearer fall; So work the faults of age, on which the eye Of children, fervants, or the state, rely. Why wouldft not thou then, which hadft fuch a foul,
A clock fo true as might the fun controul; And daily hadft from him who gave it thee Inftructions, fuch as it could never be Disorder'd, ftay here, as a general And great fun-dial, to have fet us all? Oh! why wouldest thou be an instrument 'To this unnatural courfe? or why confent To this not miracle but prodigy,
That when the ebbs longer than flowings be, Virtue, whose flood did with thy youth begin, Should fo much fafter ebb out than flow in? Though her flood were blown in by thy first. breath,
All is at once funk in the whirlpool death; Which word I would not name, but that I fee Death, elfe a defert, grown a court by thee. Now I am fure that if a man would have Good company, his entry is a grave. Methinks all cities now but ant-hills be,
Thy ends, thy birth, and death, clos'd up in thee? Where, when the feveral labourers I fee
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