And those that cannot live from him asunder, What pow'r, what force, what mighty spell, if not 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, In wintry folftice like the shorten'd light, 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, His ftarry front low-rooft beneath the skies; 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, Of Lute, or Viol ftill, more apt for mournful things. 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, To bear me where the Towers of Salem stood, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecftatick fit. Mine eye hath found that fad Sepulchral rock 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, 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, And Joy fhall overtake us as a flood, And |