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Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow,
And the cherubic host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that were victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms,

Singing everlastingly;
That we on earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did till disproportion'd fin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made 21
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that song, 25
And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with him, and fingin endless morn of light.

An EPITAPHon the MARCHIONESS of Winchester.
THIS rich Marble doth enter

1 The honor’d wife of Winchester,
A Vicount'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 fave one
She had told; alas too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death. 10
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 fits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
And in his garland as hę 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 throws;
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'r
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 reft seise thee evermore,
That to give the world increase,
Shorten’d haft 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 fitft in glory,
Next her much like to thee in story,



That fair Syrian shepherdess,
Who after years of barrenness,
The highly favor'd Joseph bore,
To him that serv'd for her before,
And at her next birth much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the bosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light:
There with thee, new welcome Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

N OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
TV Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowflip, and the pale primrose.

Hail bounteous May that doft inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,

Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

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X. On S HA K ES P E A R. 1630. W HAT needs my Shakespear for his honor'd

V The labor of an age in piled stones, (bones Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 5 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to th' shame of slow-endevoring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 10 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepulcher'd in such pomp doth lie, 15 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.


On the University Carrier, who ficken'd in the time of his

vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reason of

the plague. ITERE lies old Hobson; Death hath brokehisgirt, 11 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.


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