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In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light.
MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER.
THIS rich marble doth inter
The hononr'd wife of Winchester,
A vis it's danghter, an earl's heir,
Besides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More than she could own from earth.
Summers three times cight save one
She had told; alus ! too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death.
Yer had the number of her Jays
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 feast;
He at their invoking caine,
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
Aud in his garland, as he stood;
Ye might discern a cypress
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 tomh.
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
Siveet rest seize thee evermore,
Tiat, to give the world increase,
Short'ned hast thy own life's lease.
Here, besides the sorrowing
That thy noble house doth bring,
llere be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon;
And soine flowers, and some bays,
For thy herse, to strew the
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;
Whilst thon, bright Saint, high sitt'st in glory,
Next her, much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian shepherdess,
Who, after years of harrenness,
The highly favour'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 cladl in radiant sheen,
No murchioness, but now a Queen,
NOW the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salnte thee with our early song,
And weleone thee, and wish thee long.
WHAT needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd hones
The labour of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a stary-pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What needst thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thon in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a livelong montinent.
For whilst, to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easy nuinbers tow; and that each beart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impressior took:
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ;
And, so sepúlcher'd, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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 beiug 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 prevaild,
Had not his weekly course of carriage faild;
But lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journey's end was come,
And that he had ta'en up his latest inn,
In the kind office of a chamberlin
Show'd him his room where he must lodge that night, 15
Pulld off his boots, and took away the light;
If any ask for him, it shall be said,
“ Hobson has supt, and's newly gone to bed."