Marchionefs of Winchester.
THIS rich Marble dotli enter
The honour'd Wife of Winchester, A Vicount's daughter, an Earl's heir, Befides what her Virtues fair
Added to her noble Birth,
More than he could own from Earth.
Summers three times eight fave one
She had told, alas too soon,
After fo fhort time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death.
Yet had the number of her daysTM
Been as compleat as her praise,
Nature and fate had had no ftrife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces fweet;
Quickly found a lover meet
The Virgin quire for her requeft
The God that fits at marriage feaft ;
He at their invoking came,
But with a scarce-well-lighted flame;
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might difcern a Cypress bud.
Once had the early Matrons run? el 'ad „319H
To greet her of a lovely Son,
And now with fecond hope the goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws ;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorfelefs cruelty
Sport'd at once both fruit and tree:
The hapless 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 train,
Pluck'd up by fome unheedy fwain,
Who only thought to crop the flow'r
New fhot 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 presaging 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 encrease,
Shortned haft thy own life's leafe
Here, befides the forrowing
That thy noble House 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;
Whilft thou, bright Saint, high fit' in gloty,
Next her much like to thee in ftory,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
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 fled to felicity,
Far within the boosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light,
There with thee, new welcom Saint,
Like fortunes may her foul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant fheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.
SONG. On May Morning.
Tow the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger, dancing from the Haft,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 dost inspire
Mirth and Youth and warm defire,
Woods and Groves are of thy dreffing,
Hill and Dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we falute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and with thee long.
HAT needs my Shakespear, for his honou
The labour 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,
What need'st thou fuch weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Haft built thy felf a live-long Monument.
For whilft to th' fhame of low-endeavouring art
Thy eafie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impreffon took,
Then thou our fancy of it felf bereaving,
Doft make us Marble with too much conceiving;
And fo Sepulcher'd in such pomp doft lie,
That Kings for fuch a Tomb would wish to die.
|