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And to our high-rais'd phantasie present
That undisturbed Song of pure consent,
Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To him that fits thereon
With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,
And the Cherubick host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devote 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 Musick that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion fway'd.
In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood
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 e'er long

To

To his celestial confort us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light

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ON THE

Marchioness of Winchester

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HIS rich Marble doth enter

The honour'd Wife of Winchester,
A Viscount'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 onc
She had told, alas too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death,

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Yet

graces sweet,

Yet had the number of her days
Been as compleat as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces
Quickly found a lover meet;
The Virgin, quire for her request
The God that sits at marriage fealt;
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce-well-lighted flame;
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might discern a Cypress bud.
Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely Son,
And now with fecond hope fhe goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorfeless cruelty
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree:
The hapless Babe before his birth :
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,

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And the languisht Mother's Wamb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I seen some tender slip,
Say'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 hastning Funeral.
Gentle Lady may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travel fore
Sweet rest seise thee evermore,
That to give the World encreafe,
Shortned hast thy own life's lease;
Here, besides the sorrowing
That thy noble House doth bring,

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Here be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon,
And some Flowers, and some Bays,
For thy Herse, to strew the

ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;
Whilft thou, bright Saint, high fit'it in glory,
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
Who after

years of barrenness,
The highly favourd 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 welcom Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant (heen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

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