Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitst in glory,
And at her next birth much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the bofom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light:
There with thee, new welcome faint,
Like fortunes may her foul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchionefs, but now a Queen.
IX. Song. On May morning.
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 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 bleffing. Thus we falute thee with our early fong, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honor'd bones The labor of an age in piled ftones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques fhould be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid ?
Dear fon of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou fuch weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Haft built thyself a live-long monument.
For whilst to th' fhame of flow-endevoring Art
Thy cafy numbers flow, and that each heart v. LIQ
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Doft make us marble with too much conceiving;
And fo feplúcher'd in fuch pomp doft lie,
That kings for fuch a tomb would wish to die.
XI. On the univerfity carrier, who fickened in the time of his vacancy,being forbid to go to London,by reafon of the plague.
HERE lies old Hobfon; Death hath broke his girt,
And here alas, hath laid him in the dirt,
Or elfe the ways being 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 furely Death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd;
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, Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light:
If any ask for him, it shall be said,
Hobfon has fupt, and's newly gone to bed.
XII. Another on the fame.
HERE lieth one, who did most truly prove
That he could never die while he could move;
So hung his destiny, never to rot
While he might still jog on and keep his trot,
Made of fphere-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, (yet without a crime
'Gainst old Truth) motion number'd out his time:
And like an engin mov'd with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceas'd, he ended strait.
Rest that gives all men life gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm
Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd;
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd,
If I may'nt carry, fure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,
For one carrier put down to make fix bearers.
Eafe was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He dy'd for heaviness that his cart went light:
His leifure told him that his time was come,
And lack of load made his life burthenfome,
That ev'n to his last breath (there be that say't) 25
As he were prefs'd to death, he cry'd more weight;
But had his doings lafted as they were,
He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the feas,
Yet (ftrange to think) his wain was his increase:
His letters are deliver'd all and gone,
Only remains this fuperfcription.
XI. On the univerfity carrier, who fickened in the time of his vacancy,being forbid to go to London,by reafon of the plague.
HERE lies old Hobfon; Death hath broke his girt,
And here alas, hath laid him in the dirt,
Or elfe the ways being foul, twenty to one,
He's here stuck in a flough, 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 furely Death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly courfe of carriage fail'd;
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, Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light:
If any ask for him, it shall be said,
Hobfon has fupt, and's newly gone to bed.
XII. Another on the fame.
HERE lieth one, who did most truly prove
That he could never die while he could move;
So hung his destiny, never to rot
While he might still jog on and keep his trot,
Made of fphere-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.
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