Marchioness of Winchester.
HIS rich Marble dotli enter
The honour'd Wife of Winchester,
A Vicount's daughter, an Earl's heir,
Besides what her Virtues fair
Added to her noble Birth,
More than the could own from Earth..
Summers three times eight save one
She had told, alas too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Been as compleat as 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 feaft;
He at their invoking came,
But with a scarce-well-lighted flame,
And in his Garland as he ftood,
Ye might difcern a Cypress budd
Once had the early Marrons in
To greet her of a lovely Son,
And now with fecond hope the goes,
And calls Lucins to her throws;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorseless cruelty
Spoii'd at once both fruit and tree:
The hapless Babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languisht Mother's Womb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I seen some tender flip
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 bloffom hangs the head
Side-ways, as on a dying bed,
And those Pearls of dew the wears,
Frove to be presaging tears
Which the sad 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 rest seise thee evermore,
That to give the World encrease,
Shortned haft thy own life's leases
Here, besides the forrowing...
That thy noble House doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Whilst thou, bright Saint, high fit'st in gloty,
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
Who after years of barrenness.
The highly favour'd Jofeph, 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 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 sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.
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 Cowsip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and Youth and warm defire,
Woods and Groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we falute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish 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 such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Haft built thy self a live-long Monument.
For whilst to th' shame of flow-endeavouring art
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impreffion took,
Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceiving;
And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp doft lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.
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