VIII.

An EPITAPH on the Marchionefs of Winchester*.

HIS rich marble doth inter

TH

The honor'd wife of Winchester,

A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir, = Befides what her virtues fair

Added to her noble birth,

More than fhe could own from earth.
Summers three times eight fave one
She had told; alas too foon,

After fo fhort time of breath,

To house with darkness, and with death.
Yet, had the number of her days
Been as complete as was 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 request
The God that fits at marriage feast
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
To greet her of a lovely son,

* Jane, daughter of Thomas Lord Viscount Savage of Rock-Savage.

And

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And now with fecond hope fhe goes,
And calls Lucina to her throes;
But whether by mifchance 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 languifh'd 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 swain,
Who only thought to crop the flower
New fhot up from vernal shower;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways as on a dying bed,
And thofe pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears,
Which the fad morn had let fall
On her haftening funeral.
Gentle Lady, may thy grave

Peace and quiet ever have;

After this thy travel fore
Sweet reft feize thee evermore,
That to give the world increase,
Shortned haft thy own life's leafe!

Here, befides the forrowing

That thy noble houfe doth bring,

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Here

Whilft thou, bright Saint, high fitst in glory,

Next her much like to thee in story,

That fair Syrian shepherdess,

Who after years of barrenness,

The highly-favor'd Joseph bore

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To him that ferv'd for her before,
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 Saint,
Like fortunes may her foul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

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IX.

SONG. ON MAY MORNING.

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OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowflip, and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that doft inspire
Mirth and youth and warm defire;

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"Woods

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.

X.

ON SHAKESPEAR.

1630.

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HAT needs my Shakespear for his honor'd

WHAT

bones

The labor of an age in piled stones,

Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid,

Under a ftar-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 eafy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Thofe Delphic lines with deep impreffion took,
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Doft make us marble with too much conceiving;
And fo fepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for fuch a tomb would wish to die.

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ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER. 99

XI.

On the UNIVERSITY CARRIER; Who ficken'd in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reason of the plague.

JERE lies old Hobfon; Death hath broke his girt,

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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 fuch a fhifter, 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,

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Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd;
But lately finding him so long at home,

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And thinking now his journey's end was come,
And that he had ta'en up his latest inn,

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In the kind office of a chamberlin

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Show'd him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light:

If any afk for him, it fhall be faid,
Hobfon has fupt, and 's newly gone to bed.

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XII.

Another on the fame.

ERE 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,