In thee, fair Mansion, let it rest,|
Yet know, with what thou art possest,
Thou entertaining in thy Breast,
But such a Mind, mak'st God thy Guest.
A whole quaternion in the midst of this Poem is lost, containing
entirely the three next pieces of it, and all of the fourth (which
in the order of the whole, is the eighth) excepting the very end:
which at the top of the next quaternion goeth on thus,
Ut, for you (growing Gentlemen) the happy
Branches of two so illustrious Houses as these, where
from your honour'd Mother, is in both Lines descend-
ed; let me leave you this last Legacy of Counsel; which
so soon as you arrive at years of mature Understanding,
open you (Sir) that are the eldest, and read it to your
Brethren, for it will concern you all alike. Vowed by
a faithful Servant, and Client of your Family, with his
latest Breath expiring it,
To K E N E L M, J O H N, G E O R G E.
Oast not these Titles of your Ancestors;
(Brave Youths) th' are their possessions, none of
When your own Vertues, equall'd have their Names,
'Twill be but fair, to lean upon their Fames;
For they are strong Supporters: But, till then,
The greatest are but growing Gentlemen.
It is a wretched thing to trust to Reeds;
Which all Men do, that urge not their own deeds
Up to their Ancestors; the Rivers side,
By which yo' are planted, shew's your Fruit shall bide:
Hang all your Rooms, with one large Pedigree:
'Tis Vertue alone, is true Nobility.
Which Vertue from your Father, ripe, will fall;
Study illustrious Him, and you have all.
Elegy on my Muse.
He truly honoured Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby;
who living, gave me leave to call her so.
Her APOQEWSIS, or Relation to the Saints,
Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina dolori.
An Elegy on my Muse.
Were time that I dy'd too, now she is dead,
Who was my Muse, and life of all I did.
The Spirit that I wrote with, and conceiv'd,
All that was good, or great in me she weav'd,
And set it forth; the rest were Cobwebs fine,
Spun out in name of some of the old Nine!
To hang a Window, or make dark the Room,
Till swept away, th' were cancell'd with a Broom!
Nothing, that could remain, or yet can stir
A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!
O! had I seen her laid out a fair Course,
By Death, on Earth, I should have had remorse
On Nature, for her: who did let her lie,
And saw that portion of her self to die.
Sleepy, or stupid Nature, couldst thou part
With such a Rarity, and not rouse Art
With all her aids, to save her from the seize
Of Vulture Death, and those relentless Cleys?
Thou wouldst have lost the Phœnix, had the kind
Been trusted to thee: not to 't self assign'd.
Look on thy sloth, and give thy self undone,
(For so thou art with me) now she is gone,
My wounded mind cannot sustain this stroke,
It rages, runs, flies, stands, and would provoke
The World to ruine with it; in her Fall,
I summ up mine own breaking, and wish all.
Thou hast no more blows, Fate, to drive at one,
What's left a Poet, when his Muse is gone?
Sure, I am dead, and know it not! I feel
Nothing I do; but, like a heavy Wheel,
Am turned with anothers powers. My Passion
Whirls me about, and to blaspheme in fashion!
I murmur against God, for having ta'en
Her blessed Soul, hence, forth this Valley vane
Of Tears, and Dungeon of Calamity!
I envy it the Angels amity!
The joy of Saints! the Crown for which it lives,
The glory, and gain of rest, which the place gives!
Dare I prophane, so irreligious be
To 'greet, or grieve her soft Euthanasee!
So sweetly taken to the Court of bliss,
As Spirits had stol'n her Spirit, in a kiss,
From off her Pillow, and deluded Bed;
And left her lovely Body unthought dead!
Indeed, she is not dead! but laid to sleep
In Earth, till the last Trump awake the Sheep
And Goats together, whither they must come
To hear their Judge, and his eternal doom.
To have that final retribution,
Expected with the Fleshes restitution.
For, as there are three Natures, Schoolmen call
One Corporal, only; th' other Spiritual,
Like single; so, there is a third, commixt,
Of Body and Spirit together, plac'd betwixt
Those other two; which must be judg'd, or crown'd:
This as it guilty is, or guiltless found,
Must come to take a sentence, by the sense
Of that great Evidence, the Conscience!
Who will be there, against that day prepar'd,
T' accuse, or quit all Parties to be heard!
O Day of joy, and surety to the just!
Who in that Feast of Resurrection trust!
That great eternal Holy-day of rest,
To Body, and Soul! where Love is all the guest!
And the whole Banquet is full fight of God!
Of joy the Circle, and sole Period!
All other gladness, with the thought is barr'd;
Hope, hath her end! and Faith hath her reward!
This being thus: why should my Tongue, or Pen
Presume to interpel that fulness, when
Nothing can more adorn it, than the Seat
That she is in, or, make it more compleat?
Better be dumb, than superstitious!
Who violates the God-head, is most vicious
Against the Nature he would worship. He
Will honour'd be in all simplicity!
Have all his actions, wondred at, and view'd
With silence, and amazement! not with rude,
Dull, and prophane, weak, and imperfect Eyes,
Have busie search made in his mysteries!
He knows, what work h' hath done, to call this Guest,
Out of her noble Body, to this Feast:
And give her place, according to her Blood
Amongst her Peers, those Princes of all good!
Saints, Martyrs, Prophets, with those Hierarchies,
Angels, Arch-angels, Principalities,
The Dominations, Vertues, and the Powers,
The Thrones, the Cherub, and Seraphick Bowers,
That, planted round, there sing before the Lamb,
A new Song to his praise, and great I Am:
And she doth know, out of the shade of Death,
What 't is t' enjoy, an everlasting Breath!
To have her captiv'd Spirit freed from Flesh,
And on her Innocence, a Garment fresh