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Anno ætatis 17:
On the Death of a fair Infant, dying of a
Fairest flower no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken Primrose fading timelesly, Summer's chief Honour, if thou hadît out-lasted Bleak winter's force that made thy blossom drie; For he being amorous on that lovely die
That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss But kill'd, alas, and then bewail'd his fatal bliss.
Of long-uncoupled bed, and childless eld, Which’mongst the wanton Gods a fout reproach was
So mounting up in ycie-pearled car,
But all unvares with his cold-kind embrace Unhous'd thy Virgin Soul from her fair biding place.
But then transform'd him to a purple flower, Alack that fo to change thee winter had no power.
V. Yet can I not perswade me thou art dead, Or that thy coarse corrupts in earth's dark womb, Or that thy beauties lie in wormie bed, Hid from the World in a low delved comb; Could Heav'n for pity thee fo Ariąly doom?
Oh no! for something in thy face did shine
O say me true, if thou wert mortal wight,
VII, Wert thou fome Star which from the ruin'd roof Of Ihak’t Olympus by mischance didft fall; Which careful Jove in Nature's true behoof Took
up, and in fit place did reinstal? Or did of late earth's Sons besiege the wall
Of sheenie Heav'n, and thou some goddess fled Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd head.
Or that crown'd Matron sage white-robed Truth? Or any
other of that Heav'nly brood Let down in clowdie thronę to do the World some
[good. Or wert thou of the golden-winged hoast, Who having clad thy felf in humane weed, To earth from thy præfixed seat didft poast, And after short abode flie back with speed, As if to fhew what creatures Heav'n doth breed,
Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heav'n aspire.
X. But oh why didst thou not stay here below To bless us with thy Heav'n-loy'd innocence, To flake his wrath whom sin hath made our foe, To turn swift-rushing black perdition hence, Or drive away the slaughtering pestilence,
To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart
Think what a present thou to God hast sent,
This if thou do, he will an off-spring give,
'ER-while of Musick, and Ethereal mirch,
Wherewith the stage of Air and Earth did ring, And joyous news of Heav'nly Infangs birth, My muse with Angels did divide to sing; But headlong joy is ever on the wing,
In Wintry folftice like the shortn'd light Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.
II. For now to forrow must I tune my song, And fet my Harp to notes of saddest wo, Which on our dearest Lord did seise e'er long, Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Which he for us did freely undergo.
Most perfect Heroe, try'd in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard forbuman wight,