For inforc'd shades, and the moon's ruder veile
Much nearer us, than him, be judg’d to fail ?
Who traduce thee so, erre. As poisons by
Correction are made antidotes, so thy
Just soul did turn er'n hurtful things to good ;
Us’d bad laws so they drew not tears, nor blood.
Hear'n was thy aime, and thy great, rare design
Was not to lord it here, but there to shine.
Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that

e're Thou prayd'st for here, was peace, and glory

there. For though thy course in Time's long progress

fell On a sad age, when Warr and open'd Hell Licens'd all artes and sects, and made it free To thrive by fraud and blood and blasphemy: Yet thou thy just inheritance did'st by No sacrilege, nor pillage multiply ; No rapine swell'd thy state: no bribes, nor fees : Our new oppressors' best annuities. Such clean pure hands had'st thou ! and for thy

heart, Man's secret region, and his noblest part ; Since I was privy to't, and had the key Of that faire room, where thy bright spirit lay: I must affirm, it did as much surpass

a

Most I have known, as the clear sky doth glass.
Constant and kind, and plain and meek and mild
It was, and with no new conceits defil'd.
Busie, but sacred thoughts—like bees- did still
Within it stirre, and strive unto that Hill,
Where redeem'd spirits evermore alive,
After their work is done, ascend and hive.
No outward tumults reach'd this inward place,
'Twas holy ground: where peace and love and

grace
Kept house : where the immortal restles life
In a most dutiful and pious strife
Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order, still ;
The will serv'd God, and ev'ry sence the will !
In this safe state Death mett thee: Death

which is But a kind usher of the good to bliss : Therefore to weep because thy course is run, Or droop like flow'rs, which lately lost the sun: I cannot yield, since Faith will not permitt, A tenure got by conquest to the pitt. For the great Victour fought for us, and Hee Counts ev'ry dust that is lay'd up of thee. Besides, Death now grows decrepit, and hath Spent the most part both of its time and wrath. That thick, black night which mankind fear'd, is By troops of stars, and the bright day's forlorn. The next glad news- -most glad unto the just!Will he the trumpet's summons from the dust. Then I'le not grievo ; nay more, I'le not allow My soul should think thee absent from me now. Some bid their dead 'good night'! but I will say "Good morrow to dear Charles '! for it is day.

6

IN ZODIACUM MARCELLI PALENGENII,'

T is perforın'd ! and thy great name doth

run

Through ev'ry sign, an everlasting sun. Not planet-like, but fix'd ; and we can see Thy genius stand still in his apogie. For how can'st thou an Aux' eternal miss, Where ev'ry house thy exaltation is ? Here's no ecclyptic threatens thee with night, Although the wiser few take in thy light.

They are not at that glorious pitch, to be
In a conjunction with divinitie.
Could we partake some oblique ray of thine,
Salute thee in a Sextile, or a Trine,
It were enough ; but thou art flown so high,
The teles-cope is turn’d a common eye.
Had the grave Chaldee liv'd thy book to see,
He had known no Astrologie, but thee;
Nay more-for I believ't-thou should'st have

been
Tutor to all his planets, and to him.
Thus whosoever reads thee, his charm'd sense
Proves captive to thy Zodiac's influence.
Were it not foul to erre so, I should look
Here for the Rabbins' universal book :
And

say, their fancies did but dream of thee,
When first they doted on that mystery.
Each line's a via lactea, where we may,
See thy fair steps, and tread that happy way
Thy genius lead thee in. Still I will be
Lodg'd in some Sign, some Face and some Degree
Of thy bright Zodiac; thus I'le teach my sense
To move by that, and thee th' intelligence.

a

TO LYSIMACHUS, THE AUTHOR BEING

WITH HIM IN LONDON.

AW not, Lysimachus, last day, when wee
Took the pure air in its simplicity,
And our own too: how the trim'd gal-

lants went
Cringing, and past each step some complement ?
What strange, phantastic diagrams they drew
With legs and arms; the like we never knew
In Euclid, Archimed, nor all of those
Whose learned lines are neither verse nor prose ?
What store of lucre was there ? how did the gold
Run in rich traces, but withall made bold
To measure the proud things, and so deride
The fops with that, which was part of their pride ?
How did they point at us, and boldly call,
As if we had been vassals to them all,
Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fate
To yoke ourselves for their sedans,' and state ?
Of all ambitions, this was not the least,
Whose drift translated man into a beast.
What blind discourse the heroes did afford ?
This lady was their friend, and such a lord.
How much of blood was in it ? one could tell

a

a

" A kind of easy chair. See Index of Words, s.v.

G.