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In all her malice thought not to translate ;
You spend not one poore sigh for her last breath,
That we may say she liv'd before her death.
Yet hath she comforts, which proceed from thence
Where grief hath lost the tyrannie of sense, ,
When on those reliques she doth cast an
Whom Death hath lodg'd where her foundations

Their dust-when all is gone-remains within,
Onely to tell, how fertil she hath been.

But I forbeare : perhaps you have new arts
Not to spend eyes at funerals, but hearts.
Who in the wash of teares sets Osford forth,
Mourns at a rate, and circumscribes her worth :
Such lay-resents become not this her day,
Twere malice to lament the common way,
Unlesse we could place knowledge in the eye,
And thence distill it to an elegie.
Who threds his teares into such learned beads
Is a professor when he wceps, not reades.
Nor would our Oxford grieve to dye could shee
In such a bracelet weare ter Heptarchie.
But since-deare Mother !-I cannot expresse
Thy desolations in their own sad dresse,
Give my soul leave to studie a degree
Of sorrow, that may fit my fate and thee,

And till my eyes can weep what I can think,
Spare my fond teares, and here accept my ink.

(pp 82-3.)


REAT, glorious pen-man! whom I should

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not name,


Lest I might seem to measure thee by

fame : Nature's apostle, and her choice high-priest, Her mysticall, and bright evangelist. How am I rapt when I contemplate thee, And winde my self above all that I see ! The spirits of thy lines infuse a fire Like the world's soul, which make me thus aspire. I am unbody'd by thy books, and thee, And in thy papers finde my extasie : Or if I please but to descend a strain, Thy Elements do skreen my soul again. I can undress my self by thy bright glass, And then resume th' inclosure, as I was.

1 From Three books of Occult Philosophy, written by Henry Cornelius Agrippa, &c., 1651. G.

Now I am carth, and now a star, and then
A spirit: now a star, and earth agen ;
Or if I will but ramasle' all that be,
In the least moment I ingross all three.
I span the heaven and Earth, and things above,
And which is more, joyn natures with their Jove.
He crowns my soul with fire, and there doth shine,
But like the rain-bow in a cloud of mine.
Yet there's a law by which I discompose
The ashes, and the fire it self disclose,
But in his emrald still He doth appear;
They are but grave-clothes which he scatters here.
Who sees this fire without his mask, his eye
Must needs be swallowed by the light, and die.

These are the mysteries for which I wept Glorious Agrippa, where thy language slept, Where thy dark texture made me wander far, Whiles through that pathless Night I trac'd the

star; But I have found those mysteries, for which Thy book was more then thrice-pil'd o’re with

pitch. Now a new East beyond the stars I see, Where breaks the day of thy divinitie :

| Sic, but probably a misprint for some word I can't venture to supply. G.

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Heav'n states a commerce here with man, had he But gratefull hands to take, and eyes to see. Hence you fond school-men, that high truths

cerile, And with no arguments but noyse, and pride ; You that damn all but what yourselves invent, And yet find nothing by experiment; Your fate is written by an unseen hand, But his three books with the three worlds shall


VI. From “LUMEN DE LUMINE.” (1651).

1. DAWN.

OW had the Night spent her black stage,

and all Her beauteous, twinckling flames grew

sick, and pale. Her scene of shades and silence fle?; and Day Drest the young East in roses : where each ray Falling on sables, made the Sun and Night Kisse in a checquer of mixt clouds and light.

(p. 1.)

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“I turn’d aside to see if she [Thalia] was still asleep, but she was gone, and this did not a little trouble me.

I expected her returne till the day was quite spent, but she did not appeare. At last fixing my eyes on that place where shee sometimes rested, I discovered certain peeces of gold, which she had left behind her, and hard by a paper folded like a letter. These I took up, and now the night approaching, the evening-star tinn'd in the west, when taking my last survey of her flowrie pillow, I parted from it in this


RETTY green bank farewell! and mayst

thou weare Sun beams, and rose, and lilies all the

yeare :

She slept on thee, but needed not to shed
Her gold : 'twas pay enough to be her bed.
Thy flow'rs are favorits : for this lov'd day
They were my rivals, and with her did play.
They found their heav'n at hand, and in her eys
Injoy'd a copie of their absent skies.
Their weaker paint did with true glories trade,
And mingl'd with her cheeks, one posie made.
And did not her soft skin confine their pride,

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