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Of Diophania, and the mournfull tale,
Of th' bleeding vocall myrtle ;' these and more
Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score
To thy rare fancy for, nor doest thou fall
From thy first majesty, or ought at all
Betray consumption; thy full vig'rous bayes
Wear the same green, and scorn the lene decages
Of stile, or matter; just so have I known
Some chrystal spring, that from the neighbour

down
Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal
To the next vale, and proudly there reveal
Her streams in lowder accents, adding still
More noise and waters to her channell, till
At last swoln with increase, she glides along
The lawnes and meadows in a wanton throng
Of frothy billows, and in one great name
Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame.

Nor are they meere inventions, for we
In th' same peece find scatter'd philosophie
And hidden, disperst truths that enfolded lye
In the dark shades of deep allegorie:
So neatly weav’d, like arras, they descrie
Fables with truth, fancy with mysterie.
So that thou hast in this thy curious mould

| Probably Eastern legends are intended, G.

('ast that commended mixture wish'd of old,
Which shall these contemplations render far
Lesse mutable, and lasting as their star,
And while there is a people, or a sunne
Endymion's storie with the moon shall runne.

AN ELEGIE ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. W.,

SLAIN IN THE LATE UNFORTUNATE DIFFERENCES AT ROUTON HEATH, NEER CHESTER, 1645.1

AM confirm’d, and so much wing is

given To my wild thoughts, that they dare

strike at heav'n.

1 Cf. Poems of 1646, ante. Clarendon gives a graphic narrative of the tragical fiasco of Sir Marmaduke Langdale and Pointz. The Royalists dreamed they had Pointz and his army in their power, but “ being that night drawn on a heath two miles from Chester" Lang lale was “routed and put to flight, and pursued by Pointz even to the walls of Chester.” “ This defeat broke all the body of horse, which had attended the king from the battle of Naseby, and which now fled over all the country to save themselves : and were as much dispersed as the greatest rout could produce.” The gallant Earl of Litchfield fell on this occasion, and others of note. (Clarendon's History of the Rebellion, Book ix). G,

A full year's griefe I struggled with, and stood
Still on my sandy hopes' uncertain good,
So loth was I to yeeld ; to all those fears
I still oppos'd thee, and denyed my tears.
But thou art gone! and the untimely losse
Like that one day, hath made all others crosse :
Have you seen on some river's flowrie brow
A well built elme, or stately cedar grow,
Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-ray
Becken'd the sun, and whisperd to the day,
When unexpected from the angry North
A fatall sullen whirle-wind sallies forth,
And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the

ground The shady twins, which rushing scatter round Their sighing leafes, whilst overborn with

strength Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length; So forc'd fell he; so immaturely Death Stitled his able heart and active breath. The world scarce knew him yet, his early soule Had but new-broke her day, anl rather stole A sight, than gave one ; as if subt’ly she Would learn our stock, but hide his treasurie. His years --should Time lay both his wings and

glasse Unto his charge-could not be summ’d-alas!

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To a full score; though in so short a span
His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man
Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick
Have quite outgrown their own arithmetick.
He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull
And mossie gray possess'd a solid skull ;
No crooked knowledge neither, nor did he
Wear the friend's name for ends and policie,
And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stage
Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age
And then retir'd; like jewels, in cach part
He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart.

Nor was it only in this he did excell,
His equal valour could as much, as well.
He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst
No injurie, nor-as some have-e'r pur'st
The sweat and tears of others, yet would be
More forward in a royall gallantrie
Than all those vast pretenders, which af late
Swell'd in the ruines of the king and State.
He weav'd not self-ends, aud the publick good
Into one piece, nor with the people's bloud
Fill’d his own veins; in all the doubtfull way
Conscience and honour rul'd him. O that day
When like the fathers in the fire and cloud
I mist thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd
Sce armes like thine, and men advance, but none

So neer to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
Have
you

observd how soon the nimble eye Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie Performance with the soul, that you

would swear The act and apprehension not lodg’d there; Just so mov'd he : like shott his active hand Drew bloud, e'r well the foe could understand : But here I lost him. Whether the last turn Of thy few sands call'd on thy hastie urn, Or some fierce rapid fate-hid from the eye.Hath hurl'd thee pris'ner to some distant skye I cannot tell, but that I doe believe Thy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve. What ever 'twas, whether that day thy breath Suffer'd a civill or the common death, Which I doe most suspect, and that I have Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave, Though thy lov'd ashes misse me, and mine eyes Had no acquaintance with thy exequies, Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight On the bold sheet have fix'd a sad delight, Yet whato'r pious hand-in stead of mineHath done this office to that dust of thine, And till thou rise again from thy low bed Lent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head, Though but a private turffe, it can do more To kcep thy name and memory in store

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