When man's too much religion made the best
Or deities, or semi-gods at least!
But we, forbidden this by piety,
Or, if we were not, by your modesty,
Will make our hearts an altar, and there pray
Not to, but for, you; nor that England may
Enjoy your equal, when you once are gone,
But, what's more possible, to' enjoy you long.
TO HIS VERY MUCH HONOURED
GODFATHER, MR. A. B.
I LOVE (for that upon the wings of Fame [name,
Shall perhaps mock Death or Time's darts) my
I love it more, because 'twas given by you;
I love it most, because 'twas your name too;
For if I chance to slip, a conscious shame
Plucks me, and bids me not defile your name.
I'm glad that city, to' whom I owed before
(But, ah me! Fate hath cross'd that willing score)
A father, gave me a godfather too;
And I'm more glad, because it gave me you;
Whom I may rightly think, and term, to be
Of the whole city an epitome.
I thank my careful Fate, which found out one
(When Nature had not licensed my tongue
Farther than cries) who should my office do;
I thank her more, because she found out you:
In whose each look I may a sentence see;
In whose each deed, a teaching homily.
How shall I pay this debt to you? My fate
Denies me Indian pearl or Persian plate;
Which though it did not, to requite you thus,
Were to send apples to Alcinous,
And sell the cunning'st way.-No! when I can,
In every leaf, in every verse, write man;
When my quill relisheth a school no more;
When my pen-feather'd Muse hath learn'd to soar,
And gotten wings as well as feet; look then
For equal thanks from
my unwearied pen:
Till future ages say, 'twas you did give
A name to me, and I made yours to live.
DEATH OF JOHN LITTLETON, ESQUIRE,
SON AND HEIR TO SIR THOMAS LITTLETON,
Who was drowned leaping into the Water to save his younger
AND must these waters smile again, and play
About the shore, as they did yesterday?
Will the Sun court them still? and shall they show
No conscious wrinkle furrow'd on their brow,
That to the thirsty traveller may say,
I am accursed; go turn some other way?"
It is unjust: black Flood! thy guilt is more,
Sprung from his loss, than all thy watery store
Can give thee tears to mourn for: birds shall be,
And beasts, henceforth afraid to drink of thee.
What have I said? my pious rage hath been Too hot, and acts, whilst it accuseth, sin. Thou'rt innocent, I know, still clear and bright, Fit whence so pure a soul should take its flight.
angry zeal confined! for he Must quarrel with his love and piety,
That would revenge his death. Oh, I shall sin,
And wish anon he had less virtuous been.
For when his brother (tears for him I'd spill,
But they're all challenged by the greater ill)
Struggled for life with the rude waves, he too
Leap'd in, and when hope no faint beam could shew,
His charity shone most: "Thou shalt," said he,
"Live with me, brother, or I'll die with thee;"
And so he did! Had he been thine, O Rome!
Thou wouldst have call'd this death a martyrdom,
And sainted him. My conscience give me leave,
I'll do so too: if Fate will us bereave
Of him we honour'd living, there must be
A kind of reverence to his memory,
After his death; and where more just than here,
Where life and end were both so singular?
He that had only talk'd with him, might find
A little academy in his mind;
Where Wisdom master was, and fellows all
Which we can good, which we can virtuous, call:
Reason, and Holy Fear, the proctors were,
To apprehend those words, those thoughts, that err.
His learning had out-run the rest of heirs,
Stolen beard from Time, and leap'd to twenty years.
And, as the Sun, though in full glory bright,
Shines upon all men with impartial light,
And a good-morrow to the beggar brings
With as full rays as to the mightiest kings:
So he, although his worth just state might claim,
And give to pride an honourable name,
With courtesy to all, cloth'd virtue so,
That 'twas not higher than his thoughts were low.
In's body too no critique eye could find
The smallest blemish, to belie his mind;
He was all pureness, and his outward part
But represents the picture of his heart.
When waters swallow'd mankind, and did cheat
The hungry worm of its expected meat;
When gems, pluck'd from the shore by ruder hands,
Return'd again unto their native sands;
'Mongst all those spoils, there was not any prey
Could equal what this brook hath stolen away.
Weep then, sad Flood; and, though thou'rt inno-
cent,
Weep because Fate made thee her instrument:
And, when long grief hath drunk up all thy store,
Come to our eyes, and we will lend thee more.
WRITTEN IN LATIN BY THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL DR. A.
ONCE thou rejoiced'st, and rejoice for ever,
Whose time of joy shall be expired never:
Who in her womb the hive of comfort bears,
Let her drink comfort's honey with her ears.
You brought the word of joy, in which was born
An hail to all! let us an hail return!
From you "God save" into the world there came;
Our echo hail is but an empty name.
How loaded hives are with their honey fill'd,
From divers flowers by chymic bees distill'd!
How full the collet with his jewel is,
Which, that it cannot take by love, doth kiss:
How full the Moon is with her brother's ray,
When she drinks-up with thirsty orb the day!
How full of grace the Graces' dances are!
So full doth Mary of God's light appear.
It is no wonder if with Graces she
Be full, who was full of the Deity.
THE fall of mankind under Death's extent
The quire of blessed angels did lament,
And wish'd a reparation to see
By him, who manhood join'd with deity.
How grateful should man's safety then appear
To' himself, whose safety can the angels cheer!
BENEDICTA TU IN MULIERIBUS.
DEATH came, and troops of sad Diseases led
To the' Earth, by woman's hand solicited:
Life came so too, and troops of Graces led
To the' Earth, by woman's faith solicited.
As our life's springs came from thy blessed womb,
So from our mouth springs of thy praise shall come:
Who did life's blessing give, 'tis fit that she,
Above all women, should thrice blessed be.
ET BENEDICTUS FRUCTUS VENTRIS TUI.
WITH mouth divine the Father doth protest,
He a good word sent from his stored breast;
"Twas Christ: which Mary, without carnal thought,
From the unfathom'd depth of goodness brought:
The word of blessing a just cause affords
To be oft blessed with redoubled words!
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