On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity
 
(1629)
 
 
I

THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, 
Wherein the Son of Heaven’s eternal King, 
Of wedded maid and Virgin Mother born, 
Our great redemption from above did bring; 
For so the holy sages once did sing,         5
  That he our deadly forfeit should release, 
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 
 
II

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, 
Wherewith he wont at Heaven’s high council-table         10
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
He laid aside, and, here with us to be, 
  Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day, 
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 
 
III

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein         15
Afford a present to the Infant God? 
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, 
To welcome him to this his new abode, 
Now while the heaven, by the Sun’s team untrod, 
  Hath took no print of the approaching light,         20
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? 
 
IV

See how from far upon the Eastern road 
The star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet! 
Oh! run; prevent them with thy humble ode, 
And lay it lowly at his blessèd feet;         25
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, 
  And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire, 
From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire. 
 
The Hymn
I

    It was the winter wild, 
    While the heaven-born child         30
  All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; 
    Nature, in awe to him, 
    Had doffed her gaudy trim, 
  With her great Master so to sympathize: 
It was no season then for her         35
To wanton with the Sun, her lusty Paramour. 
 
II

    Only with speeches fair 
    She woos the gentle air 
  To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, 
    And on her naked shame,         40
    Pollute with sinful blame, 
  The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; 
Confounded, that her Maker’s eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 
 
III

    But he, her fears to cease,         45
    Sent down the meek-eyed Peace: 
  She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding 
    Down through the turning sphere, 
    His ready Harbinger, 
  With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;         50
And, waving wide her myrtle wand, 
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 
 
IV

    No war, or battail’s sound, 
    Was heard the world around; 
  The idle spear and shield were high uphung;         55
    The hookèd chariot stood, 
    Unstained with hostile blood; 
  The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; 
And Kings sat still with awful eye, 
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.         60
 
V

    But peaceful was the night 
    Wherein the Prince of Light 
  His reign of peace upon the earth began. 
    The winds, with wonder whist, 
    Smoothly the waters kissed,         65
  Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 
 
VI

    The stars, with deep amaze, 
    Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,         70
  Bending one way their precious influence, 
    And will not take their flight, 
    For all the morning light, 
  Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,         75
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 
 
VII

    And, though the shady gloom 
    Had given day her room, 
  The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 
    And hid his head of shame,         80
    As his inferior flame 
  The new-enlightened world no more should need: 
He saw a greater Sun appear 
Than his bright Throne or burning axletree could bear. 
 
VIII

    The Shepherds on the lawn,         85
    Or ere the point of dawn, 
  Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; 
    Full little thought they than 
    That the mighty Pan 
  Was kindly come to live with them below:         90
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 
 
IX

    When such music sweet 
    Their hearts and ears did greet 
  As never was by mortal finger strook,         95
    Divinely-warbled voice 
    Answering the stringèd noise, 
  As all their souls in blissful rapture took: 
The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.         100
 
X

    Nature, that heard such sound 
    Beneath the hollow round 
  Of Cynthia’s seat the airy Region thrilling, 
    Now was almost won 
    To think her part was done,         105
  And that her reign had here its last fulfilling: 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. 
 
XI

    At last surrounds their sight 
    A globe of circular light,         110
  That with long beams the shamefaced Night arrayed; 
    The helmèd Cherubim 
    And sworded Seraphim 
  Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, 
Harping in loud and solemn quire,         115
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s newborn Heir. 
 
XII

    Such music (as ’tis said) 
    Before was never made, 
  But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, 
    While the Creator great         120
    His constellations set, 
  And the well-balanced World on hinges hung, 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. 
 
XIII

    Ring out, ye crystal spheres!         125
    Once bless our human ears, 
  If ye have power to touch our senses so; 
    And let your silver chime 
    Move in melodious time; 
  And let the bass of heaven’s deep organ blow;         130
And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort of the angelic symphony. 
 
XIV

    For, if such holy song 
    Enwrap our fancy long, 
  Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold;         135
    And speckled Vanity 
    Will sicken soon and die, 
  And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; 
And Hell itself will pass away, 
And leave her dolorous mansions of the peering day.         140
 
XV

    Yes, Truth and Justice then 
    Will down return to men, 
  The enamelled arras of the rainbow wearing; 
    And Mercy set between, 
    Throned in celestial sheen,         145
  With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; 
And Heaven, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. 
 
XVI

    But wisest Fate says No, 
    This must not yet be so;         150
  The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy 
    That on the bitter cross 
    Must redeem our loss, 
  So both himself and us to glorify: 
Yet first, to those chained in sleep,         155
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, 
 
XVII

    With such a horrid clang 
    As on Mount Sinai rang, 
  While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: 
    The aged Earth, aghast         160
    With terror of that blast, 
  Shall from the surface to the centre shake, 
When, at the world’s last sessiön, 
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. 
 
XVIII

    And then at last our bliss         165
    Full and perfect is, 
  But now begins; for from this happy day 
    The Old Dragon under ground, 
    In straiter limits bound, 
  Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway,         170
And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail, 
Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 
 
XIX

    The Oracles are dumb; 
    No voice or hideous hum 
  Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving.         175
    Apollo from his shrine 
    Can no more divine, 
  Will hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. 
No nightly trance, or breathèd spell, 
Inspires the pale-eyed Priest from the prophetic cell.         180
 
XX

    The lonely mountains o’er, 
    And the resounding shore, 
  A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; 
    Edgèd with poplar pale, 
    From haunted spring, and dale         185
  The parting Genius is with sighing sent; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 
 
XXI

    In consecrated earth, 
    And on the holy hearth,         190
  The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; 
    In urns, and altars round, 
    A drear and dying sound 
  Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat,         195
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. 
 
XXII

    Peor and Baälim 
    Forsake their temples dim, 
  With that twice-battered god of Palestine; 
    And moonèd Ashtaroth,         200
    Heaven’s Queen and Mother both, 
  Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine: 
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn; 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 
 
XXIII

    And sullen Moloch, fled,         205
    Hath left in shadows dread 
  His burning idol all of blackest hue; 
    In vain with cymbals’ ring 
    They call the grisly king, 
  In dismal dance about the furnace blue;         210
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 
 
XXIV

    Nor is Osiris seen 
    In Memphian grove or green, 
  Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;         215
    Nor can he be at rest 
    Within his sacred chest; 
  Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; 
In vain, with timbreled anthems dark, 
The sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.         220
 
XXV

    He feels from Juda’s land 
    The dreaded Infant’s hand; 
  The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; 
    Nor all the gods beside 
    Longer dare abide,         225
  Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: 
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, 
Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. 
 
XXVI

    So, when the Sun in bed, 
    Curtained with cloudy red,         230
  Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
    The flocking shadows pale 
    Troop to the infernal jail, 
  Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave, 
And the yellow-skirted Fays         235
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. 
 
XXVII

    But see! the Virgin blest 
    Hath laid her Babe to rest, 
  Time is our tedious song should here have ending: 
    Heaven’s youngest-teemèd star         240
    Hath fixed her polished car, 
  Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable. 

A Paraphrase on Psalm CXIV
 
(1624)
 
 
WHEN the blest seed of Terah’s faithful Son 
After long toil their liberty had won, 
And passed from Pharian fields to Canaanland, 
Led by the strength of the Almighty’s hand, 
Jehovah’s wonders were in Israel shown,         5
His praise and glory was in Israel known. 
That saw the troubled sea, and shivering fled, 
And sought to hide his froth-becurlèd head 
Low in the earth; Jordan’s clear streams recoil, 
As a faint host that hath received the foil.         10
The high huge-bellied mountains skip like rams 
Amongst their ewes, the little hills like lambs. 
Why fled the ocean? and why skipped the mountains? 
Why turnèd Jordan toward his crystal fountains? 
Shake, Earth, and at the presence be aghast         15
Of Him that ever was and aye shall last, 
That glassy floods from rugged rocks can crush, 
And make soft rills from fiery flint-stones gush.

 
Psalm CXXXVI
 
 
LET us with a gladsome mind 
Praise the Lord for he is kind; 
      For his mercies aye endure, 
      Ever faithful, ever sure. 
 
Let us blaze his Name abroad,         5
For of gods he is the God; 
      For his, &c. 
 
O let us his praises tell, 
That doth the wrathful tyrants quell; 
      For his, &c.         10
 
That with his miracles doth make 
Amazèd Heaven and Earth to shake; 
      For his, &c. 
 
That by his wisdom did create 
The painted heavens so full of state;         15
      For his, &c. 
 
That did the solid Earth ordain 
To rise above the watery plain; 
      For his, &c. 
 
That by his all-commanding might,         20
Did fill the new-made world with light; 
      For his, &c. 
 
And caused the golden-tressèd Sun 
All the day long his course to run; 
      For his, &c.         25
 
The hornèd Moon to shine by night 
Amongst her spangled sisters bright; 
      For his, &c. 
 
He, with his thunder-clasping hand, 
Smote the first-born of Egypt land;         30
      For his, &c. 
 
And, in despite of Pharao fell, 
He brought from thence his Israel; 
      For his, &c. 
 
The ruddy waves he cleft in twain         35
Of the Erythræan main; 
      For his, &c. 
 
The floods stood still, like walls of glass, 
While the Hebrew bands did pass; 
      For his, &c.         40
 
But full soon they did devour 
The tawny King with all his power; 
      For his, &c. 
 
His chosen people he did bless 
In the wasteful Wilderness;         45
      For his, &c. 
 
In bloody battail he brought down 
Kings of prowess and renown; 
      For his, &c. 
 
He foiled bold Seon and his host,         50
That ruled the Amorrean coast; 
      For his, &c. 
 
And large-limbed Og he did subdue, 
With all his over-hardy crew; 
      For his, &c.         55
 
And to his servant Israel 
He gave their land, therein to dwell; 
      For his, &c. 
 
He hath, with a piteous eye, 
Beheld us in our misery;         60
      For his, &c. 
 
And freed us from the slavery 
Of the invading enemy; 
      For his, &c. 
 
All living creatures he doth feed,         65
And with full hand supplies their need; 
      For his, &c. 
 
Let us, therefore, warble forth 
His mighty majesty and worth; 
      For his, &c.         70
 
That his mansion hath on high, 
Above the reach of mortal eye; 
      For his, &c.

 
On the Death of a Fair Infant Dying of a Cough
 
(1625–26)
 
 
I

O FAIREST Flower, no sooner blown but blasted, 
Soft silken Primrose fading timelessly, 
Summer’s chief honour, if thou hadst outlasted 
Bleak Winter’s force that made thy blossom dry; 
For he, being amorous on that lovely dye         5
  That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss 
But killed, alas! and then bewailed his fatal bliss. 
 
II

For since grim Aquilo, his charioter, 
By boisterous rape the Athenian damsel got, 
He thought it touched his Deity full near,         10
If likewise he some fair one wedded not, 
Thereby to wipe away the infámous blot 
  Of long uncoupled bed and childless eld, 
Which, ’mongst the wanton gods, a foul reproach was held. 
 
III

So, mounting up in icy-pearlèd car,         15
Through middle empire of the freezing air 
He wandered long, till thee he spied from far; 
There ended was his quest, there ceased his care; 
Down he descended from his snow-soft chair, 
  But, all un’wares, with his cold-kind embrace,         20
Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding-place. 
 
IV

Yet thou art not inglorious in thy fate; 
For so Apollo, with unweeting hand, 
Whilom did slay his dearly-lovèd mate, 
Young Hyacinth, born on Eurotas’ strand,         25
Young Hyacinth, the pride of Spartan land; 
  But then transformed him to a purple flower: 
Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power! 
 
V

Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, 
Or that thy corse corrupts in earth’s dark womb,         30
Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed 
Hid from the world in a low-delvèd tomb; 
Could Heaven, for pity, thee so strictly doom? 
  Oh no! for something in thy face did shine 
Above mortality, that showed thou wast divine.         35
 
VI

Resolve me, then, O Soul most surely blest 
(If so be it that thou these plaints dost hear) 
Tell me, bright Spirit, where’er thou hoverest, 
Whether above that high first-moving sphere, 
Or in the Elysian fields (if such there were),         40
  Oh, say me true if thou wert mortal wight, 
And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight. 
 
VII

Wert thou some Star, which from the ruined roof 
Of shaked Olympus by mischance didst fall; 
Which careful Jove in nature’s true behoof         45
Took up, and in fit place did reinstall? 
Or did of late Earth’s sons besiege the wall 
  Of sheeny Heaven, and thou some Goddess fled 
Amongst us here below to hide thy nectared head? 
 
VIII

Or wert thou that just Maid who once before         50
Forsook the hated earth, oh! tell me sooth, 
And camest again to visit us once more? 
Or wert thou [Mercy], that sweet smiling Youth? 
Or that crowned Matron, sage white-robèd Truth? 
  Or any other of that heavenly brood         55
Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some good? 
 
IX

Or wert thou of the golden-wingèd host, 
Who, having clad thyself in human weed, 
To earth from thy prefixèd seat didst post, 
And after short abode fly back with speed,         60
As if to shew what creatures Heaven doth breed; 
  Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire 
To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heaven aspire? 
 
X

But oh! why didst thou not stay here below 
To bless us with thy heaven-loved innocence,         65
To slake 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 deservèd smart? 
But thou canst best perform that office where thou art.         70
 
XI

Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child, 
Her false-imagined loss cease to lament, 
And wisely learn to curb thy sorrows wild; 
Think what a present thou to God hast sent, 
And render him with patience what he lent:         75
  This if thou do, he will an offspring give 
That till the world’s last end shall make thy name to live.
 

At a Vacation Exercise in the College, Part Latin, Part English
 
(1628)
 
 
The Latin speeches ended, the English thus began:—

HAIL, Native Language, that by sinews weak, 
Didst move my first-endeavouring tongue to speak, 
And madest imperfect words, with childish trips, 
Half unpronounced, slide through my infant lips, 
Driving dumb Silence from the portal door,         5
Where he had mutely sat two years before: 
Here I salute thee, and thy pardon ask, 
That now I use thee in my latter task: 
Small loss it is that thence can come unto thee, 
I know my tongue but little grace can do thee.         10
Thou need’st not be ambitious to be first, 
Believe me, I have thither packed the worst: 
And, if it happen as I did forecast, 
The daintiest dishes shall be served up last. 
I pray thee then deny me not thy aid,         15
For this same small neglect that I have made; 
But haste thee straight to do me once a pleasure, 
and from thy wardrobe bring thy chieftest treasure; 
Not those new-fangled toys, and trimming slight 
Which takes our late fantastics with delight;         20
But cull those richest robes and gayest attire, 
Which deepest spirits and choicest wits desire. 
I have some naked thoughts that rove about, 
And loudly knock to have their passage out, 
And, weary of their place, do only stay         25
Till thou hast decked them in thy best array; 
That so they may, without suspect or fears, 
Fly swiftly to this fair Assembly’s ears. 
Yet I had rather, if I were to choose, 
Thy service in some graver subject use,         30
Such as may make thee search thy coffers round, 
Before thou clothe my fancy in fit sound: 
Such where the deep transported mind may soar 
Above the wheeling poles, and at Heaven’s door 
Look in, and see each blissful Deity         35
How he before the thunderous throne doth lie, 
Listening to what unshorn Apollo sings 
To the touch of golden wires, while Hebe brings 
Immortal nectar to her kingly Sire; 
Then, passing through the spheres of watchful fire,         40
And misty regions of wide air next under, 
And hills of snow and lofts of piled thunder, 
May tell at length how green-eyed Neptune raves, 
In heaven’s defiance mustering all his waves; 
Then sing of secret things that came to pass         45
When beldam Nature in her cradle was; 
And last of Kings and Queens and Heroes old, 
Such as the wise Demodocus once told 
In solemn songs at King Alcinoüs’ feast, 
While sad Ulysses’ soul and all the rest         50
Are held, with his melodious harmony, 
In willing chains and sweet captivity. 
But fie, my wandering Muse, how thou dost stray! 
Expectance calls thee now another way. 
Thou know’st it must be now thy only bent         55
To keep in compass of thy Predicament. 
Then quick about thy purposed business come, 
That to the next I may resign my room. 
 
Then ENS is represented as Father of the Predicaments, his ten Sons; whereof the eldest stood for SUBSTANCE with his Canons; which ENS, thus speaking, explains:—

Good luck befriend thee, son; for at thy birth 
The faery Ladies danced upon the hearth.         60
The drowsy Nurse hath sworn she did them spy 
Come tripping to the room where thou didst lie, 
And, sweetly singing round about thy bed, 
Strew all their blessings on thy sleeping head. 
She heard them give thee this, that thou shouldst still         65
From eyes of mortals walk invisible. 
Yet there is something that doth force my fear; 
For once it was my dismal hap to hear 
A Sibyl old, bow-bent with crooked age, 
That far events full wisely could presage,         70
And, in Time’s long and dark prospective-glass, 
Foresaw that future days should bring to pass. 
“Your Son,” said she, “(nor can you it prevent,) 
Shall subject be to many an Accident. 
O’er all his Brethren he shall reign as King;         75
Yet every one shall make him underling, 
And those that cannot live from him asunder 
Ungratefully shall strive to keep him under. 
In worth and excellence he shall outgo them; 
Yet, being above them, he shall be below them.         80
From others he shall stand in need of nothing, 
Yet on his Brothers shall depend for clothing. 
To find a foe it shall not be his hap, 
And peace shall lull him in her flowery lap; 
Yet shall he live in strife, and at his door         85
Devouring war shall never cease to roar; 
Yea, it shall be his natural property 
To harbour those that are at enmity.” 
What power, what force, what mighty spell, if not 
Your learned hands, can loose this Gordian knot?         90
 
The next, QUANTITY and QUALITY, spake in prose: then RELATION was called by his name.

Rivers, arise: whether thou be the son 
Of utmost Tweed, or Ouse, or gulfy Dun, 
Or Trent, who, like some earth-born Giant, spreads 
His thirty arms along the indented meads, 
Or sullen Mole, that runneth underneath,         95
Or Sevren swift, guilty of maiden’s death, 
Or rocky Avon, or of sedgy Lea, 
Or coaly Tyne, or ancient hallowed Dee, 
Or Humber loud, that keeps the Scythian’s name, 
Or Medway smooth, or royal-towered Thame.

The rest was prose.         100
 

The Passion
 
(1620)
 
 
I

EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, 
Wherewith the stage of Air and Earth did ring, 
And joyous news of heavenly Infant’s birth, 
My muse with Angels did divide to sing; 
But headlong joy is ever on the wing,         5
  In wintry solstice like the shortened light 
Soon swallowed up in dark and long outliving night. 
 
II

For now to sorrow must I tune my song, 
And set my Harp to notes of saddest woe, 
Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,         10
Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, 
Which he for us did freely undergo: 
  Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight 
Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! 
 
III

He, sovran Priest, stooping his regal head,         15
That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes, 
Poor fleshly Tabernacle enterèd, 
His starry front low-roofed beneath the skies: 
Oh, what a mask was there, what a disguise! 
  Yet more: the stroke of death he must abide;         20
Then lies him meekly down fast by his Brethren’s side. 
 
IV

These latest scenes confine my roving verse; 
To this horizon is my Phœbus bound. 
His godlike acts, and his temptations fierce, 
And former sufferings, otherwhere are found;         25
Loud o’er the rest Cremona’s trump doth sound: 
  Me softer airs befit, and softer strings 
Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. 
 
V

Befriend me, Night, best Patroness of grief! 
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,         30
And work my flattered fancy to belief 
That Heaven and Earth are coloured with my woe; 
My sorrows are too dark for day to know: 
  The leaves should all be black whereon I write, 
And letters, where my tears have washed, a wannish white.         35
 
VI

See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, 
That whirled the prophet up at Chebar flood; 
My spirit some transporting Cherub feels 
To bear me where the Towers of Salem stood, 
Once glorious towers, now sunk in guiltless blood.         40
  There doth my soul in holy vision sit, 
In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. 
 
VII

Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock 
That was the casket of Heaven’s richest store, 
And here, though grief my feeble hands up-lock,         45
Yet on the softened quarry would I score 
My plaining verse as lively as before; 
  For sure so well instructed are my tears 
That they would fitly fall in ordered characters. 
 
VIII

Or, should I thence, hurried on viewless wing,         50
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild, 
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring 
Would soon unbosom all their Echoes mild; 
And I (for grief is easily beguiled) 
  Might think the infection of my sorrows loud         55
Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud

On Shakespeare
 
(1630)
 
 
WHAT needs my Shakespeare, for his honoured bones, 
The labour of an age in pilèd stones? 
Or that his hollowed relics should be hid 
Under a stary-pointing pyramid? 
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,         5
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name? 
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, 
Hast built thyself a livelong monument. 
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, 
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart         10
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took; 
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, 
Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving; 
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,         15
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

 
On the University Carrier
 
(1631)
 
 
Who sickened in the time of his Vacancy, being forbid to go to London by reason of the Plague.


HERE lies old Hobson. Death hath broke his girt, 
And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt; 
Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one 
He’s here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. 
’T was such a shifter that, if truth were known,         5
Death was half glad when he had got him down; 
For he had any time this ten years full 
Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and The Bull. 
And surely Death could never have prevailed, 
Had not his weekly course of carriage failed;         10
But lately, finding him so long at home, 
And thinking now his journey’s end was come, 
And that he had ta’en up his latest Inn, 
In the kind office of a Chamberlin 
Showed him his room where he must lodge that night,         15
Pulled off his boots, and took away the light. 
If any ask for him, it shall be said, 
“Hobson has supped, and ’s newly gone to bed.”

Another on the Same
 
 
HERE lieth one who did most truly prove 
That he could never die while he could move; 
So hung his destiny, never to rot 
While he might still jog on and keep his trot; 
Made of sphere-metal, never to decay         5
Until his revolution was at stay. 
Time numbers Motion, yet (without a crime 
’Gainst old truth) Motion numbered out his time; 
And, like an engine moved with wheel and weight, 
His principles being ceased, he ended straight.         10
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, 
And too much breathing put him out of breath; 
Nor were it contradiction to affirm 
Too long vacation hastened on his term. 
Merely to drive the time away he sickened,         15
Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quickened. 
“Nay,” quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretched, 
“If I may n’t carry, sure I ’ll ne’er be fetched, 
But vow, though the cross Doctors all stood hearers, 
For one carrier put down to make six bearers.”         20
Ease was his chief disease; and, to judge right, 
He died for heaviness that his cart went light. 
His leisure told him that his time was come, 
And lack of load made his life burdensome, 
That even to his last breath (there be that say ’t),         25
As he were pressed to death, he cried, “More weight!” 
But, had his doings lasted as they were, 
He had been an immortal Carrier. 
Obedient to the moon he spent his date 
In course reciprocal, and had his fate         30
Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas; 
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase. 
His letters are delivered all and gone; 
Only remains this superscription. 
 

An Epitaph on the marchioness of Winchester
 
 
THIS rich marble doth inter 
The honoured wife of Winchester, 
A viscount’s daughter, an earl’s heir, 
Besides what her virtues fair 
Added to her noble birth,         5
More than she could own from earth. 
Summers three times eight save one 
She had told; alas! too soon, 
After so short time of breath, 
To house with darkness and with death!         10
Yet, had the number of her days 
Been as complete as was her praise, 
Nature and Fate had had no strife 
In giving limit to her life. 
Her high birth and her graces sweet         15
Quickly found a lover meet; 
The virgin quire for her request 
The god that sits at marriage-feast; 
He at their invoking came, 
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;         20
And in his garland, as he stood, 
Ye might discern a cypress-bud. 
Once had the early Matrons run 
To greet her of a lovely son, 
And now with second hope she goes,         25
And calls Lucina to her throes; 
But, whether by mischance or blame, 
Atropos for Lucina came, 
And with remorseless cruelty 
Spoiled at once both fruit and tree.         30
The hapless babe before his birth 
Had burial, yet not laid in earth; 
And the languished mother’s womb 
Was not long a living tomb. 
So have I seen some tender slip,         35
Saved with care from Winter’s nip, 
The pride of her carnation train, 
Plucked up by some unheedy swain, 
Who only thought to crop the flower 
New shot up from vernal shower;         40
But the fair blossom hangs the head 
Sideways, as on a dying bed, 
And those pearls of dew she wears 
Prove to be presaging tears 
Which the sad morn had let fall         45
On her hastening funeral. 
Gentle Lady, may thy grave 
Peace and quiet ever have! 
After this thy travail sore, 
Sweet rest seize thee evermore,         50
That, to give the world encrease, 
Shortened hast thy own life’s lease! 
Here, besides the sorrowing 
That thy noble House doth bring, 
Here be tears of perfect moan         55
Wept for thee in Helicon; 
And some flowers and some bays 
For thy hearse, to strew the ways, 
Sent thee from the banks of Came, 
Devoted to thy virtuous name;         60
Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitt’st in glory, 
Next her, much like to thee in story, 
That fair Syrian Shepherdess, 
Who, after years of barrenness, 
The highly-favoured Joseph bore         65
To him that served for her before, 
And at her next birth, much like thee, 
Through pangs fled to felicity, 
Far within the bosom bright 
Of blazing Majesty and Light:         70
There with thee, new-welcome Saint, 
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint, 
With thee there clad in radiant sheen, 
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.