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UPON BISHOP ANDREWS'S PICTURE

BEFORE HIS SERMONS.

HIS reverend shadow cast that setting sun,
Whose glorious course through our horizon

run,

Left the dim face of this dull hemisphere,
All one great eye, all drown'd in one great tear !
Whose fair illustrious soul led his free thought
Through learning's universe, and, vainly, sought
Room for her spacious self, until at length
She found the way home; and, with holy strength,
Snatch'd herself hence to heaven: fill'd a bright place,
’Mongst those immortal fires, and on the face
Of her great Maker fix'd her flaming eye,
There still to read true pure divinity.
And now that grave aspect hath deign’d to shrink
Into this less
appearance,

if
you

think 'Tis but a dead face art doth here bequeath, Look on the following leaves, and see them breathe.

a

OUT OF MARTIAL.

OUR teeth thou had'st, that ranked in goodly state,

Kept thy mouth's gate.

The first blast of thy cough left two alone ;

The second none.

This last cough, Ælia, cough'd out all thy fear-
Th' hast left the third cough now no business here.

A SONG.

OUT OF THE ITALIAN.

O thy lover,
Dear,

discover
That sweet blush of thine, that shameth,
When the roses

It discloses,
All the flowers that nature nameth !

In free air,

Flow thy hair;
That no more summer's best dresses

Be beholden,

For their golden
Locks, to Phoebus' flaming tresses.

0, deliver

Love his quiver;
From thy eyes he shoots his arrow,

Where Apollo

Cannot follow,
Feather’d with his mother's sparrows !

O, envy not,

That we die not,
Those dear lips, whose door encloses

All the Graces

In their places,
Brother pearls, and sister roses !

From these treasures

Of ripe pleasures, One bright smile to clear the weather :

Earth and heaven,

Thus made even,
Both will be good friends together.

The air does woo thee,

Winds cling to thee; Might a word once fly from out thee,

Storms and thunder

Would sit under,
And keep silence round about thee !

But if Nature's

Common creatures
So dear glories dare not borrow;

Yet thy beauty

Owes a duty
To my loving, ling’ring sorrow!

When, to end me,

Death shall send me
All his terrors, to affright me ;

Thine eyes' graces

Gild their faces,
And those terrors shall delight me!

When my dying
Life is flying,

Those sweet airs, that often slew me,

Shall revive me,

Or reprieve me,

And to many deaths renew me!

OUT OF THE ITALIAN.

OVE now no fire hath left him, We two betwixt us have divided it ; Your eyes the light hath reft him; The heart commanding in my heart doth sit: O, that poor love be not for ever spoil'd, Let my heat to your light be reconciled!

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So shall these flames, whose worth
Now all obscurèd lies,
Dress'd in those beams start forth,
And dance before your eyes.

Or else partake my flames,
I care not whether,
And so in mutual names,
O love, burn both together!

OUT OF THE ITALIAN.

OULD any one the true cause find

How love came naked, a boy, and blind?

'Tis this: list’ning one day too long
To th' Syrens in my mistress' song, ,
The ecstasy of a delight
So much o'ermast'ring all his might,
To that one sense made all else thrall ;
And so he lost his clothes, eyes, heart, and all !

ON THE FRONTISPIECE OF ISAACSON'S

CHRONOLOGY EXPLAINED.

F with distinctive

eye
and mind

you

look Upon the front, you see more than one book.

Creation is God's book, wherein He writ Each creature as a letter filling it. History is creation's book; which shows To what effects the series of it goes. Chronology's the book of history, and bears The just account of days, of months, and years. But resurrection, in a later press And new edition, is the sum of these : The language of these books had all been one Had not th’aspiring tow'r of Babylon Confused the tongues, and in a distance hurld As far the speech, as men, o'th' new-filld world.

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