When that rich Soule which to her heaven is gone, Whom all do celebrate, why know they have one, (For who is sure he hath a Soule, unlesse It see, and judge, and follow worthinesse, And by deeds praise it? hee who doth not this, May lodge an inmate soule, but 'tis not his.) When that Queene ended here her progresse time, And, as t'her standing house to heaven did climbe, Where loath to make the Saints attend her long, She's now a part both of the Quire, and Song, This World, in that great earthquake languished; For in a common bath of teares it bled, Which drew the strongest vitall spirits out: But succour'd then with a perplexed doubt, Whether the wor6d did lose, or gaine in this, (Because since now no other way there is, But goodnesse, to see her, whom all would see, All must endeavour to be good as shee,) This great consumption to a fever turn'd, And so the world had fits; it joy'd, it mourn'd; And, as men thinke, that Agues physick are, And th'Ague being spent, give over care, So thou sicke World, mistak'st thy selfe to bee Well, when alas, thou'rt in a Lethargie. Her death did wound and tame thee then, and than Thou might'st have better spar'd the Sunne, or Man. That wound was deep, but 'tis more misery, That thou hast lost thy sense and memory. 'Twas heavy then to heare thy voyce of mone, But this is worse, that thou art speechlesse growne. Thou hast forgot thy name, thou hadst; thou wast Nothing but shee, and her thou hast o'rpast. For as a child kept from the Font, untill A prince, expected long, come to fulfill The ceremonies, thou unnam'd had'st laid, Had not her comming, thee her palace made: Her name defin'd thee, gave thee forme, and frame, And thou forgett'st to celebrate thy name. Some moneths she hath beene dead (but being dead, Measures of times are all determined) But long she'ath beene away, long, long, yet none Offers to tell us who it is that's gone. But as in states doubtfull of future heires, When sicknesse without remedie empaires The present Prince, they're loth it should be said, The Prince doth languish, or the Prince is dead: So mankinde feeling now a generall thaw, A strong example gone, equall to law, The Cyment which did faithfully compact, And glue all vertues, now resolv'd, and slack'd, Thought it some blasphemy to say sh'was dead, Or that our weaknesse was discovered In that confession; therefore spoke no more Then tongues, the Soule being gone, the losse deplore. But though it be too late to succor thee, Sicke World, yea, dead, yea putrified, since shee Thy'intrinsique balme, and thy preservative, Can never be renew'd, thou never live, I (since no man can make thee live) will try, What wee may gaine by thy Anatomy. Her death hath taught us dearely, that thou art Corrupt and mortall in thy purest part. Let no man say, the world it selfe being dead, 'Tis labour lost to have discovered The worlds infirmities, since there is none Alive to study this dissection; For there's a kinde of World remaining still, Though shee which did inanimate and fill The world, be gone, ye in this last long night, Her Ghost doth walke; that is, a glimmering light, A faint weake love of vertue, and of good, Reflects from her, on them which understood Her worth; and though she have shut in all day, The twilight of her memory doth stay; Which, from the carcasse of the old world, free, Creates a new world, and new creatures bee Produc'd: the matter and the stuffe of this, Her vertue, and the forme our practice is: And though to be thus elemented, arme These creatures, from home-borne intrinsique harme, (For all assum'd unto this dignitie, So many weedlesse Paradises bee, Which of themselves produce no venemous sinne, Except some forraine Serpent bring it in) Yet, because outward stormes the strongest breake, And strength it selfe by confidence growes weake, This new world may be safer, being told The dangers and diseases of the old: For with due temper men doe then forgoe, Or covet things, when they their true worth know. There is no health; Physitians say that wee, At best, enjoy but a neutralitie. And can there be worse sicknesse, then to know That we are never well, nor can be so? Wee are borne ruinous: poor mothers cry, That children come not right, nor orderly; Except they headlong come and fall upon An ominous precipitation. How witty's ruine, how importunate Upon mankinde? it labour'd to frustrate Even Gods purpose; and made woman, sent For mans reliefe, cause of his languishment. They were to good ends, and they are so still, But accessory, and principall in ill; For that first marriage was our funerall: One woman at one blow, then kill'd us all, And singly, one by one, they kill us now. We doe delightfully our selves allow To that consumption; and profusely blinde, Wee kill our selves to propagate our kinde. And yet we do not that; we are not men: There is not now that mankinde, which was then, When as, the Sunne and man did seeme to strive, (Joynt tenants of the world) who should survive; When Stagge, and Raven, and the long-liv'd tree, Compar'd with man, dy'd in minoritie; When, if a slow pac'd starre had stolne away From the observers marking, he might stay Two or three hundred years to see't againe, And then make up his observation plaine; When, as the age was long, the sise was great; Mans growth confess'd, and recompenc'd the meat; So spacious and large, that every Soule Did a faire Kingdome, and large Realme controule: And when the very statue, thus erect, Did that soule a good way towards heaven direct. Where is this mankinde now? who live to age, Fit to be made @Methusalem@ his page? Alas, we scarce live long enough to try Whether a true made clocke run right, or lie. Old Gransires talke of yesterday with sorrow; And for our children wee reserve to morrow. So short is life, that every pesant strives, In a torne house, or field, to have three lives. And as in lasting, so in length is man Contracted to an inch, who was a spanne; For had a man at first in forrests stray'd, Or shipwrack'd in the Sea, one would have laid A wager, that an Elephant, or Whale, That met him, would not hastily assaile A thing so equall to him: now alas, The Fairies, and the Pigmies well may passe As credible; mankinde decayes so soone, We'are scarce our Fathers shadowes cast at noone: Onely death addes t'our length: nor are wee growne In stature to be men, till we are none. But this were light, did our lesse volume hold All the old Text; or had wee chang'd to gold Their silver; or dispos'd into lesse glasse Spirits of vertue, which then scatter'd was. But 'tis not so: w'are not retir'd, but dampt; And as our bodies, so our mindes are crampt: 'Tis shrinking, not close weaving that hath thus, In minde, and body both bedwarfed us. Wee seeme ambitious, Gods whole worke t'undoe; Of nothing hee made us, and we strive too, To bring our selves to nothing backe; and wee Doe what wee can, to do't so soone as hee. With new diseases on our selves we warre, And with new Physicke, a worse Engin farre, Thus man, this worlds Vice-Emperour, in whom All faculties, all graces are at home; And if in other creatures they appeare, They're but mans Ministers, and Legats there, To worke on their rebellions, and reduce Them to Civility, and to mans use, This man, whom God did wooe, and loth t'atend Till man came up, did downe to man descend, This man, so great, that all that is, is his, Oh what a trifle, and poore thing he is! If man were any thing; he's nothing now: Helpe, or at least some time to wast, allow T'his other wants, yet when he did depart With her whom we lament, hee lost his heart. She, of whom th'Ancients seem'd to prophesie, When they call'd vertues by the name of @shee@; Shee in whom vertue was so much refin'd, That for Allay unto so pure a minde Shee tooke the weaker Sex; shee that could drive The poysonous tincture, and the staine of @Eve@, Out of her thoughts, and deeds; and purifie All, by a true religious Alchymie; Shee, shee is dead; shee's dead: when thou knowest this, Thou knowest how poore a trifling thing man is. And learn'st thus much by our Anatomie, The heart being perish'd, no part can be free. And that except thou feed (not banquet) on The supernaturall food, Religion, Thy better Growth growes withered, and scant; Be more then man, or thou'rt lesse then an Ant. Then, as mankinde, so is the worlds whole frame Quite out of joynt, almost created lame; For, before God had made up all the rest, Corruption entred, and deprav'd the best: It seis'd the Angels, and then first of all The world did in her cradle take a fall, And turn'd her braines, and tooke a generall maime, Wronging each joynt of th'universall frame. The noblest part, man, felt it first; and then Both beasts and plants, curst in the curse of man. So did the world from the first houre decay, That evening was beginning of the day, And now the Springs and Sommers which we see, Like sonnes of women after fiftie bee. And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, The Element of fire is quite put out; The Sun is lost, and th'earth, and no mans wit Can well direct him where to looke for it. And freely men confesse that this world's spent, When in the Planets, and the Firmament They seeke so many new; then see that this Is crumbled out againe to his Atomies. 'Tis all in peeces, all cohaerence gone; All just supply, and all Relation: Prince, Subject, Father, Sonne, are things forgot, For every man alone thinkes he hath got To be a Phoenix, and that then can bee None of that kinde, of which he is, but hee. This is the worlds condition now, and now She that should all arts to reunion bow, She that had all Magnetique force alone, To draw, and fasten sundred parts in one; She whom wise nature had invented then When she observ'd that every sort of men Did in their voyage in this worlds Sea stray, And needed a new compasse for their way; She that was best, and first originall Of all faire copies, and the generall Steward to Fate; she whose rich eyes, and breast Guilt the West Indies, and perfum'd the East; Whose having breath'd in this world, did bestow Spice on those Iles, and bad them still smell so, And that rich Indie which doth gold interre, Is but as single money, coyn'd from her: She to whom this world must it selfe refer, As Suburbs, or the Microcosme of her, Shee, shee is dead; shee's dead: when thou knowest this And learn'st thus much of our Anatomy. That this worlds generall sicknesse doth not lie In any humour, or one certain part; But as thou sawest it rotten at the heart, Thou seest a Hectique feaver hath got hold Of the whole substance, not to be contrould, And that thou hast but one way, not t'admit The worlds infection, to be none of it. For the worlds beauty is decai'd, or gone, Beauty, that's colour, and proportion. We thinke the heavens enjoy their Sphericall, Their round proportion embracing all. But yet their various and perplexed course, Observ'd in divers ages, doth enforce Men to finde out so many Eccentrique parts, Such divers downe-right lines, such overthwarts, As disproportion that pure forme: It teares The Firmament in eight and forty sheires, And in these Constellations then arise New starres, and old doe vanish from our eyes: As though heav'n suffered earthquakes, peace or war. When new Towers rise, and old demolish'd are. They have impal'd within a Zodiake The free-borne Sun, and keepe twelve Signes awake To watch his steps; the Goat and Crab controule, And fright him backe, who else to either Pole (Did not these Tropiques fetter him) might runne: For his course is not round; nor can the Sunne Perfit a Circle, or maintaine his way One inch direct; but where he rose today He comes no more, but with a couzening line, Steales by that point, and so in Serpentine: And seeming weary with his reeling thus, He meanes to sleepe, being now falne nearer us. So, of the Starres which boast that they doe runne In Circle still, none ends where he begun. All their proportion's lame, it sinkes, it swels. For of Meridians, and Parallels, Man hath weav'd a net, and this net throwne Upon the Heavens, and now they are his owne. Loth to goe up the hill, or labour thus To goe to heaven, we make heaven come to us. We spur, we reine the starres, and in their race They're diversely content t'obey our pace. But keepes the earth her round proportion still? Doth not a Tenarif, or higher Hill Rise so high like a Rocke, that one might thinke The floating Moone would shipwrack there, and sinke? Seas are so deepe, that Whales being strooke to day, Perchance to morrow, scarse at middle way Of their wish'd journies end, the bottome, die. And men, to sound depths, so much line untie, As one might justly thinke, that there would rise At end thereof, one of th'Antipodies: If under all, a Vault infernall bee, (Which sure is spacious, except that we Invent another torment, that there must Millions into a straight hot roome be thrust) Then solidnesse, and roundnesse have no place. Are these but warts, and pock-holes in the face Of th'earth? Thinke so: but yet confesse, in this The worlds proportion disfigured is; That those two legges whereon it doth rely, Reward and punishment are bent awry. And, Oh, it can no more be questioned, That beauties best, proportion, is dead, Since even griefe it selfe, which now alone Is left us, is without proportion. Shee by whose lines proportion should bee Examin'd, measure of all Symmetree, Whom had that Ancient seen, who thought soules made Of Harmony, he would at next have said That Harmony was shee, and thence infer, That soules were but Resultances from her, And did from her into our bodies goe, As to our eyes, the formes from objects flow: Shee, who if those great Doctors truly said That the Arke to mans proportions was made, Had been a type for that, as that might be A type of her in this, that contrary Both Elements, and Passions liv'd at peace In her, who caus'd all Civill war to cease. Shee, after whom, what forme soe'r we see, Is discord, and rude incongruitie; Shee, shee is dead; shee's dead; when thou knowst this, Thou knowst how ugly a monster this world is: And learn'st thus much by our Anatomie, That here is nothing to enamour thee: And that, not only faults in inward parts, Corruptions in our braines, or in our hearts, Poysoning the fountaines, whence our actions spring, Endanger us: but that if every thing Be not done fitly'and in proportion, To satisfie wise, and good lookers on, (Since most men be such as most thinke they bee) They're lothsome to, by this deformitee. For good, and well, must in our actions meete; Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet. But beauties other second Element, Colour, and lustre now, is as neere spent. And had the world his just proportion, Were it a ring still, yet the stone is gone. As a compassionate Turcoyse which doth tell By looking pale, the wearer is not well, As gold falls sicke being stung with Mercury, All the worlds parts of such complexion bee. When nature was most busie, the first weeke, Swadling the new borne earth, God seem'd to like That she should sport her selfe sometimes, and play, To mingle, and vary colours every day: And then, as though shee could not make inow, Himselfe his various Rainbow did allow, Sight is the noblest sense of any one, Yet sight hath only colour to feed on, And colour is decai'd: summers robe growes Duskie, and like an oft dyed garment showes. Our blushing red, which us'd in cheekes to spred, Is inward sunke, and only our soules are red. Perchance the world might have recovered, If she whom we lament had not beene dead: But shee, in whom all white, and red, and blew (Beauties ingredients) voluntary grew, As in an unvext Paradise; from whom Did all things verdure, and their lustre come, Whose composition was miraculous, Being all colour, all Diaphanous, (For Ayre, and Fire but thick grosse bodies were, And liveliest stones but drowsie, and pale to her,) Shee, shee is dead; shee's dead: when thou know'st this, Thou know'st how wan a Ghost this our world is: And learn'st thus much by our Anatomie, That it should more affright, then pleasure thee. And that, since all faire colour then did sinke, 'Tis now but wicked vanitie, to thinke To colour vicious deeds with good pretence, Or with bought colors to illude mens sense. Nor in ought more this worlds decay appeares, Than that her influence the heav'n forbeares, Or that the Elements doe not feele this, The father, or the mother barren is. The cloudes conceive not raine, or doe not powre, In the due birth, downe the balmy showre; Th'Ayre doth not motherly sit on the earth, To hatch her seasons, and give all things birth; Spring-times were common cradles, but are tombes; And false-conceptions fill the generall wombes; Th'Ayre showes such Meteors, as none can see, Not only what they meane, but what they bee; Earth such new wormes, as would have troubled much Th'AEgyptian @Mages@ to have made more such. What Artist now dares boast that he can bring Heaven hither, or constellate any thing, So as the influence of those starres may bee Imprison'd in an Hearbe, or Charme or Tree. And doe by touch, all which those stars could doe? The art is lost, and correspondence too. For heaven gices little, and the earth takes lesse, And man least knowes their trade and purposes. If this commerce twixt heaven and earth were not Embarr'd, and all this traffique quite forgot, She, for whose losse we have lamented thus, Would worke more fully, and pow'rfully on us: Since herbes, and roots, by dying lose not all, But they, yea Ashes too, are medicinall, Death could not quench her vertue so, but that It would be (if not follow'd) wondred at: And all the world would be one dying swan, To sing her funerall praise, and vanish than. But as some Serpents poyson hurteth not, Except it be from the live Serpent shot, So doth her vertue need her here, to fit That unto us; shee working more than it. But shee, in whom to such maturity Vertue was growne, past growth, that it must die: Shee, from whose influence all impression came, But, by receivers impotencies, lame, Who, though she could not transubstantiate All states to gold, yet guilded every state, So that some Princes have some temperance; Some Counsellers some purpose to advance The common profit; and some people have Some stay, no mor than Kings should give, to crave; Some women have some taciturnity, Some nunneries some graines of chastitie. She that did thus much, and much more could doe, But that our age was Iron, and rustie too, Shee, shee is dead, shee's dead; when thou knowst this, Thou knowst how drie a Cinder this world is. And learn'st thus much by our Anatomy, That 'tis in vaine to dew, or mollifie It with thy teares, or sweat, or blood: nothing Is worth our travaile, griefe, or perishing, But those rich joyes, which did possesse her heart, Of which she's now partaker, and a part. But as in cutting up a man that's dead, The body will not last out, to have read On every part, and therefore men direct Their speech to parts, that are of most effect; So the worlds carcasse would not last, if I Were punctuall in this Anatomy; Nor smels it well to hearers, if one tell Them their disease, who faine would thinke they're well. Here therefore be the end: and, blessed maid, Of whom is meant what ever hath been said, Or shall be spoken well by any tongue, Whose name refines course lines, and makes prose song, Accept this tribute, and his first yeares rent, Who till his darke short tapers end be spent, As oft as thy feast sees this widowed earth, Will yearely celebrate thy second birth, That is, thy death; for though the soule of man Be got when man is made, 'tis borne but then When man doth die; our body's as the wombe, And, as a Mid-wife, death directs it home. And you her creatures, whom she workes upon, And have your last, and best concoction From her example, and her vertue, if you In reverence to her, do thinke it due, That no one should her praises thus rehearse, As matter fit for Chronicle, not verse; Vouchsafe to call to minde that God did make A last, and lasting'st peece, a song. He spake To @Moses@ to deliver unto all, That song, because hee knew they would let fall The Law, the Prophets, and the History, But keepe the song still in their memory: Such an opinion in due measure made Me this great office boldly to invade: Nor could incomprehensiblenesse deterre Mee, from thus trying to imprison her, Which when I saw that a strict grave could doe, I saw not why verse might not do so too. Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keepes Soules, The Grave keepes bodies, Verse the Fame enroules.  Nothing could make mee sooner to confesse That this world had an everlastingnesse, Then to consider, that a yeare is runne, Since both this lower worlds, and the Sunnes Sunne, The Lustre, and the vigor of this All, Did set; 'twere Blasphemy, to say, did fall. But as a ship which hath strooke saile, doth runne, By force of that force which before, it wonne, Or as sometimes in a beheaded man, Though at those two Red seas, which freely ran, One from the Trunke, another from the Head, His soule be saild, to her eternall bed, His eies will twinckle, and his tongue will roll, As though he beckned, and cal'd backe his Soul, He graspes his hands, and he puls up his feet, And seemes to reach, and to step forth to meet His soule; when all these motions which we saw, Are but as Ice, which crackles at a thaw: Or as a Lute, which in moist weather, rings Her knell alone, by cracking of her strings: So strugles this dead world, now shee is gone; For there is motion in corruption. As some Daies are, at the Creation nam'd, Before the sunne, the which fram'd Daies, was fram'd, So after this sunnes set, some show appeares, And orderly vicisitude of yeares. Yet a new Deluge, and of Lethe flood, Hath drown'd us all, All have forgot all good, Forgetting her, the maine Reserve of all; Yet in this Deluge, grosse and generall, Thou seest mee strive for life; my life shalbe, To bee hereafter prais'd, for praysing thee, Immortal Mayd, who though thou wouldst refuse The name of Mother, be unto my Muse A Father, since her chast Ambition is, Yearely to bring forth such a child as this. These Hymnes may worke on future wits, and so May great Grand-children of thy praises grow. And so, though not Revive, embalme, and spice The world, which else would putrify with vice. For thus, Man may extend thy progeny. Untill man doe but vanish, and not die. These Hymns thy issue, may encrease so long, As till Gods great Venite change the song. Thirst for that time, O my insatiate soule, And serve thy thirst, with Gods safe-sealing Bowle. Bee thirsty still, and drinke still till thou goe; 'Tis th'onely Health, to be Hydropique so. Forget this rotten world; And unto thee, Let thine owne times as an old story be; Be not concern'd: study not why, nor whan; Do not so much, as not beleeve a man; For though to erre, be worst, to try truths forth, Is far more busines, then this world is worth. The World is but a Carkas; thou art fed By it, but as a worme, that carcas bred; And why shouldst thou, poore worme, consider more, When this world will grow better then before, Then those thy fellow-wormes doe thinke upone That carkasses last resurrectione. Forget this world, and scarse thinke of it so, As of old cloaths, cast off a yeare agoe. To be thus stupid is Alacrity; Men thus lethargique have best Memory. Looke upward; that's towards her, whose happy state We now lament not, but congratulate. Shee, to whom all this world was but a stage, Where all sat harkning how her youthfull age Should be emploid, because in all, shee did, Some Figure of the Golden times, was hid. Who could not lacke, what ere this world could give, Because shee was the forme, that made it live; Nor could complaine, that this world was unfit, To be staid in, then when shee was in it; Shee that first tried indifferent desires By vertue,'and vertue by religious fires, Shee to whose person Paradise adhear'd, As Courts to Princes; shee whose eies enspheard Star-light inough, t'have made the South controll, (Had shee beene there) the Star-full Northern Pole, Shee, shee is gone; shee's gone; when thou knowst this, What fragmentary rubbidge this world is Thou knowst, and that it is not worth a thought; He honors it too much that thinks it nought. Thinke then, my soule, that death is but a Groome, Which brings a Taper to the outward roome, Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light, And after brings it nearer to thy sight: For such approches doth Heaven make in death. Thinke thy selfe laboring now with broken breath, And thinke those broken and soft Notes to bee Division, and thy happiest Harmonee. Thinke thee laid on thy death bed, loose and slacke; And thinke that but unbinding of a packe, To take one precious thing, thy soule, from thence. Thinke thy selfe parch'd with fevers violence, Anger thine Ague more, by calling it Thy Physicke; chide the slacknesse of the fit. Thinke that thou hearst thy knell, and thinke no more, But that, as Bels cal'd thee to Church before, So this, to the Triumphant Church, cals thee. Thinke Satans Sergeants round about thee bee, And thinke that but for Legacies they thrust; Give one thy Pride, to'another give thy Lust: Give them those sinnes which they gave thee before, And trust th'immaculate blood to wash thy score. Thinke thy frinds weeping round, and thinke that thay Weepe but because they goe not yet thy way. Thinke that they close thine eyes, and thinke in this, That they confesse much in the world, amisse, Who dare not trust a dead mans eye with that, Which they from God, and Angels cover not. Thinke that they shroud thee up, and thinke from thence They reinvest thee in white innocence. Thinke that thy body rots, and (if so lowe, Thy soule exalted so, thy thoughts can goe,) Thinke thee a Prince, who of themselves create Wormes which insensibly devoure their state. Thinke that they bury thee, and thinke that rite Laies thee to sleepe but a saint Lucies night. Thinke these things cheerefully: and if thou bee Drowsie or slacke, remember then that shee, Shee whose Complexion was so even made, That which of her Ingredients should invade The other three, no Feare, no Art could guesse: So far were all remov'd from more or lesse. But as in Mithridate, or just perfumes, Where all good things being met, no one presumes To governe, or to triumph on the rest, Onely because all were, no part was best: And as, though all doe know, that quantities Are made of lines, and lines from Points arise, None can these lines or quantities unjoynt, And say this is a line, or this a point: So though the Elements and Humors were In her, one could not say, this governes there. Whose even constitution might have wonne Any disease to venter on the Sunne, Rather then her: and make a spirit feare That he to disuniting subject were. To whose proportions if we would compare Cubes, th'are unstable; Circles, Angulare; Shee who was such a Chaine, as Fate emploies To bring mankind, all Fortunes it enjoies, So fast, so even wrought, as one would thinke, No Accident, could threaten any linke, Shee, shee embrac'd a sicknesse, gave it meat, The purest Blood, and Breath, that ere it eat. And hath taught us that though a good man hath Title to Heaven, and plead it by his Faith, And though he may pretend a conquest, since Heaven was content to suffer violence, Yea though he plead a long possession too, (For they'are in Heaven on Earth, who Heavens workes do,) Though he had right, and power, and Place before, Yet Death must usher, and unlocke the doore. Thinke further on thy selfe, my soule, and thinke How thou at first wast made but in a sinke; w Thinke that it argued some infermitee, That those two soules, which then thou foundst in mee, Thou fedst upon, and drewst into thee, both My second soule of sence, and first of growth. Thinke but how poore thou wast, how'obnoxious, Whom a small lump of flesh could poison thus. This curded milke, this poore unlittered whelpe My body, could, beyond escape, or helpe, Infect thee with originall sinne, and thou Couldst neither then refuse, nor leave it now. Thinke that no stubborne sullen Anchorit, Whcih fixt to'a Pillar, or a Grave doth sit Bedded and Bath'd in all his Ordures, dwels So fowly as our soules, i'their first-built Cels. Thinke in how poore a prison thou dist lie After, enabled but to sucke, and crie. Thinke, when 'twas growne to most, 'twas a poore Inne, A Province Pack'd up in two yards of skinne, And that usurped, or threatned with the rage Of sicknesses, or their true mother, Age. But thinke that Death hath now enfranchis'd thee, Thou hast thy'expansion now and libertee; Thinke that a rusty Peece, discharg'd, is flowne In peeces, and the bullet is his owne, And freely flies: This to thy soule allow, Thinke thy shell broke, thinke thy Soule hatch'd but now. And thinke this slow-pac'd soule, which late did cleave To'a body,'and went but by the bodies leave, Twenty, perchance, or thirty mile a day, Dispatches in a minute all the way, Twixt Heaven, and Earth: shee staies not in the Ayre, To looke what Meteors there themselves prepare; Shee carries no desire to know, nor sense, Whether th'Ayrs middle Region be intense, For th'Element of fire, shee doth not know, Whether shee past by such a place or no; Shee baits not at the Moone, nor cares to trie, Whether in that new world, men live, and die. Venus retards her not, to'enquire, how shee Can, (being one Star) Hesper, and Vesper bee; Hee that charm'd Argus eies, sweet Mercury, Workes not on her, who now is growne all Ey; Who, if shee meete the body of the Sunne, Goes through, not staying till his course be runne; Who finds in Mars his Campe, no corps of Guard; Nor is by Jove, nor by his father bard; But ere shee can consider how shee went, At once is at, and through the Firmament. And as these stars were but so many beades Strunge on one string, speed undistinguish'd leades Her through those spheares, as through the beades, a string, Whose quicke succession makes it still one thing: As doth the Pith, which, least our Bodies slacke, Strings fast the little bones of necke, and backe; So by the soule doth death string Heaven and Earth, For when our soule enjoyes this her third birth, (Creation gave her one, a second, grace,) Heaven is as neare, and present to her face, As colours are, and objects, in a roome Where darknesse was before, when Tapers come. This must, my soule, thy long-short Progresse bee; To'advance these thoughts, remember then, that shee, Shee, whose faire body no such prison was, But that a soule might well be pleas'd to passe An Age in her; shee whose rich beauty lent Mintage to others beauties, for they went But for so much, as they were like to her; Shee, in whose body (if wee dare prefer This low world, to so high a mark, as shee,) The Westerne treasure, Easterne spiceree, Europe, and Afrique, and the unknownen rest Were easily found, or what in them was best; And when w'have made this large Discoveree, Of all in her some one part there will bee Twenty such parts, whose plenty'and riches is Inough to make twenty such worlds as this; Shee, whom had they knowne, who did first betroth The Tutelar Angels, and assign'd one, both To Nations, Cities, and to Companies, To Functions, Offices, and Dignities, And to each severall man, to him, and him, They would have given her one for every limme; Shee, of whose soule, if we may say, 'twas Gold, Her body was th'Electrum, and did hold Many degrees of that; we understood Her by her sight, her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheekes, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say, her bodie thought, Shee, shee, thus richly,'and largely hous'd, is gone: And chides us slow-pac'd snailes, who crawle upon Our prisons prison, earth, nor thinke us well Longer, then whil'st we beare our brittle shell. But 'twere but little to have chang'd our roome, If, as we were in this our living Tombe Oppress'd with ignorance, we still were so. Poore soule, in this thy selfe so little,'as thou know'st not, How thou did'st die, nor how thou wast begot. Thou neither knowst, how thou at first cam'st in, Nor how thou took'st the poyson of mans sin. Nor dost thou, (though thou knowst, that thou art so) By what way thou art made immortall, know. Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehend Even thy selfe: yea though thou wouldst but bend To know thy body. Have not all soules thought For many ages, that our body'is wrought Of Ayre, and Fire, and other Elements? And now they thinke of new ingredients. And one soule thinkes one, and another way Another thinkes, and 'tis an even lay. Knowst thou but how the stone doth enter in The bladders Cave, and never breake the skin? Knowst thou how blood, which to the hart doth flow, Doth from one ventricle to th'other go? And for the putrid stuffe, which thou dost spit, Knowst thou how thy lungs have attracted it? There are no passages so that there is (For ought thou knowst) piercing of substances. And of those many'opinions which men raise Of Nailes and Haires, dost thou know which to praise? What hope have we to know our selves, when wee Know not the least things, which for our use bee? We see in Authors, too stiffe to recant, A hundred controversies of an Ant. And yet one watches, starves, freeses, and sweats, To know but Catechismes and Alphabets Of unconcerning things, matters of fact; How others on our stage their parts did Act; What Caesar did, yea, and what Cicero said. Why grasse is greene, or why our blood is red, Are mysteries which none have reach'd unto. In this low forme, poore soule, what wilt thou doe? When wilt thou shake off this Pedantery, Of being taught by sense, and Fantasy? Thou look'st through spectacles; small things seeme great, Below; But up unto the watch-towre get, And see all things despoyld of fallacies: Thou shalt not peepe through lattices of eies, Nor heare through Laberinths of eares, nor learne By circuit, or collections to discerne. In Heaven thou straight know'st all, concerning it, And what concerns it not, shalt straight forget. There thou (but in no other schoole) maist bee Perchance, as learned, and as full, as shee, Shee who all Libraries had throughly red At home, in her owne thoughts, and practised So much good as would make as many more: Shee whose example they must all implore, Who would or doe, or thinke well, and confesse That aye the vertuous Actions they expresse, Are but a new, and worse edition, Of her some one thought, or one action: Shee, who in th'Art of knowing Heaven, was growne Here upon Earth, to such perfection, That shee hath, ever since to Heaven shee came, (In a far fairer print,) but read the same: Shee, shee, not satisfied with all this waite, (For so much knowledge, as would over-fraite Another, did but Ballast her) is gone, As well t'enjoy, as get perfectione. And cals us after her, in that shee tooke, (Taking herselfe) our best, and worthiest booke. Returne not, my soule, from this extasee, And meditation of what thou shalt bee, To earthly thoughts, till it to thee appeare, With whom thy conversation must be there. With whom wilt thou Converse? what station Canst thou choose out, free from infection, That wil nor give thee theirs, nor drinke in thine? Shalt thou not finde a spungy slack Divine Drinke and sucke in th'Instructions of Great men, And for the word of God, vent them agen? Are there not some Courts, (And then, no things bee So like as Courts) which, in this let us see, That wits and tongues of Libellars are weake, Because they doe more ill, then these can speake? The poyson'is gone through all, poysons affect Chiefly the cheefest parts, but some effect In Nailes, and Haires, yea excrements, will show; So will the poyson of sinne, in the most low. Up, up, my drowsie soule, where thy new eare Shall in the Angels songs no discord heare; Where thou shalt see the blessed Mother-maid Joy in not being that, which men have said, Where shee'is exalted more for being good, Then for her interest, of mother-hood. Up to those Patriarckes, which did longer sit Expecting Christ, then they'have enjoy'd him yet. Up to those Prophets, which now gladly see Their Prophecies growne to be Historee. Up to th'Apostles, who did bravely runne All the Sunnes course, with more light then the Sunne. Up to those Martyrs, who did calmely bleed Oyle to th'Apostles lamps, dew to their seed. Up to those Virgins, who thought that almost They made joyntenants with the Holy Ghost, If they to any should his Temple give. Up, up, for in that squadron there doth live Shee, who hath carried thether, new degrees (As to their number) to their dignitees. Shee, who beeing to herselfe a state, enjoyd All royalties which any state emploid, For shee made wars, and triumph'd; reson still Did not o'erthrow, but rectifie her will: And shee made peace, for no peace is like this, That beauty'and chastity together kisse: She did high justice; for shee crucified Every first motion of rebellious pride: And shee gave pardons, and was liberall, For, onely'her selfe except, shee pardond all: Shee coynd, in this, that her impressions gave To all our actions all the worth they have: Shee gave protections; the thoughts of her brest Satans rude Officers could nere arrest. As these prerogatives being met in one, Made her a soveraigne state, religion Made her a Church; and these two made her all. Shee who was all this All, and could not fall To worse, by company; (for shee was still More Antidote, then all the world was ill,) Shee, shee doth leave it, and by Death, survive All this, in Heaven; whither who doth not strive The more, because shee'is there, he doth not know That accidentall joyes in Heaven doe grow. But pause, my soule, and study ere thou fall On accidentall joyes, th'essentiall. Still before Accessories doe abide A triall, must the principall be tride. And what essentiall joy canst thou expect Here upon earth? what permanent effect Of transitory causes? Dost thou love Beauty? (And Beauty worthyest is to move) Poore couse'ned cose'nor, that she, and that thou, Which did begin to love, are neither now. You are both fluid, chang'd since yesterday; Next day repaires, (but ill) last daies decay. Nor are, (although the river keep the name) Yesterdaies waters, and to daies the same. So flowes her face, and thine eies, neither now That saint, nor Pilgrime, which your loving vow Concernd, remaines; but whil'st you thinke you bee Constant, you'are howrely in inconstancee. Honour may have pretence unto our love, Because that God did live so long above Without this Honour, and then lov'd it so, That he at last made Creatures to bestow Honor on him; not that he needed it, But that, to his hands, man might grow more fit. But since all honors from inferiors flow, (For they doe give it; Princes doe but show Whom they would have so honord) and that this On such opinions, and capacities Is built, as rise, and fall, to more and lesse, Alas, 'tis but a casuall happinesse. Hath ever any man to'himselfe assign'd This or that happinesse, to'arrest his minde, But that another man, which takes a worse, Thinke him a foole for having tane that course? They who did labour Babels tower t'erect, Might have considerd, that for that effect, All this whole solid Earth could not allow Nor furnish forth Materials enow; And that this Center, to raise such a place Was far too little, to have beene the Base; No more affoords this world, foundatione T'erect true joye, were all the meanes in one. But as the Heathen made them severall gods, Of all Gods Benefits, and all his Rods, (For as the Wine, and Corne, and Onions are Gods unto them, so Agues bee, and war) And as by changing that whole precious Gold To such small copper coynes, they lose the old, And lost their onely God, who ever must Be sought alone, and not in such a thrust, So much mankind true happinesse mistakes; No Joye enjoyes that man, that many makes. Then, soule, to thy first pitch worke up againe; Know that all lines which circles doe containe, For once that they the center touch, do touch Twice the circumference; and be thou such. Double on Heaven, thy thoughts on Earth emploid; All will not serve; Onely who have enjoyd The sight of God, in fulnesse, can thinke it; For it is both the object, and the wit. This is essentiall joye, where neither hee Can suffer Diminution, nor wee; 'Tis such a full, and such a filling good; Had th'Angels once look'd on him, they had stood. To fill the place of one of them, or more, Shee whom we celebrate, is gone before. Shee, who had Here so much essentiall joye, As no chance could distract, much lesse destroy; Who with Gods presence was acquainted so, (Hearing, and speaking to him) as to know His face, in any naturall Stone, or Tree, Better then when in Images they bee: Who kept, by diligent devotion, Gods Image, in such reparation, Within her heart, that what decay was grown, Was her first Parents fault, and not her own: Who being solicited to any Act, Still heard God pleading his safe precontract; Who by a faithfull confidence, was here Betroth'd to God, and now is married there, Whose twilights were more cleare, then our mid day, Who dreamt devoutlier, then most use to pray; Who being heare fild with grace, yet strove to bee, Both where more grace, and more capacitee At once is given: shee to Heaven is gone, Who made this world in some proportion A heaven, and here, became unto us all, Joye, (as our joyes admit) essentiall. But could this low world joyes essentiall touch, Heavens accidentall joyes would passe them much. How poore and lame, must then our casuall bee? If thy Prince will his subjects to call thee My Lord, and this doe swell thee, thou art than, By being a greater, growne to be lesse Man. When no Physician of Redresse can speake, A joyfull casuall violence may breake A dangerous Apostem in thy brest; And whilst thou joy'st in this, the dangerous rest, The bag may rise up, and so strangle thee. What aye was casuall, may ever bee. What should the Nature change? Or make the same Certaine, which was but casuall, when it came? All casuall joye doth loud and plainly say, Onely by comming, that it can away. Onely in Heaven joies strength is never spent; And accidentall things are permanent. Joy of a soules arrivall nere decaies; For that soule ever joyes, and ever staies. Joy that their last great Consummation Approches in the resurrection; When earthly bodies more celestiall Shalbe, then Angels were, for they could fall; This kind of joy doth every day admit Degrees of grouth, but none of loosing it. In this fresh joy, 'tis no small part, that shee, Shee, in whose goodnesse, he that names degree, Doth injure her; ('Tis losse to be cald best, There where the stuffe is not such as the rest) Shee, who left such a body,'as even shee Onely in Heaven could learne, how it can bee Made better; for shee rather was two soules, Or like to full, on both sides written Rols, Where eies might read upon the outward skin, As strong Records for God, as mindes within; Shee, who by making full perfection grow, Peeces a Circle, and still keepes it so, Long'd for, and longing for'it, to heaven is gone, Where shee receives, and gives addition. Here in a place, where mis-devotion frames A thousand praiers to saints, whose very names The ancient Church knew not, Heaven knowes not yet, And where, what lawes of poetry admit, Lawes of religion have at least the same, Immortall Maid, I might invoque thy name. Could any Saint provoke that appetite, Thou here shouldst make mee a French convertite. But thou wouldst not; nor wouldst thou be content, To take this, for my second yeeres true Rent, Did this Coine beare any'other stampe, then his, That gave thee power to doe, me, to say this. Since his will is, that to posteritee, Thou shouldst for life, and death, a patterne bee, And that the world should notice have of this, The purpose, and th'Autority is his; Thou art the Proclamation; and I ame The Trumpet, at whose voice the people came. FINIS Next?