







 
   
     
       
         Piæ juventuti sacrum, an elegie on the death of the most vertuous and hopefull young gentleman, George Pitt, esq.
         Ellis, Clement, 1630-1700.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A39263 of text R31412 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing E567). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A39263
         Wing E567
         ESTC R31412
         11963477
         ocm 11963477
         51634
         
           
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         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A39263)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 51634)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1006:7)
      
       
         
           
             Piæ juventuti sacrum, an elegie on the death of the most vertuous and hopefull young gentleman, George Pitt, esq.
             Ellis, Clement, 1630-1700.
          
           [8], 21 p.
           
             Printed by H. Hall],
             [Oxford :
             1658.
          
           
             In verse.
             Arms of the University of Oxford on t.p.
             Attributed to Ellis by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints.
             Imprint suggested by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints.
             Reproduction of original in the University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign Campus). Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Elegiac poetry -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
       A39263  R31412  (Wing E567).  civilwar no Piæ juventuti sacrum, an elegie on the death of the most vertuous and hopefull young gentleman, George Pitt, esq. Ellis, Clement 1658    4765 3 0 0 0 0 0 6 B  The  rate of 6 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the B category of texts with fewer than 10 defects per 10,000 words. 
        2003-06 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
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        2003-08 Judith Siefring
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        2003-08 Judith Siefring
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        2003-10 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
       
         
           
             Piae
             Iuventuti
             Sacrum
             ,
          
           An
           ELEGIE
           on
           The
           Death
           of
           the
           most
           vertuous
           and
           hopefull
           young
           Gentleman
           GEORGE
           PITT
           
             
               Esq
            
             :
          
        
         
           
             Sen:
             Herc
             :
             Fur
             :
             Act
             :
             3.
             
          
           
             
               Prima
               quae
               vitam
               dedit
               hora
               ,
               carpsit
               .
            
          
           
             Even
             that
             first
             hour
             wherein
             man
             lives
             ,
          
           
             Takes
             one
             hour
             from
             the
             life
             it
             gives
             .
          
        
         
           Printed
           in
           the
           Yeare
           1658.
           
        
      
       
       
       
         
           To
           THE
           MOST
           VERTVOVS
           AND
           THEREFORE
           MOST
           DESERVEDLY
           HONOURED
           LADY
           ,
           Mris
           ALICE
           PITT
           ,
           With
           all
           due
           Service
           and
           Devotion
           is
           humbly
           Dedicated
           the
           following
           Elegy
           :
           At
           the
           Funerals
           of
           her
           onely
           ,
           and
           worthily
           Beloved
           Sonne
           Mr
           G.
           P.
           
        
         
           
             MADAM
             ,
          
        
         
           SInce
           You
           can
           be
           so
           
             Charitably
          
           kind
           ,
        
         
           To
           let
           us
           share
           the
           
             Blessings
          
           of
           your
           
             Mind
             ;
          
        
         
           Since
           of
           the
           
             Comforts
          
           of
           your
           
             Wombe
             ,
          
           your
           Son
           ,
        
         
           You
           could
           allow
           me
           
             part
             ;
          
           and
           still
           had
           done
           ,
        
         
           Had
           not
           our
           wretched
           lives
           
             curs'd
             Mistresses
          
        
         
           His
           Progresse
           
             Fear'd
             ,
             Envy'd
          
           our
           
             Happinesse
             .
          
        
         
         
           It
           seems
           But
           
             just
             ,
          
           I
           should
           be
           sharer
           to
           ,
        
         
           As
           of
           your
           
             Ioyes
          
           before
           ,
           soe
           
             sorrows
          
           now
           .
        
         
           Not
           
             then
          
           to
           
             joy
          
           with
           you
           ,
           it
           had
           but
           bin
        
         
           My
           
             Misery
             ;
          
           't
           were
           ,
           
             not
             to
             grieve
             ,
          
           my
           sin
           .
        
         
           
             That
          
           was
           my
           
             Priv'ledge
             ,
             This
          
           my
           
             duety
          
           is
           ;
        
         
           That
           
             Gratitude
          
           Commands
           ,
           
             Religion
          
           this
           .
        
         
           Nor
           dare
           I
           
             mourne
          
           by
           
             halves
             ,
          
           The
           
             whole
             man
          
           he
           ,
        
         
           Must
           weare
           noe
           
             party-colour'd
          
           livory
           :
        
         
           Such
           as
           indeed
           the
           
             joy-dissembling
          
           Heire
        
         
           Too
           oft
           at
           's
           Father's
           funerall
           seems
           to
           weare
           ;
        
         
           when
           
             turne
          
           him
           
             inside
             out
             ,
          
           you
           'll
           eas'ly
           find
        
         
           Much
           
             diff'ring
          
           colours
           in
           his
           
             cloak
          
           and
           
             Mind
             .
          
        
         
           My
           sorrow's
           
             die'd
             in
             graine
          
           I
           onely
           have
        
         
           Just
           so
           much
           
             life
          
           as
           keeps
           me
           from
           the
           
             grave
             .
          
        
         
           Your
           
             Bounty
          
           cloaths
           the
           
             outward
          
           man
           in
           
             black
             ,
          
        
         
           His
           
             Death
          
           would
           not
           allow
           my
           
             soule
          
           to
           lack
        
         
           Her
           
             Mourning-suit
             ;
          
           who
           in
           respect
           to
           
             you
          
        
         
           Has
           clad
           her
           
             Maid
          
           all
           in
           
             close
             mourning
          
           too
        
         
           Your
           
             Goodnesse
          
           calls
           on
           
             one
             ;
          
           and
           here
           you
           see
           ,
        
         
           My
           
             bold
             griefe
          
           multiplies
           that
           
             one
          
           to
           
             three
             .
          
        
         
         
           Upon
           the
           weak
           
             staffe
          
           of
           a
           
             splitted
             Quill
             ,
          
        
         
           My
           
             Creeple
             Muse
          
           comes
           
             halting
          
           up
           the
           
             Hill
             ;
          
        
         
           And
           humbly
           at
           your
           
             feet
          
           does
           prostrate
           fall
           ,
        
         
           The
           
             devout'st
          
           mourner
           at
           this
           Funerall
           .
        
         
           Your
           
             sorrows
          
           rais'd
           her
           from
           that
           
             Bed
          
           of
           
             ease
             ,
          
        
         
           Where
           she
           so
           long
           had
           
             hugg'd
          
           her
           own
           
             disease
             ;
          
        
         
           And
           had
           
             expir'd
          
           long
           siuce
           ,
           a
           
             prey
          
           to
           death
           ,
        
         
           But
           that
           your
           
             sighs
          
           brought
           a
           supply
           of
           
             breath
          
        
         
           Hearing
           your
           
             groans
             ,
          
           she
           
             started
          
           up
           ,
           and
           see
        
         
           No
           
             Sun
          
           appear
           ,
           she
           straight
           cries
           out-'Tis
           
             he
             !
          
        
         
           And
           with
           a
           
             trembling
          
           eye
           ,
           roaving
           about
           ,
        
         
           At
           length
           she
           spies
           that
           mournfull
           HARROVV
           out
           .
        
         
           Seeing
           this
           
             *
          
           
             two-top'd
          
           Hill
           (
           for
           now
           there
           's
           
             odds
          
        
         
           Betwixt
           
             your
             house
             ,
          
           and
           
             that
          
           which
           
             once
          
           was
           
             God's
             :
          
        
         
           Though
           
             these
          
           made
           
             one
             ,
          
           'till
           some
           more
           
             wise
          
           then
           we
        
         
           Durst
           preach
           it
           
             Schisme
          
           to
           live
           in
           
             unity
             .
          
           )
        
         
           Seeing
           these
           
             tops
          
           two
           
             blackest
             clouds
          
           o'reshade
        
         
           (
           God's
           
             frown
          
           the
           one
           ,
           your
           
             sadnesle
          
           t'other
           made
           :
           )
        
         
           She
           calls
           it
           her
           
             Parnassus
             ,
          
           and
           does
           run
        
         
           In
           hast
           ,
           to
           
             take
             leave
          
           of
           her
           
             setting
             sun
             .
          
        
         
         
           The
           
             Deity
          
           inspir'd
           her
           was
           your
           
             Son
             ,
          
        
         
           Whose
           
             vertues
          
           made
           your
           
             teares
          
           her
           
             Helicon
             .
          
        
         
           But
           may
           this
           fountaine
           
             soon
          
           run
           dry
           !
           that
           streame
        
         
           No
           more
           occasion'd
           on
           so
           
             sad
          
           a
           
             theme
             !
          
        
         
           O
           rather
           may
           my
           Muses
           
             last
             breath
          
           be
        
         
           Exhal'd
           
             in
             this
          
           unwelcome
           Elegie
           !
        
         
           O
           may
           she
           rather
           spend
           her
           
             rustick
          
           Rithme
        
         
           Upon
           the
           
             reigning
             vices
          
           of
           the
           
             time
             ;
          
        
         
           And
           with
           her
           
             betters
          
           only
           reap
           these
           
             gaines
             ,
          
        
         
           An
           
             happy
             Curse
          
           of
           
             Silence
          
           for
           her
           pains
           !
        
         
           Had
           she
           not
           in
           this
           
             sin
          
           which
           she
           has
           done
           ,
        
         
           Serv'd
           the
           
             sad
             mother
          
           more
           then
           
             happy
             son
             ;
          
        
         
           She
           had
           not
           in
           so
           
             deep
             a
             note
          
           sat
           
             down
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           groan'd
           :
           But
           up
           to
           
             Heav'n
          
           had
           
             flown
          
        
         
           In
           
             lofty
          
           numbers
           ;
           such
           as
           might
           become
        
         
           The
           
             Sainted
             off-spring
          
           of
           your
           
             happy
          
           wombe
           .
        
         
           I
           cannot
           blame
           your
           
             love
             ,
          
           which
           did
           contrive
        
         
           So
           many
           waies
           to
           keep
           this
           
             Flow'r
          
           alive
           :
        
         
           Though
           in
           a
           lovely
           
             garden
          
           here
           he
           
             grew
             ,
          
        
         
           Made
           for
           such
           
             Flow'rs
          
           alone
           as
           
             he
          
           and
           
             you
             :
          
        
         
         
           Though
           you
           did
           well
           those
           
             lawfull
             hopes
          
           to
           nourish
           ,
        
         
           To
           see
           him
           in
           
             this
          
           garden
           
             thrive
          
           and
           
             flourish
             :
          
        
         
           Though
           such
           
             endeavours
          
           with
           
             Religion
          
           stand
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           did
           your
           
             pray'rs
          
           still
           
             contradict
          
           your
           
             hand
             :
          
        
         
           You
           wish'd
           him
           
             blest
             ,
          
           your
           
             own
          
           experience
           shows
        
         
           That
           no
           man
           's
           
             so
          
           before
           to
           
             heav'n
          
           he
           goes
           .
        
         
           I
           know
           you
           
             grudge
          
           him
           not
           his
           
             early
          
           rest
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           think
           his
           
             blessing
             lesse
             ,
          
           'cause
           
             so
             soon
          
           blest
           .
        
         
           Who
           
             soonest
          
           goes
           this
           
             journey
             ,
          
           runs
           his
           
             race
          
        
         
           With
           as
           much
           
             ease
          
           as
           
             speed
             ,
          
           and
           takes
           his
           
             place
          
        
         
           
             Highest
          
           in
           Heav'n
           ;
           we
           who
           stay
           here
           
             behind
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Laden
          
           with
           
             sins
          
           and
           
             sorrows
             ,
          
           we
           shall
           find
        
         
           The
           
             entrance
          
           much
           more
           
             hard
             ,
          
           and
           there
           must
           be
        
         
           Content
           to
           sit
           
             lower
          
           by
           much
           then
           
             he
             .
          
        
         
           This
           is
           your
           Blessing
           ,
           that
           for
           
             seav'nteen
             yeares
          
        
         
           You
           have
           
             possess'd
          
           what
           now
           you
           
             lose
          
           with
           
             teares
             .
          
        
         
           That
           heav'n
           
             intrusted
          
           you
           with
           that
           
             rich
             prize
             ,
          
        
         
           In
           
             love
          
           of
           which
           
             it selfe
          
           did
           
             sympathize
          
        
         
           With
           
             you
          
           and
           
             us
             :
          
           That
           you
           have
           been
           so
           long
        
         
           His
           
             Nurse
             ,
          
           'till
           he
           can
           speak
           the
           
             Angells
             tongue
             .
          
        
         
         
           And
           beares
           his
           
             part
          
           in
           that
           sweet
           
             quire
             ,
          
           that
           siug
        
         
           Loud
           
             Halleluiahs
          
           to
           their
           
             God
          
           and
           
             King
             .
          
        
         
           May
           that
           bright
           
             Glory
             ,
          
           which
           now
           
             Crownes
          
           the
           
             Son
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Attend
          
           the
           
             Mother
          
           when
           her
           race
           is
           run
           !
        
         
           
             There
          
           may
           you
           meet
           
             where
             endlesse
          
           comforts
           may
           ,
        
         
           And
           
             shall
          
           mak
           't
           an
           
             aeternall
             Holiday
             .
          
        
         
           Till
           when
           my
           
             alter'd
             Calender
          
           shall
           b●●
        
         
           Two
           
             letters
          
           for
           
             this
             day
          
           in
           every
           yeare
           .
        
         
           A
           
             black
          
           one
           for
           your
           
             losse
             ,
          
           an
           other
           
             Red
          
        
         
           To
           signifie
           the
           happy
           
             day
          
           he
           sped
        
         
           In
           Heav'n
           ;
           May
           all
           the
           vertuous
           
             family
          
        
         
           Still
           
             live
          
           so
           
             innocent
             ,
          
           so
           
             happy
             die
             !
          
        
         
           May
           Heav'ns
           warme
           rayes
           
             revive
          
           your
           
             joies
          
           and
           keep
        
         
           Your
           
             Hopes
             awake
             ,
          
           untill
           your
           
             Bodies
             sleep
          
        
         
           In
           peacefull
           Graves
           ,
           and
           
             all
          
           your
           
             Soules
          
           do
           flye
        
         
           In
           
             triumph
          
           up
           to
           
             Immortality
             !
          
        
      
    
     
       
       
         
           ON
           The
           Early
           ,
           but
           happy
           death
           ,
           of
           the
           very
           Hopefull
           young
           Gentleman
           ,
           my
           once
           most
           dear
           ,
           and
           Honoured
           friend
           ,
           GEORGE
           PITT
           
             Esq
          
           :
           Dying
           of
           an
           haereditary
           Consumption
           at
           17
           yeares
           of
           age
           .
        
         
           THus
           
             flitting
          
           are
           our
           
             best
          
           of
           Joyes
           ,
           and
           this
        
         
           The
           
             misery
          
           attends
           
             too
             early
          
           blisse
           ;
        
         
           To
           
             have
          
           a
           friend
           which
           I
           must
           
             lose
             !
          
           O
           blesse
        
         
           Me
           
             (
             Heavens
             )
          
           with
           no
           such
           
             fading
          
           happinesse
           !
        
         
           Whil'st
           
             here
          
           I
           breath
           ,
           O
           let
           me
           
             rather
          
           be
        
         
           As
           
             free
          
           from
           
             friends
             ,
          
           as
           
             Immortality
             !
          
        
         
           So
           shall
           no
           
             dying
             joy
          
           to
           me
           
             bequeath
          
        
         
           A
           
             living
             sorrow
          
           by
           its
           
             hasty
             Death
             .
          
        
         
           "
           Sorrow
           hath
           to
           the
           
             height
          
           its selfe
           
             improv'd
             ,
          
        
         
           "
           When
           we
           have
           
             lost
          
           what
           we
           can
           say
           we
           
             lov'd
             .
          
        
         
         
           What
           shall
           I
           call
           
             my
             Passion
          
           then
           ,
           who
           have
        
         
           
             Bury'd
          
           more
           then
           
             one
          
           Heaven
           in
           
             his
             Grave
             ?
          
        
         
           I
           
             lov'd
          
           and
           
             lost
             ,
          
           to
           tell
           you
           
             what
             ,
          
           and
           
             when
             ,
          
        
         
           Were
           but
           to
           
             love
          
           and
           
             lose
          
           him
           
             o're
          
           again
           .
        
         
           
             Great
          
           Griefs
           are
           
             dumb
             ,
          
           in
           these
           
             sad
          
           lines
           I
           show
           ,
        
         
           What
           't
           is
           my
           Griefe
           
             would
          
           say
           were
           it
           
             not
             so
             .
          
        
         
           What
           others
           might
           call
           
             words
             ,
             here
          
           are
           but
           
             weak
          
        
         
           Expressions
           ,
           onely
           
             signes
          
           that
           I
           
             would
          
           speak
           .
        
         
           Could
           I
           speak
           
             out
             ,
          
           my
           lines
           should
           have
           no
           
             end
             ,
          
        
         
           My
           Griefe
           bee'ng
           
             more
          
           then
           words
           can
           
             comprehend
             .
          
        
         
           And
           yet
           no
           wonder
           ,
           if
           each
           
             sigh
             ,
          
           each
           
             teare
             ,
          
        
         
           Falling
           upon
           
             his
             dust
             new-moulded
          
           were
           ,
        
         
           And
           unto
           
             us
             articulate
          
           now
           seeme
           ,
        
         
           
             Rebounding
          
           from
           so
           
             Elegant
          
           a
           
             theme
             .
          
        
         
           As
           
             Memnon's
             statue
          
           without
           
             soul
          
           or
           
             sense
             ,
          
        
         
           When
           
             warm'd
          
           and
           
             mov'd
          
           by
           th'
           pow'rfull
           
             Influence
          
        
         
           Of
           Heaven
           above
           ,
           did
           seem
           in
           
             gratitude
          
        
         
           To
           
             blesse
          
           the
           power
           whence
           't
           was
           with
           
             life
          
           indu'd
           :
        
         
           So
           may
           his
           
             shining
          
           soul
           ,
           which
           now
           is
           gone
        
         
           Triumphant
           far
           above
           the
           
             Stars
          
           and
           
             Sun
             ,
          
        
         
         
           Dart
           down
           a
           
             Courteous
          
           and
           
             enlivening
          
           ray
           ,
        
         
           To
           
             actuate
          
           our
           
             souls
             ,
          
           as
           those
           our
           
             clay
             ;
          
        
         
           And
           make
           us
           
             such
          
           in●eed
           as
           
             he
          
           should
           have
        
         
           All
           
             speaking
             monuments
          
           about
           his
           grave
           .
        
         
           Till
           then
           ,
           like
           one
           whose
           
             losses
          
           strike
           him
           
             dumbe
             ,
          
        
         
           With
           this
           sad
           
             Paper
          
           on
           my
           
             brest
          
           I
           come
           ,
        
         
           And
           
             mourne
          
           before
           thy
           
             Herse
             ,
          
           such
           Griefe's
           
             exprest
          
        
         
           Best
           by
           a
           
             silent
             tongue
             ,
          
           and
           
             vocall
             brest
             :
          
        
         
           For
           these
           
             sad
             words
          
           in
           these
           
             white
             sheets
             ,
          
           they
           be
        
         
           The
           
             walking
             Ghosts
          
           of
           my
           
             dead
             Poëtry
             .
          
        
         
           Which
           
             haunt
          
           thy
           
             Grave
             ,
          
           the
           
             place
          
           which
           does
           enclose
        
         
           More
           of
           my
           
             treasure
          
           then
           the
           world
           yet
           
             knows
             .
          
        
         
           
             More
          
           then
           I
           have
           to
           
             lose
          
           again
           ,
           and
           
             more
          
        
         
           Then
           
             richest
             nature
          
           can
           againe
           
             restore
             .
          
        
         
           
             More
          
           then
           my
           
             hopes
          
           can
           aime
           at
           
             here
             ,
          
           or
           can
        
         
           Be
           recompens'd
           in
           one
           that
           's
           
             meerly
             man
             .
          
        
         
           A
           
             treasure
          
           can
           indeed
           no
           more
           be
           
             lost
          
        
         
           Then
           be
           
             forgot
             ,
          
           't
           is
           but
           
             secur'd
          
           at
           most
           :
        
         
           Since
           't
           lies
           so
           
             safe
             ,
          
           what
           's
           
             left
             ,
          
           I
           'll
           cast
           
             all
          
           in
           ;
        
         
           This
           
             Mite-devotion
          
           of
           my
           
             widdow'd
             Pen
             .
          
        
         
         
           Could
           
             sighs
          
           breath'd
           out
           from
           sorrow's
           
             clouded
          
           nest
           ,
        
         
           (
           Call
           it
           
             thy
             living
             tomb
          
           or
           
             my
             dead
             brest
          
           )
        
         
           Prevaile
           and
           
             blow
          
           thee
           back
           againe
           :
           or
           
             teares
          
        
         
           
             Shour'd
          
           on
           thy
           Corps
           raise
           a
           new
           
             spring
          
           of
           years
           :
        
         
           Could
           
             Sobbes
          
           and
           dolefull
           
             groans
             ,
          
           sent
           from
           the
           heart
           ,
        
         
           (
           The
           
             last
             sad
             Gasps
          
           wherein
           our
           
             hopes
             depart
          
           )
        
         
           Or
           be
           so
           pow'rfull
           ,
           as
           to
           mollifie
        
         
           The
           
             Fates
             ,
          
           or
           make
           
             thee
          
           think
           it
           
             sin
          
           to
           die
           .
        
         
           Thy
           
             friends
             ,
          
           whom
           thy
           
             far-spreading
          
           death
           bereft
        
         
           Of
           Joyes
           ,
           and
           
             senselesse
          
           as
           thy
           
             body
          
           left
           ,
        
         
           Would
           
             borrow
          
           of
           
             surviving
          
           passion
           ,
        
         
           To
           
             antedate
          
           thy
           
             resurrection
             .
          
        
         
           Could
           
             whitest
             Innocence
          
           with
           
             sweetnesse
          
           mix'd
           ,
        
         
           Could
           
             Piety
          
           in
           
             Resolution
          
           fix'd
           ,
        
         
           Could
           
             inward
             Grace
          
           in
           
             outward
             beauty
          
           set
        
         
           As
           
             true
             Gold
          
           in
           a
           
             Gilded
             Cabinet
          
        
         
           Could
           
             sweetest
             Inclinations
          
           in
           a
           mind
        
         
           Not
           
             warp'd
          
           by
           
             favour
             ,
          
           nor
           through
           
             passion
             blind
             ;
          
        
         
           Could
           (
           what
           's
           a
           
             miracle
          
           )
           a
           
             pious
             youth
          
        
         
           
             Ag'd
          
           in
           Devotion
           and
           Religion's
           
             Growth
             ,
          
        
         
         
           Could
           
             each
          
           or
           
             all
          
           of
           these
           have
           set
           a
           
             rate
          
        
         
           Upon
           a
           
             mortall
             ,
          
           death
           might
           
             venerate
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           through
           
             religion
          
           be
           afraid
           to
           weare
        
         
           Those
           
             sacrilegious
             spoils
          
           it
           now
           does
           
             here
             :
          
        
         
           We
           had
           
             enjoy'd
          
           him
           longer
           ,
           and
           in
           him
        
         
           Those
           
             vertues
          
           which
           so
           beautifi'd
           the
           
             Gemme
             .
          
        
         
           Wer
           't
           thou
           no
           more
           (
           sweet
           soul
           )
           but
           as
           of
           late
        
         
           My
           
             dearest
             Freind
             ,
          
           I
           durst
           
             expostulate
          
        
         
           With
           
             death
          
           and
           
             sicknesse
             ,
          
           and
           thus
           seem
           to
           be
        
         
           In
           danger
           of
           a
           
             name
          
           in
           
             Poëtry
             .
          
        
         
           Could
           
             threats
          
           or
           
             flatt'ries
             ,
             force
          
           or
           
             wooe
          
           the
           Grave
           ,
        
         
           Onely
           to
           
             take
          
           what
           
             aged
             nature
             gave
             :
          
        
         
           Could
           dire
           
             Anathemaes
          
           belch'd
           out
           with
           noise
        
         
           (
           The
           loudest
           
             thunder
          
           of
           a
           
             Poët's
          
           voice
           )
        
         
           
             Fright
          
           death
           ,
           and
           
             excommunicate
          
           disease
        
         
           I
           'm
           sure
           thou
           had'st
           not
           bin
           so
           
             soon
          
           at
           ease
           :
        
         
           I
           know
           not
           which
           had
           giv'n
           more
           cause
           t'
           have
           griev'd
        
         
           That
           now
           
             thou
             die'st
             ,
          
           or
           then
           
             so
             many
             liv'd
             .
          
        
         
           Were
           
             vertue
          
           but
           a
           
             name
          
           in
           
             thee
             ,
          
           no
           doubt
        
         
           Our
           words
           might
           
             swell
          
           so
           
             big
          
           as
           speak
           it
           out
           :
        
         
         
           Or
           were
           our
           sorrow
           
             passion
             ,
             Reason
          
           might
        
         
           Enter
           the
           lists
           and
           hope
           to
           
             win
          
           the
           fight
           :
        
         
           But
           't
           is
           
             above
          
           this
           straine
           
             we
          
           mourne
           ,
           not
           one
        
         
           
             Forc'd
          
           Sigh
           we
           have
           ,
           
             strain'd
          
           tear
           ,
           or
           
             modish
          
           Groane
           .
        
         
           Such
           as
           the
           
             zealous
             Hypocrite
          
           puts
           on
        
         
           When
           he
           
             should
          
           mourn
           for
           's
           
             lost
          
           Religion
           .
        
         
           No
           
             mourners
             of
             the
             Poste
             ,
          
           whose
           Grief's
           a
           
             trade
             ,
          
        
         
           Who
           
             arm'd
          
           with
           
             Iron
             words
             ,
          
           so
           come
           t'
           
             invade
          
        
         
           Death
           with
           their
           
             Execrations
             ,
             murther
          
           fate
        
         
           With
           
             Curses
          
           as
           
             prophane
             ,
          
           as
           
             then
             too
             late
             .
          
        
         
           Our
           sorrow's
           
             Christian
             ,
          
           and
           our
           
             verses
          
           be
        
         
           Our
           
             due
             Devotion
             ,
          
           no
           
             starch'd
             Elegie
             .
          
        
         
           True
           ,
           he
           whose
           
             dryer
          
           soul
           would
           boast
           a
           
             power
          
        
         
           Beyond
           what
           's
           
             mortall
             ,
          
           and
           forbear
           to
           
             showr
          
        
         
           Down
           pensive
           tears
           upon
           thy
           
             ashes
             ,
          
           must
        
         
           Crumbling
           to
           
             ashes
          
           too
           ,
           mix
           with
           thy
           
             dust
             :
          
        
         
           None
           can
           but
           grieve
           for
           thy
           
             Mortality
          
        
         
           Except
           a
           soul
           that
           's
           
             much
          
           more
           
             dead
          
           then
           thee
           .
        
         
           And
           yet
           he
           only
           mourns
           
             aright
             ,
          
           that
           shows
        
         
           A
           soul
           as
           
             innocent
          
           as
           
             vertuous
             :
          
        
         
         
           As
           thine
           ,
           whose
           
             actions
          
           write
           insteed
           of
           
             Griefe
          
        
         
           An
           
             harmlesse
             Comment
          
           on
           thy
           
             spotlesse
             life
             .
          
        
         
           A
           life
           so
           
             good
             ,
          
           so
           
             chast
             ,
          
           it
           seem'd
           to
           give
        
         
           Us
           a
           
             short
             tast
          
           of
           that
           which
           
             Angells
          
           live
           :
        
         
           And
           what
           's
           most
           true
           in
           
             all
             Goods
             here
          
           we
           meet
           ,
        
         
           This
           was
           its
           Commendation
           ,
           
             Short
             and
             sweet
             .
          
        
         
           The
           
             fairest
             morning
          
           of
           a
           man
           ,
           the
           
             dawn
          
        
         
           Of
           an
           aeternall
           day
           ;
           On
           's
           clay
           was
           drawn
        
         
           The
           
             lovely'st
             picture
          
           of
           a
           
             lovely'r
          
           soul
           ,
        
         
           On
           
             this
          
           the
           
             Divine
             Image
          
           almost
           
             whole
             .
          
        
         
           
             Man
          
           in
           his
           
             stature
             ,
          
           in
           's
           
             forme
          
           more
           then
           
             man
             ,
          
        
         
           In
           purest
           Innocence
           a
           
             Christian
             .
          
        
         
           His
           nature
           
             soft
             ,
          
           his
           body
           such
           as
           
             stole
          
        
         
           From
           Heav'n
           a
           
             lodging
          
           for
           so
           sweet
           a
           soul
           .
        
         
           Nature
           (
           as
           in
           the
           
             Ermine
          
           )
           fairly
           drew
        
         
           His
           
             duties
             '
             Embleme
          
           in
           his
           
             spotlesse
             hue
             .
          
        
         
           Who
           so
           observ'd
           that
           rarest
           
             caution
          
           which
        
         
           Appear'd
           ,
           when
           e're
           he
           was
           to
           passe
           the
           
             ditch
          
        
         
           Wherein
           too
           many
           
             welter
          
           and
           lie
           
             drown'd
             ,
          
        
         
           Chusing
           the
           
             softest
          
           not
           the
           
             firmest
          
           ground
           .
        
         
         
           Would
           almost
           say
           more
           then
           in
           
             Complement
          
        
         
           
             Nature
             ,
          
           not
           
             vertue
          
           made
           him
           
             Innocent
             .
          
        
         
           To
           see
           so
           
             young
          
           a
           soule
           stand
           
             all
             alone
          
        
         
           I'
           th'
           
             world
             ,
          
           as
           
             vertue
          
           'twixt
           
             two
          
           vices
           ,
           
             one
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Assaulted
          
           now
           by
           one
           ,
           then
           by
           another
           ,
        
         
           And
           neither
           
             leare
          
           to
           one
           ,
           nor
           
             cringe
          
           to
           t'other
           ,
        
         
           Made
           me
           first
           see
           the
           
             businesse
          
           he
           had
        
         
           For
           Heav'n
           gave
           him
           no
           
             leasure
          
           to
           be
           
             bad
             ,
          
        
         
           Whose
           race
           with
           so
           great
           
             haste
          
           to
           Heav'n
           was
           run
        
         
           'T
           was
           almost
           
             finish'd
          
           e're
           we
           
             saw
             't
             begun
             .
          
        
         
           O
           pious
           soule
           !
           who
           know'st
           no
           paralell
           ,
        
         
           To
           
             die
          
           so
           
             young
          
           when
           yet
           thou
           
             liv'dst
             so
             well
             !
          
        
         
           To
           see
           so
           choyce
           a
           
             Gemme
          
           lye
           
             all
             alone
          
        
         
           Amidst
           a
           croud
           ,
           and
           yet
           
             caught
             up
          
           by
           none
        
         
           Must
           speake
           a
           vertue
           
             more
          
           then
           
             naturall
          
        
         
           Which
           struck
           that
           
             secret
             rev'rence
          
           into
           all
           .
        
         
           To
           see
           so
           faire
           a
           
             flower
          
           oft
           beset
        
         
           With
           
             weeds
          
           and
           
             thistles
             ,
          
           and
           to
           
             flourish
          
           yet
        
         
           Retain
           it's
           
             Beauty
          
           and
           its
           
             sent
             ,
          
           and
           be
        
         
           Ev'n
           
             guarded
          
           by
           
           't's
           malignant
           
             Enemie
             ,
          
        
         
         
           Argues
           a
           
             vigour
          
           more
           then
           
             Earth
          
           can
           
             give
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           more
           then
           ought
           but
           
             Heaven
          
           Could
           receive
           .
        
         
           Those
           pritty
           
             tempting
          
           bates
           which
           lye
           and
           hemme
        
         
           
             Youth
          
           in
           ,
           and
           
             prey
          
           on
           those
           would
           
             feast
          
           on
           them
           ,
        
         
           Could
           in
           his
           more
           
             resolved
          
           Count'nance
           move
        
         
           A
           
             smile
          
           at
           most
           ,
           and
           of
           
             disdain
             ,
          
           not
           
             love
             .
          
        
         
           Those
           
             thundring
             Oaths
             ,
          
           the
           highest
           
             Embloss'd
          
           Pride
        
         
           Of
           
             brave
          
           discourse
           ,
           which
           the
           
             swolne
             Deicide
          
        
         
           
             Enam'lling
          
           all
           his
           talke
           with
           that
           
             rude
             grace
          
        
         
           In
           a
           
             Bravado
             spits
          
           in
           Heav'ns
           pure
           
             face
             .
          
        
         
           Spread
           such
           an
           
             horrour
          
           o're
           his
           soule
           ,
           as
           't
           seem'd
        
         
           The
           
             tender'st
             part
          
           of
           what
           was
           thus
           
             Blasphem'd
             ,
          
        
         
           So
           
             constant
          
           at
           's
           
             Devotion
             ,
          
           as
           though
        
         
           His
           soule
           did
           
             nothing
          
           but
           his
           Heaven
           
             know
             .
          
        
         
           How
           
             eas'ly
          
           went
           that
           soule
           to
           God
           ,
           each
           day
        
         
           Which
           made
           it
           thus
           it's
           
             taske
          
           to
           
             learne
          
           that
           
             way
             !
          
        
         
           For
           him
           to
           goe
           to
           Heaven
           ,
           't
           was
           no
           more
        
         
           But
           
             trace
          
           the
           
             foot
             steps
          
           he
           had
           made
           
             before
             :
          
        
         
           Knowing
           that
           he
           must
           
             run
             ,
          
           that
           
             wins
          
           the
           
             Goale
             ,
          
        
         
           It
           was
           his
           care
           thus
           
             oft
          
           to
           
             breath
          
           his
           soule
           .
        
         
         
           What
           e're
           might
           bring
           to
           Heav'n
           ,
           to
           him
           't
           was
           all
        
         
           Becomes
           so
           perfectly
           
             habituall
          
        
         
           It
           was
           as
           
             hard
          
           for
           
             him
          
           to
           do
           
             amisse
          
        
         
           As
           't
           was
           for
           
             others
          
           to
           
             obtaine
          
           their
           blisse
           .
        
         
           Where
           
             others
          
           with
           amazement
           gaze
           and
           spie
        
         
           A
           
             Phancy'd
          
           lustre
           which
           puts
           out
           the
           eye
           ,
        
         
           He
           
             saw
             ,
          
           and
           seeing
           
             loath'd
             ,
          
           and
           loathing
           
             shun'd
             ;
          
        
         
           Did
           not
           his
           
             reason
             ;
          
           with
           his
           
             sense
          
           confound
           .
        
         
           His
           
             words
          
           were
           such
           ,
           as
           onely
           
             his
          
           could
           be
        
         
           Sweet
           
             perfumes
          
           breath'd
           from
           that
           rich
           
             Spicery
          
        
         
           Which
           did
           
             embalme
          
           his
           soule
           whil'st
           here
           it
           lay
        
         
           
             Bury'd
          
           within
           it's
           
             Sepulchre
          
           of
           clay
           .
        
         
           He
           liv'd
           ,
           as
           if
           his
           
             arrand
          
           hither
           were
        
         
           To
           beg
           of
           each
           a
           
             passion
             ,
          
           each
           a
           
             pray'r
             .
          
        
         
           So
           
             Heav'nly
          
           were
           his
           soul's
           sweet
           
             motions
          
           all
        
         
           To
           
             rest
             below
          
           had
           been
           
             unnaturall
             .
          
        
         
           So
           doth
           that
           
             noblest
          
           element
           of
           
             fire
          
        
         
           
             Fight
          
           with
           it's
           
             fuell
          
           and
           to
           heav'n
           
             aspire
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           when
           that
           's
           
             vanquish'd
             ,
          
           and
           it
           
             upwards
          
           gone
           ,
        
         
           
             Lives
          
           the
           more
           
             pure
          
           though
           after
           
             seen
          
           by
           none
           .
        
         
         
           His
           busnesse
           here
           below
           was
           not
           to
           
             wast
             .
          
        
         
           A
           life
           ,
           or
           stay
           'till
           some
           few
           
             minutes
          
           pass'd
           ;
        
         
           All
           that
           he
           came
           to
           
             doe
          
           was
           
             this
             ,
          
           no where
        
         
           He
           had
           to
           leave
           's
           
             mortallity
          
           but
           
             here
             .
          
        
         
           His
           blessed
           soul
           came
           
             hither
          
           but
           to
           shew
        
         
           That
           all
           that
           
             goe
          
           to
           Heav'n
           must
           
             this
             way
             goe
             :
          
        
         
           Had
           it
           been
           possible
           a
           soul
           should
           
             bound
          
        
         
           So
           
             high
          
           without
           a
           
             fall
          
           upon
           the
           
             Ground
             ,
          
        
         
           Could
           man
           enjoy
           aeternall
           
             life
             ,
          
           and
           not
        
         
           First
           
             dye
             ,
          
           then
           had
           he
           never
           been
           
             forgot
             :
          
        
         
           Heav'n
           would
           have
           priz'd
           such
           
             jewells
          
           much
           more
           high
           ,
        
         
           Then
           to
           expose
           them
           to
           each
           
             vulgar
             eye
             .
          
        
         
           But
           since
           the
           purest
           
             Di'mond
             ,
          
           e're
           it
           stand
        
         
           The
           
             pride
          
           and
           
             Glory
          
           of
           a
           
             Noble
          
           hand
        
         
           Must
           first
           endure
           the
           
             file
             ,
          
           and
           not
           think
           much
        
         
           T'
           abide
           the
           Lapidarie's
           
             ruder
          
           touch
           .
        
         
           Even
           so
           his
           richer
           soul
           now
           safely
           
             set
          
        
         
           In
           God's
           more
           
             wide
          
           and
           
             Glorious
             Cabinet
             ,
          
        
         
           (
           
             Enamell
          
           rich
           as
           those
           bright
           Orbes
           e're
           wore
           .
           )
        
         
           Was
           here
           plac'd
           to
           be
           
             Cut
          
           and
           
             polish'd
             ore
             .
          
        
         
         
           Such
           was
           his
           entertainment
           here
           ,
           that
           day
        
         
           Which
           
             first
          
           gave
           
             life
             ,
             first
          
           took
           his
           
             health
          
           away
           .
        
         
           Born
           but
           to
           
             practice
          
           his
           mortallity
           ,
        
         
           Only
           to
           
             learn
          
           how
           to
           be
           
             sick
          
           and
           
             dye
             .
          
        
         
           Nature
           grew
           
             jealous
          
           at
           his
           birth
           ,
           she
           saw
        
         
           A
           face
           so
           
             sweet
             ,
          
           so
           
             brave
          
           a
           soul
           ,
           in
           awe
        
         
           Of
           her
           own
           work
           she
           stood
           ,
           and
           lest
           it
           should
        
         
           Grow
           
             more
          
           then
           man
           ,
           and
           
             deifie
          
           her
           
             mould
             ,
          
        
         
           She
           sent
           him
           not
           
             abroad
             ,
          
           but
           as
           we
           do
        
         
           Our
           
             Pris●ners
             ;
          
           with
           his
           churlish
           
             keeper
          
           too
           .
        
         
           His
           
             guard's
          
           a
           sad
           disease
           ,
           which
           does
           essay
        
         
           To
           
             stifle
             's
          
           soul
           in
           his
           
             infected
          
           clay
           .
        
         
           And
           when
           she
           would
           have
           
             walk'd
          
           abroad
           ,
           to
           view
        
         
           What
           
             Nature
          
           made
           of
           
             old
             ,
          
           or
           
             Art
             anew
             ,
          
        
         
           Clapp'd
           
             bolts
          
           and
           
             shackles
          
           on
           each
           
             faculty
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           made
           
             her
             life
             a
             death
             ,
             who
          
           could
           not
           
             die
             .
          
        
         
           Till
           
             leaning
          
           too
           too
           heavy
           on
           the
           
             wall
             ,
          
        
         
           It
           had
           so
           
             weakn'd
             ,
          
           caus'd
           at
           length
           its
           
             fall
             :
          
        
         
           And
           now
           the
           joyfull
           soul
           
             escaped
          
           is
        
         
           Into
           a
           fair
           aeternity
           of
           blisse
           .
        
         
         
           O
           
             Happy
          
           soul
           ,
           in
           this
           thy
           
             misery
             !
          
        
         
           For
           having
           
             try'd
          
           so
           long
           what
           t
           is
           to
           die
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           
             quickly
          
           did'st
           thy
           work
           ,
           without
           all
           
             pain
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           go'st
           to
           
             rest
          
           aeternally
           again
           .
        
         
           Whil'st
           others
           
             drop
          
           or
           
             stumble
          
           in
           ,
           Heav'ns
           gave
        
         
           Him
           leave
           to
           
             walke
             softly
          
           into
           this
           grave
           .
        
         
           Such
           Flowr's
           are
           not
           
             cut
          
           down
           ,
           but
           
             drawn
          
           up
           hence
        
         
           By
           their
           bright
           Sire's
           
             attractive
          
           influence
           .
        
         
           No
           sudden
           
             raging
          
           Fever
           
             parch'd
          
           his
           clay
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           an
           instant
           
             scorch'd
          
           his
           life
           away
           :
        
         
           But
           ,
           as
           
             wax
          
           in
           the
           Sun-shine
           ,
           when
           't
           has
           felt
        
         
           That
           
             warmth
             ,
          
           does
           rather
           sweetly
           
             yeeld
          
           then
           
             melt
             .
          
        
         
           And
           seems
           to
           
             smile
          
           upon
           its
           
             kinder
          
           fates
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           embrace
           the
           
             wounding
          
           raies
           ,
           
             dilates
          
        
         
           And
           kindly
           
             spreads
          
           it's
           selfe
           ,
           and
           
             wooes
          
           it's
           death
        
         
           Longing
           it's
           
             last
          
           embraces
           to
           
             bequeath
             :
          
        
         
           So
           did
           his
           
             melting
          
           body
           
             yeelding
          
           lie
        
         
           
             Smiling
          
           upon
           the
           
             Courteous
             Cruelty
          
        
         
           Of
           such
           a
           
             kind
          
           disease
           ,
           which
           in
           each
           limbe
        
         
           Did
           seem
           to
           
             wast
          
           it
           
             selfe
          
           much
           more
           then
           
             him
             .
          
        
         
         
           Who
           saw
           him
           breath
           his
           
             last
          
           would
           conclude
           thence
           ,
        
         
           He
           
             whisper'd
          
           Death
           
             in
             's
             eare
          
           to
           fetch
           him
           hence
           .
        
         
           They
           seemd
           to
           strive
           which
           should
           yeeld
           first
           of
           
             these
             ,
          
        
         
           His
           
             feeble
             body
          
           or
           his
           
             weak
             disease
             ,
          
        
         
           He
           did
           
             espouse
          
           his
           sicknesse
           ,
           was
           
             in
             love
          
        
         
           With
           that
           which
           first
           could
           seat
           his
           soule
           above
           .
        
         
           Angry
           with
           his
           
             Phisitians
             ,
          
           who
           did
           try
        
         
           To
           
             kill
          
           the
           
             Death
          
           brought
           
             Immortality
             .
          
        
         
           His
           sicknesse
           to
           his
           body
           was
           born
           
             twin
             ,
          
        
         
           As
           every
           
             soul
          
           since
           Adam
           to
           it's
           
             sin
             .
          
        
         
           Such
           entire
           
             friends
          
           that
           
             both
          
           must
           be
           or
           neither
        
         
           Since
           both
           were
           
             borne
             ,
          
           both
           
             live
             ,
          
           both
           
             dye
          
           together
           .
        
         
           But
           why
           
             miscall
          
           we't
           
             sicknesse
          
           or
           
             disease
             ,
          
        
         
           Which
           is
           his
           
             Conduct
          
           to
           aeternall
           
             ease
             ?
          
        
         
           Which
           Heav'n
           sent
           hither
           with
           him
           ,
           lest
           when
           
             hurl'd
          
        
         
           Now
           here
           ,
           now
           there
           in
           a
           
             tumultuous
          
           world
           ,
        
         
           He
           might
           forget
           
             where
          
           't
           was
           his
           bus'nesse
           
             lay
             ,
          
        
         
           This
           
             softly
             pulls
             ,
          
           and
           tells
           him
           
             that
             's
             the
             way
             .
          
        
         
           If
           ere
           it
           
             pinch'd
          
           so
           hard
           ,
           as
           
             fetch'd
          
           a
           groan
           ,
        
         
           It
           quickly
           sends
           a
           
             slumber
          
           to
           atone
           .
        
         
         
           The
           breach
           of
           friendship
           ,
           as
           an
           early
           
             taste
          
        
         
           Or
           soft
           
             praeludium
          
           to
           aeternall
           
             rest
             .
          
        
         
           So
           
             like
          
           the
           
             sisters
          
           were
           in
           him
           ,
           his
           
             breath
             ,
          
        
         
           Did
           onely
           
             tell
          
           us
           which
           was
           
             sleep
             ,
          
           which
           
             death
             ,
          
        
         
           His
           last
           
             successive
          
           breathings
           did
           increase
        
         
           In
           such
           
             proportion'd
             measures
             ,
          
           that
           to
           cease
        
         
           Did
           seem
           Impossible
           ,
           what
           e're
           may
           be
        
         
           The
           adverse
           dictates
           of
           Philosophy
           .
        
         
           His
           breathings
           
             pass'd
          
           in
           such
           
             proportion
          
        
         
           As
           each
           
             respected
          
           that
           
             aeternall
             one
             .
          
        
         
           When
           by
           his
           long
           disease
           his
           patient
           brest
        
         
           Did
           seem
           to
           be
           more
           then
           was
           fit
           opprest
           ,
        
         
           And
           made
           us
           sometimes
           over
           apt
           to
           say
        
         
           His
           
             spirit
          
           was
           as
           
             heavy
          
           as
           his
           
             clay
             ,
          
        
         
           We
           sinn'd
           against
           his
           
             piety
          
           which
           thus
        
         
           
             Sequestred
          
           from
           's
           
             malignant
          
           dust
           and
           us
        
         
           That
           
             purest
          
           soule
           ,
           which
           up
           to
           Heav'n
           was
           
             gone
          
        
         
           In
           holy
           
             raptures
          
           of
           
             Devotion
             :
          
        
         
           When
           e're
           we
           judg'd
           him
           to
           be
           
             sad
          
           or
           
             dull
          
        
         
           'T
           was
           
             absence
          
           but
           no
           
             heavinesse
             of
             soul
             .
          
        
         
         
           He
           was
           a
           
             study'ng
          
           whil'st
           he
           here
           did
           stay
        
         
           Onely
           to
           make
           
             choice
          
           of
           a
           
             dying
             Day
             .
          
        
         
           And
           't
           was
           no
           wonder
           ,
           he
           
             dispatch'd
          
           so
           soon
           ,
        
         
           Who
           
             goes
          
           with
           th'
           
             Sun
             ,
          
           shall
           come
           to
           Heav'n
           at
           
             noon
             .
          
        
         
           'T
           was
           not
           too
           
             soon
          
           to
           goe
           
             when
          
           God
           did
           call
           ,
        
         
           His
           
             fruit
          
           was
           
             ripe
          
           before
           his
           
             flow'r
          
           did
           
             fall
             .
          
        
         
           
             Angels
          
           could
           not
           too
           soon
           their
           
             Hooks
          
           here
           bring
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           ever
           
             Harvest
             ,
          
           where
           there
           's
           such
           a
           
             Spring
             .
          
        
         
           He
           saw
           but
           
             little
             ,
          
           dislik'd
           
             more
             :
          
           the
           world
        
         
           
             Unsetled
             ,
          
           alwayes
           
             round
          
           about
           him
           
             hurl'd
             ;
          
        
         
           To
           
             fixe
          
           there
           ,
           were
           not
           to
           
             stand
             still
          
           but
           reel
           ;
        
         
           Who
           would
           live
           to
           be
           
             broake
             on
             such
             a
             wheele
             ?
          
        
         
           Yet
           did
           he
           try
           
             Towne
             ,
             Country
             ,
          
           and
           did
           see
        
         
           Some
           
             Reliques
          
           of
           an
           
             University
             :
          
        
         
           But
           nought
           could
           force
           his
           stay
           :
           much
           more
           he
           might
        
         
           Have
           seen
           ,
           but
           strove
           to
           be
           at
           
             home
             ere
             night
             :
          
        
         
           And
           now
           no
           wonder
           if
           such
           
             Flow'rs
          
           do
           
             fade
          
        
         
           Set
           in
           so
           
             lean
          
           a
           soyle
           ,
           so
           cold
           a
           shade
        
         
           As
           is
           the
           
             barren
          
           world
           that
           's
           here
           below
           :
        
         
           No
           such
           
             faire
             flow'rs
          
           on
           such
           
             foule
             dung-hils
          
           grow
           .
        
         
         
           Just
           
             blowne
          
           he
           was
           when
           Heav'ns
           all-searching
           eye
        
         
           In
           love
           with
           's
           
             beauty
          
           and
           his
           
             fragrancie
             ,
          
        
         
           Streight
           
             plucks
             him
             up
             ,
          
           and
           gives
           him
           this
           new
           name
           ,
        
         
           A
           
             Saint
          
           inth
           
             Bosome
          
           of
           blest
           
             Abraham
             .
          
        
         
           This
           is
           his
           name
           ,
           And
           now
           whom
           I
           before
        
         
           Did
           
             love
          
           and
           
             honour
             ,
          
           I
           must
           learne
           t'
           
             adore
             .
          
        
         
           He
           now
           has
           happ'ly
           chang'd
           his
           mortall
           state
           ,
        
         
           And
           't
           was
           his
           
             aemulation
             ,
          
           not
           his
           
             Fate
             :
          
        
         
           That
           Death
           so
           
             early
          
           call'd
           a
           soule
           so
           chaste
           ,
        
         
           Argues
           his
           
             timely
             ripenesse
             ,
          
           not
           
             it's
             haste
             .
          
        
         
           It
           was
           my
           happinesse
           when
           I
           could
           call
        
         
           Him
           
             friend
             ,
          
           not
           startled
           at
           a
           
             Funerall
             .
          
        
         
           But
           since
           't
           is
           more
           his
           blisse
           thus
           to
           
             acquaint
          
        
         
           Himselfe
           with
           
             Angels
             ,
          
           canoniz'd
           a
           
             Saint
          
        
         
           By
           
             Death
             's
          
           owne
           hand
           ,
           I
           must
           aesteeme
           it
           more
        
         
           To
           be
           his
           
             vot'ry
          
           now
           ,
           then
           
             friend
          
           before
        
         
           He
           was
           not
           borne
           for
           us
           ,
           alas
           we
           must
        
         
           Not
           thinke
           such
           
             Iewels
          
           fitted
           for
           our
           
             trust
          
        
         
           His
           
             Goodnesse
          
           was
           our
           
             losse
             ,
          
           Heav'n
           often
           spares
        
         
           
             Lesse
          
           blessings
           for
           a
           
             greater
             terme
             of
             yeares
             :
          
        
         
         
           We
           measure
           
             Good
          
           lives
           not
           by
           
             yeares
          
           but
           
             houres
             ,
          
        
         
           'T
           is
           
             much
          
           that
           we
           can
           say
           ,
           he
           
             once
          
           was
           
             ours
             :
          
        
         
           That
           we
           once
           
             saw
          
           him
           is
           enough
           to
           
             boast
             :
          
        
         
           And
           't
           is
           the
           
             noblest
             bragge
          
           to
           say
           
             we
             've
             lost
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           yet
           we
           have
           not
           
             lost
          
           our
           Saint
           ,
           unlesse
        
         
           In
           an
           aeternity
           of
           Happinesse
           .
        
         
           We
           well
           may
           lose
           
             our selves
          
           in
           thinking
           how
        
         
           Heav'n
           is
           so
           mindfull
           of
           poor
           things
           below
           ,
        
         
           As
           
             lend
          
           us
           so
           long
           
             his
          
           sweet
           presence
           ,
           when
        
         
           
             It selfe
          
           thus
           
             picks
          
           him
           out
           from
           
             other
             men
             .
          
        
         
           So
           when
           the
           Glorious
           eye
           of
           Heav'n
           doth
           goe
        
         
           To
           view
           the
           wonders
           which
           
             we
             call
             below
          
        
         
           We
           use
           to
           say
           he
           
             sets
          
           and
           
             falls
             ,
          
           when
           there
        
         
           He
           's
           no
           lesse
           
             high
          
           or
           
             bright
          
           then
           he
           was
           
             here
             :
          
        
         
           His
           
             course
          
           is
           
             one
             ,
          
           and
           
             Constant
             ,
          
           though
           we
           call
        
         
           What
           our
           owne
           
             Nat'rall
             darknesse
          
           is
           ,
           
             his
             fall
          
        
         
           
             Hee
             's
          
           not
           of
           
             life
             ,
          
           but
           
             we
          
           of
           
             him
          
           bereft
           ,
        
         
           The
           sorrows
           we
           have
           
             found
             ,
          
           those
           he
           has
           
             left
          
        
         
           Going
           to
           't
           all
           the
           
             morning
             ,
          
           now
           at
           
             Even
          
        
         
           We
           see
           him
           
             step
             over
          
           the
           
             Grave
          
           to
           Heaven
           .
        
         
         
           All
           joy
           to
           
             thee
          
           in
           Heav'n
           (
           blest
           soul
           !
           )
           whil'st
           
             we
          
        
         
           Here
           weep
           and
           groan
           and
           
             pray
          
           to
           
             rest
          
           with
           
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           T
           is
           not
           
             thy
             fate
          
           that
           we
           thy
           friends
           bemoan
           ,
        
         
           T
           is
           not
           
             thy
          
           death
           ,
           not
           
             thy
          
           losse
           but
           our
           
             own
             .
          
        
         
           We
           nee'r
           shall
           
             find
          
           our
           
             joies
          
           again
           'till
           we
        
         
           Can
           die
           and
           
             lose
          
           our
           
             griefs
          
           in
           Heav'n
           with
           thee
           .
        
         
           But
           we
           disturb
           thy
           sacred
           dust
           ,
           now
           close
        
         
           Wrapt
           up
           securely
           in
           a
           sweet
           repose
           .
        
         
           We
           not
           
             so
          
           prize
           thy
           soul
           ,
           as
           hope
           to
           
             buy
          
        
         
           It
           back
           by
           th'
           
             cheap
          
           expences
           of
           an
           eye
           .
        
         
           Why
           should'st
           thou
           now
           from
           all
           thy
           joyes
           
             descend
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Unblesse
          
           thy selfe
           ,
           so
           to
           
             reblesse
          
           thy
           friend
           ?
        
         
           When
           we
           'd
           enjoy
           thee
           
             next
             ,
          
           't
           will
           be
           a
           
             light
          
        
         
           Task
           for
           
             thy
             sake
          
           to
           bid
           the
           
             world
          
           Good-night
           ,
        
         
           We
           
             eas'ly
          
           shall
           passe
           through
           the
           
             Grave
          
           and
           
             death
          
        
         
           To
           
             come
          
           to
           
             thee
             ,
          
           we
           'll
           
             run
          
           quite
           
             out
             of
             breath
             .
          
        
         
           Such
           pious
           journeys
           still
           successefull
           be
           ,
        
         
           He
           's
           sure
           to
           
             go
          
           to
           
             Heav'n
          
           that
           
             comes
          
           to
           
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             Mors
             iter
             ad
             vitam
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
       
         
           An
           EPITAPH
           on
           the
           same
           .
        
         
           ASke
           you
           ,
           what
           's
           by
           this
           
             Marble
          
           meant
           ?
        
         
           Thus
           said
           the
           soul
           ,
           which
           
             this
             way
          
           went
           .
        
         
           Friend
           ,
           I
           am
           
             gone
             ,
          
        
         
           
             There
          
           nothing
           lies
           but
           dust
           and
           stone
           :
        
         
           Would'st
           thou
           be
           
             here
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Step
             in
          
           and
           leave
           thy
           body
           
             there
             .
          
        
         
           Why
           at
           the
           
             door
          
        
         
           Do'st
           stand
           and
           talk
           ?
           I
           'm
           far
           
             before
          
        
         
           Would'st
           be
           where
           I
        
         
           Now
           happy
           rest
           ?
           Dispatch
           and
           
             die
          
        
         
           So
           shalt
           thou
           
             be
          
        
         
           that
           in
           thy
           
             selfe
             ,
          
           thou
           
             seek'st
          
           in
           
             me
             .
          
        
         
           Strike
           through
           this
           
             stone
             ,
          
           make
           hast
           to
           tast
           &
           know
           ,
        
         
           What
           I
           enjoy
           ,
           but
           cannot
           
             tell
          
           thee
           now
           .
        
      
       
       
         
           Another
           .
        
         
           
             KNock
          
           not
           ,
           but
           
             enter
             ;
          
           why
           do'st
           fear
           ?
        
         
           His
           ashes
           
             sleep
             ,
          
           his
           soul
           's
           not
           
             here
             .
          
        
         
           VVhat
           
             here
          
           thou
           see'st
           ,
           this
           
             breathlesse
             dust
          
        
         
           Liv'd
           seav'nteen
           yeares
           ,
           
             Chast
             ,
             Good
             ,
          
           and
           
             Iust.
          
        
         
           VVhen
           here
           it
           could
           no
           
             better
          
           be
           ,
        
         
           'T
           went
           
             home
          
           ro
           Immortallity
           .
        
         
           This
           
             Grave
             ,
          
           which
           by
           its
           death
           became
        
         
           The
           sole
           surviver
           of
           the
           
             *
          
           
             *
             
               PITT
               .
            
             He
             being
             the
             last
             heir
             male
             of
             the
             family
             .
          
           
             name
             ,
          
        
         
           VVas
           left
           its
           
             Heir
             ,
          
           'till
           
             that
             day
          
           when
        
         
           These
           ashes
           shall
           
             revive
          
           againe
           ;
        
         
           And
           up
           to
           those
           blest
           mansions
           sore
           ,
        
         
           VVhither
           the
           soul
           went
           
             long
             before
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A39263e-150
           
             *
             The
             two
             tops
             are
             the
             Church
             and
             your
             house
             .
          
        
      
      
  

