|
| As Moses Cherubins, whose natures doe |
| Surpasse all speed, by him are winged too: |
| So would her soule, already'in heaven, seeme then, |
| To clime by teares, the common stayres of men. |
| How fit she was for God, I am content |
| To speake, that death his vaine hast may repent. |
| How fit for us, how even and how sweet, |
| How good in all her titles, and how meet, |
| To have reform'd this forward heresie, |
| That women can no parts of friendship bee; |
| How Morall, how Divine shall not be told, |
| Lest they that heare her vertues, think her old. |
| And lest we take deaths part, and make him glad |
| Of such a prey, and to his triumph adde. |
|
| Elegie on Mistris Boulstred. |
|
| Death I recant, and say, unsaid by me |
| What ere hath slip'd, that might diminish thee. |
| Spirituall treason, atheisme 'tis, to say, |
| That any can thy Summons disobey. |
| Th'earths face is but thy Table; there are set |
| Plants, cattell, men, dished for Death to eate. |
| In a rude hunger now he millions drawes |
| Into his bloody, or plaguy, or sterv'd jawes. |
| Now hee will seeme to spare, and doth more waste, |
| Eating the best first, well preserv'd to last. |
| Now wantonly he spoyles, and eates us not, |
| But breaks off friends, and lets us peecemeale rot.
|
[CW: Nor] |