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An hymn to the Saints, and to Marquess
Hamylton.
Whether that soul which now comes up to you
Fill any former rank, or make a new,
Whether it take a name nam'd there before,
Or be a name it self, and order more
Than was in heaven till now; (for may not he
Be so, if every several Angel be
A kinde alone) What ever order grow
Greater by him in heaven, we do not so;
One of your orders grows by his access;
But, by his loss grow all our orders less;
The name of Father, Master, Friend, the name
Of Subject and of Prince, in one is lame;
Fair mirth is dampt, and conversation black,
The Houshold widow'd, and the Garter slack;
The Chappel wants an ear, Councel a tongue;
Story a theame, and Musick lacks a song.
Blest order that hath him, the loss of him
Gangreen'd all Orders here; all lost a limb:
Never made body such haste to confess
What a soul was; all former comeliness
Fled, in a minute, when the soul was gone,
And having lost that beauty, would have none:
So fell our Monasteries, in an instant grown
Not to less houses, but to heaps of stone;
So sent his body that fair form it wore
Unto the sphear of forms, and doth (before
His soul shall fill up his sepulchral stone,)
Anticipate a Resurrection;

[CW: For]