And flatter to my selfe, Ile see By that, strange motion steale into the tree. But still my first and chiefest care Shall be t'appease offended heaven with prayer: And in such mold my thoughts to cast, That each day shall be spent as 'twere my last How ere it's sweete lust to obey, Vertue though rugged, is the safest way. _An Elegy upon The Honourable_ Henry Cambell, _sonne to the Earle of_ Arg. Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breath Expir'd to soone, or irreligious death Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares, Thou didst the old _Methusalem_ out-live. Though Time, but twenty yeares account can give Of thy abode on earth, yet every houre Of thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powre Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent day Keepes young the body, but the soule makes gray. Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behind Th'ast left to us such stories of thy minde Fit for example; that when them we read, We envy earth the treasure of the dead. Why doe the sinfull riot and survive The feavers of their surfets? Why alive Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey? Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night With cheats and imprecations? Why is light Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it: Who sold the vigor of their strength and wit To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth? But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh Those first from the darke prison of their clay Who are most fit for heaven. Thou in warre Hadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which are The props on which peace safely doth subsist And through the Cannons blew and horrid mist Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat That naught but death did want to make thee great. Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee, And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase Of reall glory both in warre and peace, We all did share: and thou away we feare Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare. Each then be his owne mourner, Wee'le to thee Write hymnes, upon the world an Elegie. _To_ CASTARA.