Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all The cunning Pompe of the Escuriall. Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe. Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chest Is Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the East When it is purified by th' generall fire Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher Then all the gems she vants: transcending far In fragrant lustre the bright morning star. Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we Have by a cataract lost sight, then he Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light. Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of day From the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le pay Like the just Larke, the tribute of my verse I will invite thee, from thy envious herse To rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread, That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead. My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes come From th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdome The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose When the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowes Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East Vying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest. These gentle perfumes usher in the day Which from the night of his discolour'd clay Breakes on the sudden: for a Soule so bright Of force must to her earth contribute light. But if w' are so far blind, we cannot see The wonder of this truth; yet let us be Not infidels: nor like dull Atheists give Our selves so long to lust, till we believe (T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall To a loath'd nothing in our Funerall. The bad mans death is horror. But the just Keepe something of his glory in his dust. _FINIS._ CASTARA: THE THIRD PART. [Illustration] _LONDON_ Printed by _Tho. Cotes_, for _Will. Cooke_ 1640. A Holy Man