a Serpent of the most destroying venome: for it blasts al plants with the breath, and carries the most murdering Artillery in the eye: He is ever merry but still modest. Not dissolved into undecent laughter, or trickled with wit scurrilous or injurious. He cunningly searcheth into the vertues of others, and liberally commends them: but buries the vices of the imperfect in a charitable silence, whose manners he reformes not by invectives but example: In prayer he is frequent not apparent: yet as he labours not the opinion, so he feares not the scandall of being thought good. He every day travailes his meditations up to heaven, and never findes himself wearied with the journey: but when the necessities of nature returne him downe to earth, he esteemes it a place, hee is condemned to. Devotion is his Mistresse on which he is passionately enamord: for that he hath found the most Soveraigne antidote against sinne, and the onely balsome powerfull to cure those wounds hee hath receav'd through frailety. To live he knowes a benefit, and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates on life. Death how deformed soever an aspect it weares, he is not frighted with: since it not annihilates, but uncloudes the soule. He therefore stands every movement prepared to dye: and though he freely yeelds up himself, when age or sicknesse sommon him; yet he with more alacritie puts off his earth, when the profession of faith crownes him a martyr._ _Twenty-two Poems, chiefly Sacred, with Scripture Text._ _Domine labia mea aperies_ DAVID. Noe monument of me remaine, My mem'orie rust In the same marble with my dust: Ere I the spreadingst Laurell gaine, By writing wanton or profane. Ye glorious wonders of the skies, Shine still bright starres, Th' Almighties mystick Characters! Ile not your beautious lights surprise T' illuminate a womans eyes. Nor to perfume her veins, will I In each one set The purple of the violet. The untoucht flowre may grow and dye Safe from my fancies injurie. Open my lippes, great God! and then Ile soare above The humble flight of carnall love. Upward to thee Ile force my pen, And trace no path of vulgar men. For what can our unbounded soules Worthy to be Their object finde, excepting thee? Where can I fixe? since time controules Our pride, whose motion all things roules. Should I my selfe ingratiate T' a Princes smile; How soone may death my hopes beguile? And should I farme the proudest state, I'me Tennant to uncertaine fate. If I court gold; will it not rust? And if my love Toward a female beauty move; How will that surfet of our lust Distast us, when resolv'd to dust?