Great Statist! tis your doome Though your designes swell high, and wide To be contracted in a tombe! And all your happie cares provide But for your heire authorized pride. Nor shall your shade delight Ith' pompe of your proud obsequies. And should the present flatterie write A glorious Epitaph, the wise Will say, The Poets wit here lyes. How reconcil'd to fate Will grow the aged Villager, When he shall see your funerall state? Since death will him as warme inter As you in your gay sepulcher. The great decree of God Makes every path of mortals lead To this darke common period. For what by wayes so ere we tread, We end our journey 'mong the dead. Even I, while humble zeale Makes fancie a sad truth indite, Insensible a way doe steale: And when I'me lost in deaths cold night, Who will remember, now I write? _Et fugit velut umbra._ JOB. To the Right Honourable the Lord _Kintyre_. _My Lord_ That shadow your faire body made So full of sport it still the mimick playde Ev'n as you mov'd and look'd but yesterday So huge in stature; Night hath stolen away. And this is th' emblem of our life: To please And flatter which, we sayle ore broken seas Unfaithfull in their rockes and tides; we dare All the sicke humors of a forraine ayre. And mine so deepe in earth, as we would trie To unlocke hell, should gold there hoarded lie. But when we have built up a ædefice T' outwrastle Time, we have but built on ice: For firme however all our structures be, Polisht with smoothest Indian Ivory, Rais'd high on marble, our unthankfull heire Will scarce retaine in memory, that we were. Tracke through the ayre the footesteps of the wind, And search the print of ships sayl'd by; then finde Where all the glories of those Monarchs be Who bore such sway in the worlds infancie. Time hath devour'd them all: and scarce can fame Give an account, that ere they had a name. How can he then who doth the world controle And strikes a terror now in either Pole, Th' insulting Turke secure himself that he Shall not be lost to dull Posterity? And though the Superstition of those Times Which deified Kings to warrant their owne crimes Translated Cæsar to a starre; yet they, Who every Region of the skie Survay; In their Cœlestiall travaile, that bright coast Could nere discover which containes his ghost. And after death to make that awe survive Which subjects owe their Princes yet alive, Though they build pallaces of brasse and jet And keepe them living in a counterfet; The curious looker on soone passes by And findes the tombe a sickenesse to his eye. Neither when once the soule is gone doth all The solemne triumph of the funerall Adde to her glory or her paine release: