But how shall I (that is My fainting earth) looke pale at this? Disjointed on the racke of paine. How shall I murmur, how complaine; And craving all the ayde of skill, Finde none, but what must kill? Which way so ere my griefe Doth throw my sight to court releese, I shall but meete despaire; for all Will prophesie my funerall: The very silence of the roome Will represent a tombe. And while my Childrens teares, My Wives vaine hopes, but certaine feares, And councells of Divines advance Death in each dolefull circumstance: I shall even a sad mourner be At my owne obsequie. For by examples I Must know that others sorrowes dye Soone as our selves, and none survive To keepe our memories alive. Even our fals tombes, as loath to say We once had life, decay. _Laudate Dominum de cœlis._ DAVID. You Spirits! who have throwne away That enveous weight of clay Which your cælestiall flight denyed: Who by your glorious troopes supply The winged Hierarchie, So broken in the Angells pride! O you! whom your Creators sight Inebriates with delight! Sing forth the triumphs of his name All you enamord soules! agree In a loud symphonie: To give expressions to your flame! To him, his owne great workes relate, Who daign'd to elevate You 'bove the frailtie of your birth: Where you stand safe from that rude warre, With which we troubled are By the rebellion of our earth. While a corrupted ayre beneath Here in this World we breath Each houre some passion us assailes: Now lust casts wild-fire in the blood, Or that it may seeme good, It selfe in wit or beauty vailes. Then envie circles us with hate, And lays a siege so streight, No heavenly succor enters in: But if Revenge admittance finde, For ever hath the mind Made forfeit of it selfe to sinne. Assaulted thus, how dare we raise Our mindes to thinke his praise, Who is Æternall and immens? How dare we force our feeble wit To speake him infinite, So farre above the search of sence? O you! who are immaculate His name may celebrate In your soules bright expansion. You whom your venues did unite To his perpetuall light, That even with him you now shine one. While we who t' earth contract our hearts, And onely studie Arts To shorten the sad length of Time: In place of joyes bring humble feares: For hymnes, repentant teares And a new sigh for every crime. _Qui quasi flos egreditur._ To the Right Honourable, the Lady _Cat. T._ Faire Madame! You May see what's man in yond' bright rose. Though it the wealth of Nature owes, It is opprest, and bends with dew.