Start, and say, the serpent hisses. Draw him, drag him, though he pray Wooe, intreat, and crying say Prethee, sweet, now let me go, Here's my quiver, shafts and bow, 70 I'le give thee all, take all; take heed Lest his kindnesse make thee bleed. What e're it be Loue offers, still presume That though it shines, 'tis fire and will consume. VPON BISHOP ANDREWS' PICTURE BEFORE HIS SERMONS.[67] This reverend shadow cast that setting sun, 1 Whose glorious course through our horrizon run, Left the dimme face of this dull hemispheare, All one great eye, all drown'd in one great teare. Whose faire, illustrious soule, led his free thought 5 Through Learning's vniverse, and (vainly) sought Room for her spatious selfe, untill at length Shee found the way home, with an holy strength; Snatch't her self hence to Heaven: fill'd a bright place, 'Mongst those immortall fires, and on the face 10 Of her great Maker fixt her flaming eye, There still to read true, pure divinity. And now that grave aspect hath deign'd to shrinke Into this lesse appearance: If you thinke 'Tis but a dead face, Art doth here bequeath: 15 Looke on the following leaves, and see him breath. VPON THE DEATH OF A GENTLEMAN.[68] Faithlesse and fond Mortality! 1 Who will ever credit thee? Fond, and faithlesse thing! that thus, In our best hopes beguilest us. What a reckoning hast thou made, 5 Of the hopes in him we laid! For life by volumes lengthenèd, A line or two to speake him dead. For the laurell in his verse, The sullen cypresse o're his herse _crape_ 10 For soe many hopèd yeares Of fruit, soe many fruitles teares: For a silver-crownèd head A durty pillow in Death's bed. For so deare, so deep a trust, 15 Sad requitall, thus much dust! Now though the blow that snatch him hence, Stopt the mouth of Eloquence: Though shee be dumbe e're since his death, Not us'd to speake but in his breath; 20 Leaving his death vngarnishèd Therefore, because hee is dead Yet if at least shee not denyes, The sad language of our eyes, Wee are contented: for then this 25 Language none more fluent is. Nothing speakes our griefe so well As to speak nothing. Come then tell Thy mind in teares who e're thou be, That ow'st a name to misery. 30 Eyes are vocall, teares have tongues, And there be words not made with lungs; Sententious showres: O let them fall, Their cadence is rhetoricall. Here's a theame will drinke th' expence, 35 Of all thy watry eloquence. Weepe then! onely be exprest