Next is your lot, fair, to be number'd one, Here, in my book's canonisation: Late you come in; but you a saint shall be, In chief, in this poetic liturgy. 511. ANOTHER UPON HER. First, for your shape, the curious cannot show Any one part that's dissonant in you: And 'gainst your chaste behaviour there's no plea, Since you are known to be Penelope. Thus fair and clean you are, although there be _A mighty strife 'twixt form and chastity_. _Form_, beauty. 513. CROSS AND PILE. Fair and foul days trip cross and pile; the fair Far less in number than our foul days are. _Trip cross and pile_, come haphazard, like the heads and tails of coins. 514. TO THE LADY CREW, UPON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD. Why, madam, will ye longer weep, Whenas your baby's lull'd asleep? And (pretty child) feels now no more Those pains it lately felt before. All now is silent; groans are fled: Your child lies still, yet is not dead; But rather like a flower hid here To spring again another year. 515. HIS WINDING-SHEET. Come thou, who art the wine and wit Of all I've writ: The grace, the glory, and the best Piece of the rest. Thou art of what I did intend The all and end; And what was made, was made to meet Thee, thee, my sheet. Come then, and be to my chaste side Both bed and bride. We two, as reliques left, will have One rest, one grave. And, hugging close, we will not fear Lust entering here, Where all desires are dead or cold As is the mould; And all affections are forgot, Or trouble not. Here, here the slaves and pris'ners be From shackles free: And weeping widows long oppress'd Do here find rest. The wronged client ends his laws Here, and his cause. Here those long suits of chancery lie Quiet, or die: And all Star-Chamber bills do cease, Or hold their peace. Here needs no Court for our Request, Where all are best, All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i' th' dust. Nor need we here to fear the frown Of court or crown: _Where fortune bears no sway o'er things, There all are kings_. In this securer place we'll keep, As lull'd asleep; Or for a little time we'll lie As robes laid by; To be another day re-worn, Turn'd, but not torn: Or, like old testaments engrost, Lock'd up, not lost. And for a while lie here conceal'd, To be reveal'd Next at that great Platonick year, And then meet here. _Platonick year_, the 36,000th year, in which all persons and things return to their original state. 516. TO MISTRESS MARY WILLAND.