May great Grand children of thy prayses grow. And so, though not revive, embalme and spice The world, which else would putrifie with vice. 40 For thus, Man may extend thy progeny, Untill man doe but vanish, and not die. These Hymnes thy issue, may encrease so long, As till Gods great _Venite_ change the song. [Sidenote: _A iust disestimation[2] of this world._] Thirst for that time, O my insatiate soule, 45 And serve thy thirst, with Gods safe-sealing Bowle. Be thirstie still, and drinke still till thou goe To th'only Health, to be Hydroptique so. Forget this rotten world; And unto thee Let thine owne times as an old storie bee. 50 Be not concern'd: studie not why, nor when; Doe not so much as not beleeve a man. For though to erre, be worst, to try truths forth, Is far more businesse, then this world is worth. The world is but a carkasse; thou art fed 55 By it, but as a worme, that carkasse bred; And why should'st thou, poore worme, consider more, When this world will grow better then before, Then those thy fellow wormes doe thinke upon That carkasses last resurrection. 60 Forget this world, and scarce thinke of it so, As of old clothes, cast off a yeare agoe. To be thus stupid is Alacritie; Men thus Lethargique have best Memory. Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state 65 We now lament not, but congratulate. Shee, to whom all this world was but a stage, Where all sat harkning how her youthfull age Should be emploi'd, because in all shee did, Some Figure of the Golden times was hid. 70 Who could not lacke, what e'r this world could give, Because shee was the forme, that made it live; Nor could complaine, that this world was unfit To be staid in, then when shee was in it; Shee that first tried indifferent desires 75 By vertue, and vertue by religious fires, Shee to whose person Paradise adher'd, As Courts to Princes, shee whose eyes ensphear'd Star-light enough, t'have made the South controule, (Had shee beene there) the Star-full Northerne Pole, 80 Shee, shee is gone; she is gone; when thou knowest this, What fragmentary rubbidge this world is Thou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought; He honors it too much that thinkes it nought. [Sidenote: _Contemplation of our state in our death-bed._] Thinke then, my soule, that death is but a Groome, 85 Which brings a Taper to the outward roome, Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light, And after brings it nearer to thy sight: For such approaches doth heaven make in death. Thinke thy selfe labouring now with broken breath, 90 And thinke those broken and soft Notes to bee Division, and thy happyest Harmonie.