Great Master of the Noblest Mysterie, That ever happy Knowledge did inspire; Sacred as that of Poetry, And which the wond’ring World does equally admire. Great Natures work we do contemn, When on his Glorious Births we meditate: The Face and Eies, more Darts receiv’d from him, Then all the Charms she can create. The Difference is, his Beauties do beget In the inamour’d Soul a Vertuous Heat: While Natures Grosser Pieces move, In the course road of Common Love: So bold, yet soft, his touches were; So round each part’s so sweet and fair. That as his Pencil mov’d men thought it prest, The Lively imitating rising Breast, Which yield like Clouds, where little Angels rest: The Limbs all easy as his Temper was; Strong as his Mind, and manly too; Large as his Soul his fancy was, and new: And from himself he copyed every Grace, For he had all that cou’d adorn a Face, All that cou’d either Sex subdue. III. Each Excellence he had that Youth has in its Pride, And all Experienc’d Age cou’d teach, At once the vigorous fire of this, And every vertue which that cou’d Express. In all the heights that both could reach; And yet alas, in this Perfection di’d. Dropt like a Blossom with the Northern blast, (When all the scatter’d Leaves abroad were cast;) As quick as if his fate had been in hast: So have I seen an unfixt Star, Out-shine the rest of all the Numerous Train, As bright as that which Guides the Marriner, Dart swiftly from its darken’d Sphere: And nere shall sight the World again. IV. Ah why shou’d so much knowledge die! Or with his last kind breath, Why cou’d he not to some one friend bequeath The Mighty Legacie! But ‘twas a knowledge given to him alone, That his eternis’d Name might be Admir’d to all Posteritie, By all to whom his grateful Name was known. Come all ye softer Beauties, come; Bring Wreaths of Flowers to deck his tomb; Mixt with the dismal _Cypress_ and the _Yew_, For he still gave your Charmes their due: And from the injuries of Age and Time, Preserv’d the sweetness of your Prime: And best knew how t’ adore that Sweetness too; Bring all your Mournful Tributes here, And let your Eyes a silent sorrow wear, Till every Virgin for a while become Sad as his Fate, and like his Picture’s Dumb. A Ballad _on Mr._ J. H. _to_ Amoret, _asking why I was so sad._ My _Amoret_, since you must know, The Grief you say my Eyes do show: Survey my Heart, where you shall find, More Love then for your self confin’d. And though you chide, you’ll Pity too, A Passion which even Rivals you.