I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound:
Your fate hath found
gentler and more agile hand to tend
The cure of that which is but corporal;
And doubtful days, which were
Have made their fairest flight
And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholesome physic
for the mind
Wrappd in this paper lie,
Which in the taking if you misapply,
You are unkind.
Your covetous hand,
Happy in that fair honour it hath gaind,
Must now be reind.
doth her own renown command
In one full action; nor have you now more
To do, than be a husband of
Think but how dear you bought
This fame which you have caught:
Such thoughts will make you
more in love with truth.
Tis wisdom, and that high,
For men to use their fortune reverently,
Even in youth.
WOULDST thou hear what Man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth
As much Beauty as could die:
Which in life did harbour give
To more Virtue than doth live.
If at all she
had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
The other, let it sleep with death:
where it died, to tell
Than that it lived at all. Farewell.
A child of Queen Elizabeths Chapel
WEEP with me, all you that read
This little story;
And know, for whom a tear you shed
self is sorry.
Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,
As Heaven and Nature seemd to strive
ownd the creature.
Years he numberd scarce thirteen
When Fates turnd cruel,
Yet three filld zodiacs
had he been
The Stages jewel;
And did act (what now we moan)
Old men so duly,
As sooth the Parcae
thought him one,
He playd so truly.
So, by error, to his fate
They all consented;
But, viewing him since,
alas, too late!
They have repented;
And have sought, to give new birth,
In baths to steep him;
so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.
To the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair,
Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison
IT is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and
die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short
measures, life may perfect be.
Call, noble Lucius, then for wine,
And let thy looks with gladness shine:
Accept this garland,
plant it on thy head,
And thinknay, knowthy Morisons not dead.
He leapd the present age,
with holy rage
To see that bright eternal Day
Of which we Priests and Poets say
Such truths as we expect
for happy men;
And there he lives with memoryand Ben
Jonson: who sung this of him, ere he went
Himself to rest,
Or tast a part of that full joy he
To have exprest
In this bright Asterism,
Where it were friendships schism
Were not his Lucius long with us
To separate these twy
Lights, the Dioscuri,
And keep the one half from his Harry.
But fate doth
so alternate the design,
Whilst that in Heavn, this light on earth must shine
And shine as you exalted are!
Two names of friendship, but one star:
Of hearts the union: and
those not by chance
Made, or indenture, or leased out to advance
The profits for a time.
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