His godlike acts, and his temptations fierce, Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. V Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief! And work my flattered fancy to belief That heaven and earth are coloured with my woe; My sorrows are too dark for day to know: The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have washed, a wannish white. VI See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, 40 VII Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears That they would fitly fall in ordered characters. VIII Or, should I thence, hurried on viewless wing, Might think the infection of my sorrows loud Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud. This Subject the Author finding to be above the years he had when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished. 50 SONG ON MAY MORNING. Now the bright morning-star, Day's harbinger, Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones The labour of an age in pilèd stones? Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? ΙΟ Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, ΙΟ ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER: Who sickened in the time of his Vacancy, being forbid to go to London by HERE lies old Hobson. Death hath broke his girt, But lately, finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journey's end was come, In the kind office of a chamberlin ΙΟ Showed him his room where he must lodge that night, Pulled off his boots, and took away the light. If any ask for him, it shall be said, "Hobson has supped, and's newly gone to bed." ANOTHER ON THE SAME. HERE lieth one who did most truly prove So hung his destiny, never to rot While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime Too long vacation hastened on his term. That even to his last breath (there be that say't), ΙΟ 20 As he were pressed to death, he cried, "More weight!" He had been an immortal carrier. 337 30 Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas; Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase. His letters are delivered all and gone; Only remains this superscription. AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF THIS rich marble doth inter The honoured wife of Winchester, A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir, Added to her noble birth, More than she could own from Earth. Summers three times eight save one After so short time of breath, To house with darkness and with death! Yet, had the number of her days Been as complete as was her praise, In giving limit to her life. Her high birth and her graces sweet The god that sits at marriage-feast; 10 But with a scarce well-lighted flame ; 20 And in his garland, as he stood, Ye might discern a cypress-bud. |