For he had any time this ten years full Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and The Bull. But lately, finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journey's end was come, In the kind office of a chamberlin 10 Showed him his room where he must lodge that night, If any ask for him, it shall be said, ANOTHER ON THE SAME HERE lieth one who did most truly prove While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime Too long vacation hastened on his term. 10 Merely to drive the time away he sickened, Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quickened. "Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretched, "If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetched, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, As he were pressed to death, he cried, " More weight!" He had been an immortal carrier. Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas; Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase. Only remains this superscription. 30 AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER THIS rich marble doth inter 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, Her high birth and her graces sweet And now with second hope she goes, Spoiled at once both fruit and tree. 10 20 30 Who only thought to crop the flower That, to give the world increase, Shortened hast thy own life's lease! Here, besides the sorrowing That thy noble house doth bring, 40 50 Sent thee from the banks of Came, Devoted to thy virtuous name; 60 Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitt'st in glory, Next her, much like to thee in story, That fair Syrian shepherdess, Who, after years of barrenness, The highly-favored Joseph bore To him that served for her before, And at her next birth, much like thee, Far within the bosom bright Of blazing Majesty and Light: 70 There with thee, new-welcome Saint, ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arrived so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, 10 It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. TO THE NIGHTINGALE O NIGHTINGALE that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, D |