Bid us lay in 'gainst winter raine, and poize
Their flouds with an o'erflowing glasse.

VI.

Thou best of men and friends? we will create
A genuine summer in each others breast;
And spite of this cold Time and frosen Fate,
Thaw us a warme seate to our rest.

VII.

Our sacred harthes shall burne eternally
As vestal flames; the North-wind, he

Shall strike his frost-stretch'd winges, dissolve

and flye

This Etna in epitome.

VIII.

Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewayle th' usurping of his raigne ;

But when in show'rs of old Greeke1 we beginne,
Shall crie, he hath his crowne againe !

IX.

Night as cleare Hesper shall our tapers whip
From the light casements, where we play,
And the darke hagge from her black mantle strip,
And sticke there everlasting day.

X.

Thus richer then untempted kings are we,

That asking nothing, nothing need: Though lord of all what seas imbrace, yet he That wants himselfe, is poore indeed.

1 i. e. old Greek wine.

AN ELEGIE.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CASSANDRA COTTON,

ONLY SISTER TO MR. C. COTTON.'

ITHER with hallowed steps as is the ground,
That must enshrine this saint with lookes

profound,

And sad aspects as the dark vails you weare, Virgins opprest, draw gently, gently neare; Enter the dismall chancell of this roome,

Where each pale guest stands fixt a living tombe;
With trembling hands helpe to remove this earth
To its last death and first victorious birth:

Let
gums and incense fume, who are at strife
To enter th' hearse and breath in it new life;
Mingle your steppes with flowers as you goe,
Which, as they haste to fade, will speake your woe.

And when y' have plac't your tapers on her urn,
How poor a tribute 'tis to weep and mourn!
That flood the channell of your eye-lids fils,
When you lose trifles, or what's lesse, your wills.
If you'l be worthy of these obsequies,

Be blind unto the world, and drop your eyes;

1 Cassandra Cotton, only daughter of Sir George Cotton, of Warblenton, co. Sussex, and of Bedhampton, co. Hants, died some time before 1649, unmarried. She was the sister of Charles Cotton the elder, and aunt to the poet. See Walton's Angler, ed. Nicolas, Introduction, clxvi.

H

Waste and consume, burn downward as this fire
That's fed no more: so willingly expire;

Passe through the cold and obscure narrow way,
Then light your torches at the spring of day,
There with her triumph in your victory.
Such joy alone and such solemnity

Becomes this funerall of virginity.

Or,

if you faint to be so blest, oh heare!
If not to dye, dare but to live like her:
Dare to live virgins, till the honour'd age
Of thrice fifteen cals matrons on the stage,
Whilst not a blemish or least staine is seene
On
your white roabe 'twixt fifty and fifteene;
But as it in your swathing-bands was given,
Bring't in your winding sheet unsoyl'd to Heav'n.
Dære to do purely, without compact good,
Or herald, by no one understood

But him, who now in thanks bows either knee
For th' early benefit and secresie.

Dare to affect a serious holy sorrow,

To which delights of pallaces are narrow,
And, lasting as their smiles, dig you a roome,
Where practise the probation of your tombe
With ever-bended knees and piercing pray'r,
Smooth the rough passe through craggy earth to ay'r;
Flame there as lights that shipwrackt mariners
May put in safely, and secure their feares,
Who, adding to your joyes, now owe you theirs.

Virgins, if thus you dare but courage take
To follow her in life, else through this lake

Of Nature wade, and breake her earthly bars,
Y' are fixt with her upon a throne of stars,
Arched with a pure Heav'n chrystaline,
Where round you love and joy for ever shine.

But you are dumbe, as what you do lament
More senseles then her very monument,

Which at your weaknes weeps. Spare that vaine teare,

Enough to burst the rev'rend sepulcher.

Rise and walk home; there groaning prostrate fall,

And celebrate your owne sad funerall:

For howsoe're you move, may heare, or see,

You are more dead and buried then shee.

THE VINTAGE TO THE DUNGEON.

A SONG.'

SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES.

I.

ING out, pent soules, sing cheerefully!

Care shackles you in liberty :

Mirth frees you in captivity.

Would you double fetters adde?
Else why so sadde?

Chorus.

Besides your pinion'd armes youl finde

Griefe too can manakell the minde.

Probably composed during the poet's confinement in Peter

house.

II.

Live then, pris'ners, uncontrol'd;
Drink oth' strong, the rich, the old,
Till wine too hath your wits in hold;
Then if still your jollitie

And throats are free

Chorus.

Tryumph in your bonds and paines,
And daunce to the music of your chaines.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH

FILMER.1

AN ELEGIACALL EPITAPH.

OU that shall live awhile, before
Old time tyrs, and is no more:
When that this ambitious stone
Stoopes low as what it tramples on:

Know that in that age, when sinne

Gave the world law, and governd Queene,
A virgin liv'd, that still put on

White thoughts, though out of fashion:

This lady was perhaps the daughter of Edward Filmer, Esq., of East Sutton, co. Kent, by his wife Eliza, daughter of Richard Argall, Esq., of the same place (See Harl. MS. 1432, p. 300). Possibly, the Edward Filmer mentioned here was the same as the author of "Frenche Court Ayres, with their Ditties engshed," 1629, in praise of which Jonson has some lines in his Underwoods.