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Nor could incomprehensibleness deter

One, whose clear body was so pure and thin, Me from thus trying to imprison ber?

Because it need disguise no thought within ; Which when I saw that a strict grave could do, 'Twas but a through-light scarf her mind t'enroll; I saw not why verse might not do so too.

Or exhalation breath'd out from her soul :
Verse bath a middle nature; Heav'n keeps souls, One, whom all men, who durst no more, admir'd:
The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrolls. And whom, whoe'er had worth epough, desir'd.

As, when a temple's built, saints emulate
To which of them it shall be consecrate.
But as when Heav'n looks on us with new eyes,

Those new stars every artist exercise ;
A FUNERAL ELEGY.

What place they should assign to them, they doubt, T is loss to trust a tomb with such a guest,

Argue, and agree not, till those stars go out:

So the world study'd whose this piece should be, Or to confine her in a marble chest,

Till she can be no body's else, nor she: Alas! what's marble, jeat, or porphyry,

But like a lamp of balsamum, desir'd Priz'd with the chrysolite of either eye,

Rather t'adorn than last, she soon expir'd, Or with those pearls and rubies which she was ? Cloth'd in her virgin-white integrity; Join the two Indies in one tomb, 't is glass; For marriage, though it doth not stain, doth die. And so is all to her materials,

To 'scape th' infirmities which wait upon
Though every inch were ten Escurials;

Woman, she went away before sh' was one ;
Yet she's demolish'd: can we keep her then And the world's busy noise to overcome,
In works of hands, or of the wits of men ?

Took so much death as serv'd for opium ;
Can these memorials, rags of paper, give

For though she could not, nor could choose to die, Life to that name, by which name they must live? Sh' hath yielded to too long an ecstasy. Sickly, alas! short liv'd, abortive be

He which, not knowing her sad history, Those carcass verses, whose soul is not she; Should come to read the book of Destiny, And can she, who no longer would be she,

How fair and chaste, hamble and high, sh' had been, (Being such a tabernacle) stoop to be

Much promis'd, much perform’d, at not fifteen, In paper wrap'd; or when she would not lie

And measuring future things by things before, In such an house, dwell in an elegy?

Should turn the leaf to read, and read no more,
But it is no matter ; we may well allow

Would think that either Destiny mistook,
Verse to live so long as the world will now, Or that some leaves were toru out of the book ;
For her death wounded it. The world contains

But 't is not so: Fate did but usher her
Princes for arms, and counsellors for brains;

To years of reason's use, and then infer
Lawyers for tongues, divines for hearts, and more

Her destiny to herself, which liberty
The rich for stomachs, and for backs the poor; She took, but for thus much, thus much to die;
The officers for hands; merchants for feet,

Her modesty not suffering her to be
By which remote and distant countries nieet:

Fellow-commissioner with Destiny, But those fine spirits, which do tune and set

She did no more but die ; if after her
This organ, are those pieces, which beget

Any shall live, which dare true good prefer,
Wonder and love; and these were she; and she Every such person is her delegate,
Being spent, the world must needs decrepit be:

T” accomplish that which should have been her fate. For since death will proceed to triumph still,

They shall make up that book, and shall have thanks He can find nothing after her to kill,

Of fate and her, for filling up their blanks. Except the world itself; so great was she, For future virtuous deeds are legacies, Thus brave and confident may nature be,

Which from the gift of her example rise ; Death cannot give her such another blow,

And 't is in Heav'n part of spiritual mirth,
Because she cannot such another show.

To see how well the good play her on Eartb.
But must we say she's dead ? may 't not be said,
That as a sundred clock is piecemeal laid,
Not to be lost, but by the maker's hand,
Repolish'd, without errour then to stand;
Or, as the Afric Niger stream enwombs

OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.
Itself into the earth, and after comes
(Having first made a natural bridge, to pass WHEREIN, BY OCCASION OF THE RELIGIOUS DEATH OP
For many leagues) far greater than it was,

MRS. ELIZABETH DRURY, THE INCOMMODITIES OF THE May 't not be said, that her grave shall restore SOUL IN THIS LIFE, AND HER EXALTATION IN THE NEXT, Her greater, purer, firmer than before ?

ARE CONTEMPLATED.
Heav'n may say this, and joy in 't; but can we,

THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY.
Who live, and lack her here, this 'vantage see?
What is 't to us, alas ! if there have been

The harbinger to the progress.
An angel made a throne, or cherubin?
We lose by 't: and as aged men are glad, Two souls move here, and inine (a third) must move
Being tasteless grown, to joy in joys they had ; Paces' of admiration and of love.
So now the sick-starv'd world must feed upon Thy soul (dear virgin) whose this tribute is,
This joy, that we bad her, who now is gone. Mov'd from this mortal sphere to lively bliss;
Rejoice then, Nature and this world, that you, And yet moves still, and still aspires to see
Fearing the last fire's hast'ning to subdue

The world's last day, thy glory's full degree : Your force and vigour, ere it were near gone, Like as those stars, which thou o'erlookest far, Wisely bestow'd and laid it all on one;

Are in their place, and yet still mored are :

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No soul (whilst with the luggage of this clay Forgetting her, the main reserve of all;
It clogged is) can follow thee half way;

Yet in this deluge, gross and general,
Or see thy flight, which doth our thoughts outgo Thou seest me strive for life; my life shall be
So fast, as now the lightning moves but slow. To be hereafter prais'd for praising thee,
But now thou art as high in Heaven flown,

Immortal maid, who though thou would'st refuse
As Hear'n's from us; what soul besides thine own The name of mother, be unto my Muse
Can tell thy joys, or say, he can relate

A father, since her chaste ambition is
Thy glorious journals in that blessed state? Yearly to bring forth such a child as this.
I envy thee (rich soul) I envy thee,

These hymns may work on future wits, and so Although I cannot get thy glory see:

May great grand-children of thy praises grow; And thou (great spirit) which hers follow'd hast And so, though not revive, embalm and spice So fast, as none can follow thine so fast;

The world, which else would putrify with vice. So far, as none can follow thine so far,

For thus man may extend thy progeny, (And if this flesh did not the passage bar,

Until man do but vanish, and not die. Hadst caught her) let me wonder at thy flight, These hymns thy issue may increase so long, Which long agon hadst lost the vulgar sight, As till God's great venite change the song. And now mak’st proud the better eyes, that they Thirst for that time, O my insatiate soul, Can see thee lessen'd in thine airy way;

And serve thy thirst with God's safe-sealing bowl. So while thou mak’st her soul by progress known, Be thirsty still, and drink still, till thou go Thou mak'st a noble progress of thine own; To th' only health; to be hydroptic so, From this world's carcass having mounted high Forget this rotten world; and into thee To that pure life of immortality;

Let thine own times as an old story be; Since thiné aspiring thoughts themselves so raise, Be not concern'd: study not why, or when; That more may not beseem a creature's praise; Do not so much as not believe a man. Yet still thou vow'st her more, and every year For though to err be worst, to try truths forth, Mak'st a new progress, whilst thou wand'rest here; Is far more business than this world is worth. Still upward mount; and let thy maker's praise The world is but a carcass; thou art fed Honour thy Laura, and adorn thy lays:

By it, but as a worm that carcass bred ; And since thy Muse her head in Heaven shrouds, And why should'st thon, poor worm, consider more Oh let her never stoop below the clouds :

When this world will grow better than before? And if those glorious sainted souls may know Than those thy fellow worms do think upon Or what we do, or what we sing below,

That carcass's last resurrection?
Those acts, those songs shall still content them best, Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
Which praise those awful pow'rs, that make them As of old clothes cast off a year ago.
bless'd.

To be thus stupid is alacrity;
Men thus lethargic have best memory.
Look upward, that's towards her, whose happy state
We now lament not, but congratulate

She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.

Where all sat hark’ning how her youthful age
THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY.

Should be employ'd, because in all she did

Some figure of the golden times was hid. NOTHING could make me sooner to confess,

Who could not lack whate'er this world could give, That this world had an everlastingness,

Because she was the forın that made it live; Than to consider that a year is run,

Nor could complain that this world was unfit Since both this lower world's, and the Sun's sun, To be stay'd in then, when she was in it. The lustre and the vigour of this all

She, that first try'd indifferent desires Did set ; 't were blasphemy to say, did fall. By virtue, and virtue by religious fires; Bat as a ship, which hath struck sail, doth run She, to whose person paradise adherd; By force of that force, which before it won: As courts to princes: she, whose eyes enspher'd Or as sometimes in a bebeaded man,

Star-light enough, t'have made the south control Though at those two red seas, which freely ran, (Had she been there) the star-full northern pole; One from the trunk, another from the head, She, she is gone; she's gone: when thou know'st this, His soul be sail'd to her eternal bed,

What fragmentary rubbish this world is His eyes will twinkle, and his tongue will roll, Thou know'st, and that it is not worth a thought ; As though he beck'ned and call'd back his soul, He honours it too much that thinks it nought. He grasps his hands, and he pulls up his feet, Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom, And seems to reach, and to step forth to meet Which brings a taper to the outward room, His soul; when all these motions, which we saw,

Whence thou spy'st first a little glimmering light, Are but as ice, which crackles at tbaw:

And after brings it nearer to thy sight: Or as a lute, which in moist weather rings

For such approaches doth Heav'n make in death: Her knell alone, by cracking of her strings; Think thyself labouring now with broken breath, So struggles this dead world, now she is gone: And think those broken and soft notes to be For there is motion in corruption.

Division, and thy happiest barmony. As some days are at the creation pam'd,

Think thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slack; Before the Sun, the which fram'd days, was fram'd: And think that but unbinding of a pack, So after this Sup 's set some show appears,

To take one precious thing, thy soul, from thence. And orderly vicissitude of years.

Think thyself parch'd with fever's violence,
Yet a new deluge, and of Lethe flood,

Anger thine ague more, by calling it
Hath dropr'd us all; all have forgot all good, Thy physic; cbide the slackness of the fit.

Think that thou hear'st thy knell, and think no more, Think, that no stubborn sullen anchorit,
But that, as bells call'd thee to church before, Which fix'd ta pillar, or a grave, doth sit
So this to the triumphant church calls thee. Bedded, and bath'd in all his ordures, dwells
Think Satan's serjeants round about thee be, So foully, as our souls in their first-built cells:
And think that but for legacies they thrust; Think in how poor a prison thou dost lie,
Give one thy pride, t' another give thy lust: After enabled but to suck, and cry
Give them those sins, which they gave thee before, Think, when ’t was grown to most,'t was a poor inn,
And trust th' immaculate blood to wash thy score. A province pack'd up in two yards of skin,
Think thy friends weeping round, and think that they And that usurp'd, or threaten'd with a rage
Weep but because they go not yet thy way. Of sicknesses, or, their true mother, age:
Think that they close thine eyes, and think in this, But think that Death hath now enfranchis'd thee,
That they confess much in the world amiss, Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty.
Who dare not trust a dead man's eye with that, Think, that a rusty piece discharg'd is flown
Which they from God and angels cover not. In pieces, and the bullet is bis own,
Think that they shroud thee up, and think from And freely flies: this to thy soul allow,
They re-invest thee in white innocence. [thence, Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch'd but
Think that thy body rots, and (if so low,

now,
Thy soul exalted so, thy thoughts can go) And think this slow-pac'd soul, which late did cleare
Think thee a prince, who of themselves create T'a body, and went but by the body's leave,
Worms, which insensibly devour their state : Twenty perchance or thirty miles a day,
Think that they bury thee, and think that right Dispatches in a minute all the way
Lays thee to sleep but a Saint Lucie's night. 'Twixt Heav'n and Earth; she stays not in the air,
Think these things cheerfully, and if thou be To look what meteors there themselves prepare;
Drowsy, or slack, remember then that she, She carries no desire to know, nor sense,
She, whose complexion was so even made, Whether th' air's middle region be intense ;
That which of her ingredients should invade For th' element of fire, she dotb not know,
The other three, no fear, no art could guess; Whether she pass'd ty such a place or no;
So far were all remov'd from more or less : She baits not at the Moon, 'nor cares to try
But as in mithridate, or just perfumes,

Whether in that new world men live and 'ie.
Where all good things being met, no one presumes Venus retards her not, t'inquire how she
To govern, or to triumph on the rest,

Can (being one star) Hesper and Vesper be;
Only because all were, no part was best;

He, that charm'd Argus' eyes, sweet Mercury, Aud as, though all do know, that quantities Works not on her, who now is grown all eye; Are made of lines, and lines from points arise, Who, if she meet the body of the Sun, None can these lines or quantities unjoint,

Goes through, not staying till his course be run; And say, this is a line, or this a point;

Who finds in Mars his camp no corps of guard, So though the elements and humours were Nor is by Jove, nor by his father, barr'd; In her, one could not say, this governs there; But ere she can consider how she went, Whose even constitution might bave won

At once is at and through the firmament. Any disease to venture on the Sun,

And as these stars were but so many beads Rather than her; and make a spirit fear,

Strung on one string, speed updistinguish'd leads That he too disuniting subject were ;

Her through those spberes, as through those beads To whose proportions if we would compare

a string, Cubes, they 're unstable; circles, angular; Whose quick succession makes it still one thing: She, who was such a chain as Fate employs As doth the pith, which, lest our bodies slack, To bring mankind all fortunes it enjoys,

Strings fast the little bones of neck and back;
So fast, so even wrought, as one would think So by the soul doth Death string Heav'n and Earth;
No accident could threaten any link;

For when our soul enjoys this her third birth,
She, she embrac'd a sickness, gave it meat, (Creation gave her oue, a second grace)
The purest blood and breath that e'er it eat; Heaven is near and present to her face;
And hath taught us, that though a good man hath As colours are and objects in a room,
Title to Heav'n, and plead it by his faith,

Where darkness was before, when tapers come. And though he may pretend a conquest, since This must, my soul, thy long-short progress be Heav'n was content to suffer violence;

T” advance these thoughts; remember then that she, Yea, though he plead a long possession too, [do) She, whose fair body no such prison was, (For they're in Heav'n on Earth,who Heav'n's works But that a soul might well be pleas'd to pass Though he had right, and pow'r, and place before, An age in her; she, whose rich beauty lent Yet Death must usber and unlock the door. Mintage to other beauties, for they went Think further on thyself, my soul, and think But for so much as they were like to her; How tbou at first wast made but in a sink; She, in whose body (if we dare prefer Think, that it argued some infirmity,

This low world to so high a mark as she) That those two souls, which then thou found'st in me, The western treasure, eastern spicery, Thou fed'st upon, and drew'st into thee both Europe, and Afric, and the unknown rest My second soul of sense, and first of growth. Were easily found, or what in them was best ; Think but how poor thou wast, how obnoxious, And when we've made this large discovery Whom a small lump of flesh could poison thus. Of all, in her some one part then will be This curdled milk, this poor unletter'd whelp, Twenty such parts, whose plenty and riches is My body, could, beyond escape or help,

Enough to make twenty such worlds as this; Infect thee with original sin, and thou

She, whom had they known, who did first betroth Could'st neither then refuse, nor leave it now. The tutelar angels, and assigned one both

To nations, cities, and to companies,

So much good, as would make as many more: To functions, offices, and dignities,

She, whose example they must all implore, And to each several man, to him and him,

Who would, or do, or think well, and confess They would have giv'n ber one for every limb; That all the virtuous actions they express, She, of wbose soul if we may say, 't was gold, Are but a new and worse edition Her body was th' electrum, and did hold

Of her some one thought, or one action : Many degrees of that; we understood

She, who in th’art of knowing Heav'n was grown Her by her sight; her pure and eloquent blood Here upon Earth to such perfection, Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That she hath, ever since to Heav'n she came, That one might almost say, her body thought; (In a far fairer print) but read the same; She, she thus richly and largely hous'd, is gone, She, she not satisfy'd with all this weight, And chides us, slow-pac'd snails, who crawl upon

(For so much knowledge, as would over-freight Our prison's.prison, Earth, nor think us well, Another, did but ballast her) is gone Longer than whilst we bear our brittle shell. As well t' enjoy as get perfection; But 't were but little to have chang'd our room,

And calls us after her, in that she took If, as we were in this our living tomb

(Taking herself) our best and worthiest book. Oppress'd with ignorance, we still were so. Return not, my soul, from this ecstasy, Poor soul, in this thy flesh what dost thou know? And meditation of what thou shalt be, Thou know'st thyself so little, as thou know'st not To earthly thoughts, tilt it to thee appear, How thou didst die, nor how thou wast begot. With whom thy conversation must be there. Thou neither know'st bow thou at first cam'st in,

With whom wilt thou converse ? what station Nor how thou took'st the poison of man's sin; Canst thou choose out free from infection, Nor dost thou (though thou know'st that thou art so) That will not give thee theirs, nor drink in thine ? By what way thou art made immortal, know. Shalt thou not find a spongy slack divine Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehend Drink and suck in th' instructions of great men, Even thyself, yea, though thou would'st but bend And for the word of God vent them again? To know thy body. Have not all souls thought Are there not some courts (and then no things be For many ages, that our body 's wrought So like as courts) which in this let us see, Of air, and fire, and other elements ?

That wits and tongues of libellers are weak, And now they think of new ingredients.

Because they do more ill than these can speak ? And one soul thinks one, and another way The poison 's gone through all, poisons affect Another thinks, and 't is an even lay.

Chiefly the chiefest parts; but some effect Know'st thou but how the stone doth enter in In nails, and hairs, yea, excrements will show; The bladder's cave, and never break the skin? So lies the poisou of sin in the most low. Know'st thou how blood, which to the heart doth Up, up, my drowsy soul, where thy new ear flow,

Shall in the angels' songs no discord hear; Doth from one ventricle to th’ other go?

Where thou shalt see the blessed mother-maid And for the putrid stuff which thou dost spit, Joy in not being that which men have said; Know'st thou how thy lungs have attracted it? Where she's exalted more for being good, There are no passages, so that there is

Than for her interest of motherhood : (For ought thou know'st) piercing of substances. Up to those patriarchs, which did longer sit And of those many opinions, which men raise Expecting Christ, than they 've enjoy'd him yet: Of nails and hairs, dost thou know which to praise? | Up to those prophets, which now gladly see What hope have we to know ourselves, when we Their prophecies grown to be history: Know not the least things, which for our use be? Up to th' apostles, who did bravely run We see in authors, too stiff to recant,

All the Sun's course, with more light than the Sun: An hundred controverses of an ant;

Up to those martyrs, who did calmly bleed And yet one watches, starves, freezes, and sweats, Oil to th' apostle's lamps, dew to their seed: To know but catechisms and alphabets

Up to those virgins, who thought, that almost Of unconcerning things, matters of fact;

They inade joint-tenants with the Holy Ghost,
How others on our stage their parts did act: If they to any should his temple give:
What Cæsar did, yea, or what Cicero said.

Up, up, for in that squadron there doth live
Why grass is green, or why our blood is red, She, who hath carry'd thither new degrees
Are mysteries which aone have reach'd unto ; (As to their number) to their dignities:
In this low form, poor soul, what wilt thou do? She, who being to herself a state, enjoy'd
Oh! when wilt thou shake off this pedantry, All royalties, which any state employ'd;
Of being taught by sense and fantasy?

For she made wars, and triumph'd; reason still Thou look'st through spectacles; small things seem Did not o'erthrow, but rectify her will: great

And she made peace; for no peace is like this, Below; but up onto the watch-tower get, That beauty and chastity together kiss: And see all things despoil'd of fallacies:

She did high justice, for she crucify'd Thou shalt not peep through lattices of eyes, Ev'ry first motion of rebellion's pride: Nor hear through labyrinths of ears, nor learn And she gave pardons, and was liberal, By circuit or collections to discern;

For, only herself except, she pardon'd all: In Heav'n thou straight know'st all concerning it, she coin'd, in this, that her impression gave And what concerns it not, shall straight forget. To all our actions all the worth they have: There thou (but in no other school) may'st be She gave protections; the thoughts of her breast Perchance as learned, and as full as she;

Satan's rude officers could oe'er arrest. She, who all libraries had throughly read

As these prerogatives, being met in one, At bome in her own thoughts, and practised Made ber a sovereigo state ; religion

Made her a church; and these two made her all. 'T is such a full, and such a filling good,
She, who was all this all, and could not fall Had th' angels once look'd on him, they had stood.
To worse, by company, (for she was still

To fill the place of one of them, or more,
More antidote than all the world was ill)

She, whom we celebrate, is gone before : She, she doth leave it, and by death survive She, who had here so much essential joy, All this in Heav'n; whither who doth not strive As no chance could distract, much less destroy; The more, because she's there, he doth not know Who with God's presence was acquainted so, That accidental joys in Heav'n do grow.

(Hearing, and speaking to him) as to know But pause, my soul ; and study, tre thou fall His face in any natural stone or tree, On accidental joys, th' essential.

Better than when in images they be: Still before accessories do abide

Who kept by diligent devotion A trial, must the principal be try'd.

God's image in such reparation And what essential joy canst thou expect

Within her heart, that what decay was grown, Here upon Earth? what permanent effect Was her first parents' fault, and not her own : Of transitory causes? Dost thou love

Who, being solicited to any act, Beauty ? (And beauty worthiest is to move) Still heard God pleading his safe pre-contract : Poor cozen'd cozener, that she, and that thou, Who by a faithful confidence was here Which did begin to love, are neither now.

Betroth'd to God, and now is married there; You are both Auid, chang'd since yesterday; Whose twilights were more clear than our mid-day; Next day repairs (bạt ill) last day's decay. Who dream'd devoutlier than most use to pray: Nor are (although the river keep the name) Who being here fill'd with grace, yet strove to be Yesterday's waters and to day's the same. Both where more grace and more capacity So flows her face, and thine eyes; neither now At once is given : she to Heav'a is gone, That saint, nor pilgrim, which your loving vow Who made this world in some proportion Concern'd, remains; but whilst you think you be A Heav'n, and here became unto us all, Constant, you 're hourly in inconstancy.

Joy (as our joys admit) essential. Honour may have pretence unto our love,

But could this low world joys essential touch, Because that God did live so long above

Heav'n's accidental joys would pass them much. Without this honour, and then lov'd it so,

How poor and lame must then our casual be? That he at last made creatures to bestow

If thy prince will his subjects to call thee Honour on him; not that he needed it,

My lord, and this do swell thee, thou art then,
But that to his hands man might grow more fit. By being greater, grown to be less man.
But since all honours from inferiors flow,

When no physician of redress can speak,
(For they do give it ; princes do but show A joyful casual violence may break
Whom they would have so honour'd) and that this a dangerous apostem in thy breast;
On such opinions and capacities

And whilst thou joy'st in this, the dangerous rest, Is built, as rise and fall, to more and less,

The bag may rise up, and so strangle thee. Alas! 't is but a casual happiness.

What e'er was casual, may ever be: Hath ever any man t' himself assign'd

What should the nature change? or make the same This or that happiness t' arrest his mind,

Certain, which was but casual when it came? But that another man, which takes a worse, All casual joy doth loud and plainly say, Thinks him a fool for having ta'en that course? Only by coming, that it can away. They who did labour Babel's tow'r t' erect, Only in Heav'n joy's strength is never spent, Might have consider'd, that for that effect And accidental things are permanent. All this whole solid Earth could not allow,

Joy of a soul's arrival ne'er decays; Nor furnish forth materials enow;

(For that soul ever joys, and ever stays) And that his centre, to raise such a place, Joy, that their last great consummation Was far too little to have been the base :

Approaches in the resurrection; No more affords this world foundation

When earthly bodies more celestial T' erect true joy, were all the means in one. Sball be than angels were ; for they could fall; But as the heathen made them several gods This kind of joy doth every day admit Of all God's benefits, and all his rods,

Degrees of growth, but none of losing it. (For as the wine, and corn, and onions are

In this fresh joy, 't is no small part that she, Gods unto them, so agues be, and war)

She, in whose goodness he that names degree, And as by changing that whole precious gold Doth injure her; ('t is loss to be call'd best, To such small copper coins, they lost the old, There where the stuff is not such as the rest ;) And lost their only God, who ever must

She, who left such a body as even she Be sought alone, and not in such a thrust : Only in Heav'n could learn, how it can be So much mankind true happiness mistakes; Made better; for she rather was two souls, No joy enjoys that man, that many makes. Or like to full on both sides-written rolls, Then, soul, to thy first pitch work up again; Where minds might read upon the outward skin Know that all lines, which circles do contain, As strong records for God, as minds within: For once that they the centre touch, do touch She, who, by making full perfection grow, Twice the circumference; and be thou such, Pieces a circle, and still keeps it so, Double on Heav'n thy thoughts, on Earth employ'd; Long'd for, and longing for 't, to Heav'n is gone, All will not scrve; only who have enjoy'd

Where she receives and gives addition. The sight of God in fulness, can think it;

Here in a place, where misdevotion frames For it is both the object and the wit.

A thousand prayers to saints, whose very names This is essential joy, where neither he

The ancient church knew not, Heav'n knows not yet, Can suffer diminution, nor we;

And where what laws of poetry admits

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