Tis not from cheap thanks thinly t… Th’ immortal grove of thy fair-ord… Thou planted’st round my humble fa… Stick on thy hearse this sprig of… Nor that your soul so fast was lin…

Hither with hallowed steps as is t… That must enshrine this saint with… And sad aspects as the dark vails… Virgins opprest, draw gently, gent… Enter the dismall chancell of this…

Cold as the breath of winds that b… To silver shot descending snow, Lucasta sighed, when she did close The world in frosty chains! And then a frown to rubies froze

Divine Destroyer, pitty me no mor… Or else more pitty me; Give me more love, ah, quickly giv… Or else more cruelty! For left thus as I am,

TIS true the beauteous Starre To which I first did bow Burnt quicker, brighter far Then that which leads me now ; Which shines with more delight:

LONG in thy Shackels, liberty, I ask not from these walls, but th… Left for a while anothers Bride, To fancy all the world beside. II

Sweet serene skye-like Flower, Haste to adorn her Bower: From thy long clowdy bed, Shoot forth thy damaske head. II.

To the richest Treasury That e’er fill’d ambitious eye; To the faire bright Magazin Hath impoverisht Love’s Queen; To th’ Exchequer of all honour

Eastrich! thou featherd foole, and… That larger sailes to thy broad ve… Snakes through thy guttur-neck his… Then on thy iron messe at supper f… II.

Like to the sent’nel stars, I wat… For still the grand round of your… And glorious breast Awake in me an east: Nor will my rolling eyes ere know…

SING out pent Soules, sing cheer… Care Shackles you in Liberty, Mirth frees you in Captivity: Would you double fetters adde? Else why so sadde?

Sweet serene skye-like flower, Haste to adorn her bower; From thy long clowdy bed Shoot forth thy damaske head. II.

THOU snowy Farme with thy five… Tell thy white Mistris here was o… That call’d to pay his dayly Rent… But she agathering Flowr’s and He… And thou left voyd to rude Posses…

Now Whitehall’s in the grave, And our head is our slave, The bright pearl in his close shel… Now the miter is lost, The proud Praelates, too, crost,

Depose your finger of that Ring, And Crowne mine with’t awhile Now I restor’t.—Pray, do’s it bri… Back with it more of soile? Or shines it not as innocent,