THY tomb, arms, statue, all things fit to | And so 'tis kept. Not thy thrice-sacred fall At foot of Death, and worship funeral, Form hath bestow'd; for form is nought too dear Thy solid virtues yet, eternized here, My blood and wasted spirits have only found Commanded cost, and broke so rich a ground, Not to inter, but make thee ever spring, will, To all times future this time's mark extend, As arms, tombs, statues, every earthy Homer no patron found, nor Chapman thing, friend. Ignotus nimis omnibus, Sat notus, moritur sibi TO HIS LOVED SON, NAT. FIELD AND HIS "WEATHERCOCK WOMAN."* A HYMN TO HYMEN FOR THE MOST TIME-FITTED NUPTIALS OF OUR THRICE-GRACIOUS PRINCESS, ELIZABETH.† Yet wears she 'gainst those fires that make her fade, Her thick hairs proof, all hid in midnight's shade, Her health is all in dews; hope all in showers, Whose want bewail'd, she pines in all her powers: So love-scorch'd virgins, nourish quenchless fires; The father's cares, the mother's kind desires, Their gold, and garments of the newest guise, Can nothing comfort their scorch'd fantasies, But, taken ravish'd up, in Hymen's arms, His circle holds, for all their anguish, At even the sweet dews, and at night with | At all parts perfect; and must therefore stars, lose, No minute's time; from time's use all fruit flows; And as the tender hyacinth, that grows Where Phoebus most his golden beams bestows, Is propt with care; is water'd every hour, The sweet winds adding their increasing power, The scatter'd drops of night's refreshing dew, Hasting the full grace of his glorious hue, Which once disclosing, must be gather'd straight, Or hue and odour both will lose their height; So, of a virgin, high, and richly kept, The grace and sweetness full grown must he reap'd, Or forth her spirits fly, in empty air ; The sooner fading, the more sweet and fair. Gentle, gentle Hymen, be not then Cruel, that kindest art to maids, and men ; These two, one twin are; and their mutual bliss Not in thy beams, but in thy bosom is. Nor can their hands fast, their hearts' joys make sweet; Their hearts, in breasts are; and their breasts must meet. Let there be peace, yet murmur; and that noise Beget of peace the nuptial battle's joys. Let peace grow cruel; and take wrack of all, The war's delay brought thy full festival. Hark, hark, O now the sweet twin murmur sounds; Hymen is come, and all his heat abounds; Shut all doors; none but Hymen's lights advance. No sound stir; let dumb joy enjoy a trance. Sing, sing a rapture to all nuptial ears, Bright Hymen's torches drunk up Parca:'s tears. VOL. II. N |