What though thou have enough unworthiness
To come unto great place as others do,
That 's much, emboldens, pulls, thrusts, I coufess;
But 't is not all, thou shouldst be wicked too.

And that thou canst not learn, or not of me,

Yet thou wilt go; go, since thou goest to her, Who lacks but faults to be a prince, for she

Truth, whom they dare not pardon, dares prefer.

But when thou com'st to that perplexing eye, Which equally claims love and reverence, Thou wilt not long dispute it, thou wilt die; And having little now, have then no sense.

Yet when her warm redeeming hand (which is
A miracle, and made such to work more)
Doth touch thee (sapless leaf) thou grow'st by this
Her creature, glorify'd more than before.

Then as a mother, which delights to hear
Her early child misspeak half utter'd words,
Or, because majesty doth never fear

Ill or bold speech, she audience affords.

And then, cold speechless wretch, thou diest again, And wisely; what discourse is left for thee? From speech of ill and her thou must abstain ? And is there any good which is not she?

Yet may'st thou praise her servants, though not her;
And wit and virtue and honour her attend,
And since they're but her clothes, thou shalt not err,
If thou her shape and beauty and grace commend.

Who knows thy destiny? when thou hast done,
Perchance her cabinet may harbour thee.
Whither all noble ambitious wits do run;
A nest almost as full of good as she

ANATOMY OF THE WORLD.

WHEREIN, BY OCCASION OF THE UNTIMELY DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH DRURY, THE FRAILTY AND DECAY OF THE WHOLE IS REPRESENTED.

THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY.

To the praise of the dead, and the anatomy.
WELL dy'd the world, that we might live to see
This world of wit in his anatomy:

No evil wants his good; so wilder heirs
Bedew their father's tombs with forced tears,
Whose 'state requites their loss: while thus we gain,
Well may we walk in blacks, but not complain.
Yet how can I consent the world is dead,
While this Muse lives? which in his spirit's stead
Seems to inform a world, and bids it be,
In spite of loss or frail mortality?

And thou the subject of this well-born thought,
Thrice noble maid, couldst not have found nor sought
A fitter time to yield to thy sad fate,
Than while this spirit lives, that can relate
Thy worth so well to our last nephew's eyne,
That they shall wonder both at his and thine :
Admired match! where strives in mutual grace
The cunning pencil and the comely face;
A task, which thy fair goodness made too much
For the bold pride of vulgar pens to touch:
Enough it is to praise them that praise thee,
And say, that but enough those praises be,
Which, hadst thou liv'd, had hid their fearful head
From th' angry checkings of thy modest red :
Death bars reward and shame; when envy's gone,
And gain, 't is safe to give the dead their own.
As then the wise Egyptians wont to lay
More on their tombs than houses; these of clay,
But those of brass or marble were: so we
Give more unto thy ghost than unto thee.
Yet what we give to thee, thou gav'st to us,
And may'st but thank thyself, for being thus:
Yet what thou gav'st and wert, O happy maid,
Thy grace profess'd all due, where 't is repaid.
So these high songs, that to thee suited bin,
Serve but to sound thy Maker's praise and thine;
Which thy dear soul as sweetly sings to him
Amid the choir of saints and seraphim,

WHEN that rich soul, which to her heav'n is gone,
Whom all do celebrate, who know they 've one,
(For who is sure he hath a soul, unless
It see, and judge, and follow worthiness,
And by deeds praise it? he, who doth not this,
May lodge an inmate soul, but 't is not his)
When that queen ended here her progress time,
And as t' her standing house to heav'n did climb;
Where, loath to make the saints attend her long,
She's now a part both of the choir and song:
This world in that great earthquake languished;
For in a common bath of tears it bled,
Which drew the strongest vital spirits out:
But succour'd them with a perplexed doubt,
Whether the world did lose, or gain in this,
(Because since now no other way there is
But goodness, to see her, whom all would see,
All must endeavour to be good as she)
This great consumption to a fever turn'd,
And so the world had fits; it joy'd, it mourn'd;
And as men think that agues physic are,
And th' ague being spent, give over care:
So thou, sick world, mistak'st thyself to be
Well, when, alas! thou 'rt in a lethargy :

Her death did wound and tame thee then, and then
Thou might'st have better spar'd the sun, or man.
That wound was deep; but 't is more misery,
That thou hast lost thy sense and memory.
'T was heavy then to hear thy voice of moan,
But this is worse, that thou art speechless grown.
Thou hast forgot thy name thou hadst; thou wast
Nothing but she, and her thou hast o'erpast.
For as a child kept from the fount, until
A prince, expected long, come to fulfil
The ceremonies, thou unnam'd hadst laid,
Had not her coming thee her palace made;
Her name defin'd thee, gave thee form and frame,
And thou forget'st to celebrate thy name.
Some months she hath been dead, (but being dead,
Measures of time are all determined)

But long sh' hath been away, long, long; yet none
Offers to tell us, who it is that 's gone.
But as in states doubtful of future heirs,
When sickness without remedy impairs
The present prince, they 're loath it should be said,
The prince doth languish, or the prince is dead:
So mankind, feeling now a general thaw,

A strong example gone, equal to law,
The cement, which did faithfully compact
And give all virtues, now resolv'd and slack'd,
Thought it some blasphemy to say sh' was dead,
Or that our weakness was discovered

In that confession; therefore spoke no more,
Than tongues, the soul being gone, the loss deplore.
But though it be too late to succour thee,
Sick world, yea dead, yea putrified, since she,
Thy intrinsic balm and thy preservative,
Can never be renew'd, thou never live;

I (since no man can make thee live) will try
What we may gain by thy anatomy.
Her death hath taught us dearly, that thou art
Corrupt and mortal in thy purest part.

Let no man say, the world itself being dead,
'T is labour lost to have discovered
The world's infirmities, since there is none
Alive to study this dissection;

For there's a kind of world remaining still;
Though she, which did inanimate and fill
The world, be gone, yet in this last long night
Her ghost doth walk, that is, a glimmering light,
A faint weak love of virtue, and of good
Reflects from her on them, which understood
Her worth; and though she have shut in all day,
The twilight of her memory doth stay;
Which, from the carcass of the old world free,
Creates a new world, and new creatures be
Produc'd: the matter and the stuff of this
Her virtue, and the form our practice is:
And though to be thus elemented arm
These creatures from home-born intrinsic harm,
(For all assum'd unto this dignity,

So many weedless paradises be,

Which of themselves produce no venomous sin,
Except some foreign serpent bring it in)
Yet because outward storms the strongest break,
And strength itself by confidence grows weak,
This new world may be safer, being told
The dangers and diseases of the old:

For with due temper men do then forego

Or covet things, when they their true worth know.
There is no health; physicians say that we
At best enjoy but a neutrality.

And can there be worse sickness than to know,
That we are never well, nor can be so?
We are born ruinous: poor mothers cry,
That children come not right nor orderly,
Except they headlong come and fall upon
An ominous precipitation.

How witty's ruin, how importunate
Upon mankind! it labour'd to frustrate
Even God's purpose; and made woman, sent
For man's relief, cause of his languishment;
They were to good ends, and they are so still,
But accessary, and principal in ill;
For that first marriage was our funeral:
One woman at one blow then kill'd us all,
And singly one by one they kill us now,
And we delightfully ourselves allow
To that consumption; and, profusely blind,
We kill ourselves to propagate our kind;
And yet we do not that; we are not men:
There is not now that mankind, which was then,
When as the sun and man did seem to strive,
(Joint-tenants of the world) who should survive;
When stag and raven, and the long-liv'd tree,
Compar'd with man, dy'd in minority;
When, if a slow-pac'd star had stol'n away
From the observer's marking, he might stay
Two or three hundred years to see 't again,
And then make up his observation plain;
When as the age was long, the size was great;
Man's growth confess'd and recompens'd the meat.

So spacious and large, that every soul
Did a fair kingdom and large realm control;
And when the very stature thus erect

Did that soul a good way towards Heav'n direct:
Where is this mankind now? who lives to age,
Fit to be made Methusalem his page?
Alas! we scarce live long enough to try
Whether a true made clock run right or lie.
Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow:
And for our children we reserve to morrow.
So short is life, that every peasant strives,
In a torn house, or field, to have three lives.
And as in lasting, so in length, is man,
Contracted to an inch, who was a span ;
For had a man at first in forests stray'd
Or shipwreck'd in the sea, one would have laid
A wager, that an elephant or whale,
That met him, would not hastily assail
A thing so equal to him: now, alas!
The fairies and the pygmies well may pass
As credible; mankind decays so soon,

We 're scarce our fathers' shadows cast at noon :
Only death adds t' our length: nor are we grown
In stature to be men, till we are none.
But this were light, did our less volume hold
All the old text; or had we chang'd to gold
Their silver, or dispos'd into less glass
Spirits of virtue, which then scatter'd was:
But 't is not so: we're not retir'd, but damp'd;
And as our bodies, so our minds are cramp'd:
'T is shrinking, not close weaving, that hath thus
In mind and body both bedwarfed us.
We seem ambitious God's whole work t' undo;
Of nothing he made us, and we strive too
To bring ourselves to nothing back; and we
Do what we can, to do 't as soon as he :
With new diseases on ourselves we war,
And with new physic, a worse engine far.
This man, this world's vice-emperor, in whom
All faculties, all graces are at home;
And if in other creatures they appear,
They 're but man's ministers and legats there,
To work on their rebellions, and reduce
Them to civility and to man's use:
This man, whom God did woo, and, loth t' attend
Till man came up, did down to man descend:
This man so great, that all that is, is his,
Oh what a trifle and poor thing he is!
If man were any thing, he 's nothing now;
Help, or at least some time to waste allow
T' his other wants, yet when he did depart
With her, whom we lament, he lost his heart,
She, of whom th' ancients seem'd to prophesy,
When they call'd virtues by the name of she;
She, in whom virtue was so much refin'd,
That for allay unto so pure a mind
She took the weaker sex: she, that could drive
The poisonous tincture and the stain of Eve
Out of her thoughts and deeds, and purify
All by a true religious alchymy;

She, she is dead; she's dead: when thou know'st this,
Thou know'st how poor a trifling thing man is,
And learn'st thus much by our anatomy,
The heart being perish'd, no part can be free,
And that except thou feed (not banquet) on
The supernatural food, religion,

Thy better growth grows withered and scant;
Be more than man, or thou 'rt less than an ant.
Then as mankind, so is the world's whole frame
Quite out of joint, almost created lame;

For before God had made up all the rest,
Corruption enter'd and deprav'd the best :
It seiz'd the angels, and then first of all
The world did in her cradle take a fall,
And turn'd her brains, and took a general maim,
Wronging each joint of th' universal frame.
The noblest part, man, felt it first; and then
Both beasts, and plants, curs'd in the curse of man ;
So did the world from the first hour decay,
That evening was beginning of the day;
And now the springs and summers, which we see
Like sons of women after fifty be.

And new philosophy calls all in doubt,
The element of fire is quite put out:

The sun is lost, and th' earth; and no man's wit
Can well direct him where to look for it.
And freely men confess that this world 's spent
When in the planets and the firmament
They seek so many new; they see that this
Is crumbled out again to his atomies.
'T is all in pieces, all coherence gone,
All just supply, and all relation:
Prince, subject, father, son, are things forgot,
For every man alone thinks he hath got
To be a phenix, and that then can be
None of that kind, of which he is, but he.
This is the world's condition now, and now
She, that should all parts to reunion bow;
She, that had all magnetic force alone
To draw and fasten sunder'd parts in one;
She, whom wise Nature had invented then,
When she observ'd that every sort of men
Did in their voyage, in this world's sea, stray,
And needed a new compass for their way;
She, that was best and first original
Of all fair copies, and the general

Steward to Fate; she, whose rich eyes and breast
Gilt the West Indies, and perfum'd the East,
Whose having breath'd in this world did bestow
Spice on those isles, and bad them still smell so;
And that rich India, which doth gold inter,
Is but as single money coin'd from her :
She, to whom this world must itself refer,
As suburbs, or the microcosm of her;
She, she is dead; she's dead: when thou know'st this
Thou know'st how lame a cripple this world is,
And learn'st thus much by our anatomy,
That this world's general sickness doth not lie
In any humour, or one certain part;
But as thou saw'st it rotten at the heart,
Thou seest a hectic fever hath got hold
Of the whole substance not to be control'd;
And that thou hast but one way not t'admit
The world's infection, to be none of it.
For the world's subtl'st immaterial parts
Feel this consuming wound, and age's darts.
For the world's beauty is decay'd or gone,
Beauty, that's colour and proportion.
We think the heav'ns enjoy their spherical,
Their round proportion embracing all,
But yet their various and perplexed course,
Observ'd in divers ages, doth enforce
Men to find out so many eccentric parts,
Such divers down-right lines, such overthwarts,
As disproportion that pure form: it tears
The firmament in eight and forty shares,
And in these constellations then arise
New stars, and old do vanish from our eyes: [war,
As though heav'n suffered earthquakes, peace or
When new tow'rs rise, and old demolish'd are.