This, utter'd by an ancient bard,
Who claimes (of reverence) to be heard,
As comming with his harpe, prepar'd
To chant her 'gree,

Is sung: as als' her getting up By Jacob's ladder, to the top Of that eternall port kept ope' For such as she.

Last draw the circles of this globe,
And let there be a starry robe
Of constellations 'bout her horld;
And thou hast painted beautie's world.

But painter, see thou doe not sell
A copie of this peece; nor tell
Whose 'tis: but if it favour find,
Next sitting we will draw her mind.

II. THE SONG OF HER DESCENT.

I SING the just, and uncontrol'd descent

Of dame Venetia Digby, styl'd the faire: For mind, and body, the most excellent That ever nature, or the later ayre Gave two such houses as Northumberland

And Stanley, to the which she was co-heire. Speake it, you bold Penates, you that stand

At either stemme, and know the veines of good Run from your rootes; tell, testifie the grand Meeting of graces, that so swell'd the flood Of vertues in her, as, in short, she grew

The wonder of her sexe, and of your blood. And tell thou, Alde-Legh, none can tell more true Thy neece's line,then thou that gav'st thy name Into the kindred, whence thy Adam drew

Meschines' honour with the Cestrian fame Of the first Lupus, to the familie

By Ranulph

[The rest of this song is lost.]

III. THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.

SITTING, and ready to be drawne,

What makes these velvets, silkes, and lawne,
Embroderies, feathers, fringes, lace,
Where every lim takes like a face?

Send these suspected helpes to aide
Some forme defective or decay'd;
This beautie without falshood fayre,
Needs nought to cloath it but the ayre.

Yet something, to the painter's view,
Were fitly interpos'd; so new:
He shall, if he can understand,
Worke with my fancie, his owne hand.

Draw first a cloud: all save her neck;
And, out of that, make day to breake;
Till, like her face, it doe appeare,
And men may thinke all light rose there.

Then let the beames of that disperse The cloud, and show the universe; But at such distance, as the eye May rather yet adore then spy.

The Heaven design'd, draw next a spring, With all that youth or it can bring: Foure rivers branching forth like seas, And paradise confining these.

IV. THE MIND.

PAINTER yo' are come, but may be gone,
Now I have better thought thereon,
This work I can performe alone,
And give you reasons more then one.

Not, that your art I doe refuse: But here I may no colours use. Beside, your hand will never hit, To draw a thing that cannot sit.

You could make shift to paint an eye,
An eagle towring in the skye,
The Sunne, a sea, or soundlesse pit;
But these are like a mind, not it.

No, to expresse a mind to sense, Would aske a Heaven's intelligence ; Since nothing can report that flame, But what's of kinne to whence it came.

Sweet mind, then speake your selfe, and say,

As you goe on, by what brave way
Our sense you doe with knowledge fill,
And yet remaine our wonder still.

I call you Muse, now make it true:
Henceforth may every line be you;
That all may say, that see the frame,
This is no picture, but the same.

A mind so pure, so perfect, fine,
As 'tis nut radient, but divine:
And so disdaining any tryer;
'Tis got where it can try the fire.

There high exalted in the sphere,
As it another nature were,
It moveth all and makes a flight
As circular as infinite.

Whose notions when it will expresse In speech, it is with that excesse Of grace and musique to the eare, As what it spoke it planted there.

The voyce so sweet, the words so faire,
As some soft chime had stroak'd the ayre;
And though the sound were parted thence,
Still left an eccho in the sense.

But, that a mind so rapt, so high,
So swift, so pure, should yet apply
It selfe to us, and come so nigh

Earth's grossnesse; there's the how, and why.

Is it because it sees us dull,

And stuck in clay here, it would pull
Us forth by some celestiall flight
Up to her owne sublimed hight?

Or hath she here, upon the ground,
Some paradise, or palace found
In all the bounds of beautie fit
For here to inhabit? There is it.

Thrice happy house, that hast receipt
For this so loftie forme, so streight,
So polisht, perfect, round, and even,
As it slid moulded off from Heaven.

Not swelling like the ocean proud,
But stooping gently, as a cloud,
As smooth as oyle pour'd forth, and calme
As showers, and sweet as drops of balme.

Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a floud
Where it may run to any good;
And where it stayes, it there becomes
A nest of odorous spice, and gummes.

In action, winged as the wind,
In rest, like spirits left behind
Upon a banke, or field of flowers,
Begotten by that wind and showers.

In thee, faire mansion, let it rest,
Yet know, with what thou art possest,
Thou entertaining in thy brest

But such a mind, mak'st God thy guest.

[A whole quaternion in the middle of this poem is lost, containing entirely the three next pieces of it, and all of the fourth (which in the order of the whole, is the eighth) excepting the very end: which at the top of the next quaternion goeth on thus:]

BUT, for you (growing gentlemen) the happy branches of two so illustrious houses as these,wherefrom your honour'd mother is in both lines descended; let me leave you this last legacie of counsell; which so soone as you arrive at yeares of mature understanding, open you (sir) that are the eldest, and read it to your brethren, for it will concerne you all alike. Vowed by a faithfull servant, and client of your familie, with his latest

breath expiring it.

ΤΟ

B. J.

KENELME, IOHN GEORGE.

Boast not these titles of your ancestors; [yours:
(Brave youths) th' are their possessions, none of
When your owne vertues equall'd have their names,
"Twill be but faire to leane upon their fames;
For they are strong supporters: but, till then,
The greatest are but growing gentlemen.
It is a wretched thing to trust to reedes,
Which all men doe, that urge not their owne deeds
Up to their ancestors; the river's side, [bide:
By which yo' are planted shows your fruit shall

Hang all your roomes with one large pedigree:
'Tis vertue alone, is true nobilitie.
Which vertue from your father ripe will fall;
Study illustrious him, and you have all.

IX. ELEGIE ON MY MUSE,

THE TRULY HONOURED LADY, THE LADY VENETIA DIGIT, WHO LIVING GAVE ME leave to CALL HER SO.

BEING

HER ΑΠΟΘΕΩΣΙΣ, OR RELATION TO THE SAINTS
Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina dolori.

'TWERE time that I dy'd too, now she is dead,
Who was my Muse, and life of all I sey'd.
The spirit that I wrote with, and conceiv'd,
All that was good, or great in me she wear'd,
And set it forth; the rest were cobwebs fine,
Spun out in name of some of the old nine!
To hang a window or make darke the roome,
Till swept away, th' were cancell'd with a broome!
Nothing, that could remaine, or yet can stirre
A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!

O! had I seene her laid out a faire corse,
By Death, on earth, I should have had remorse
On Nature, for her: who did let ber lie,
And saw that portion of her selfe to die.
Sleepie, or stupid Nature, couldst thou part
With such a raritie, and not rowse Art
With all her aydes, to save her from the seize
Of vulture Death, and those relentlesse cleies?
Thou wouldst have lost the phoenix, had the kind
Beene trusted to thee: not to 't selfe assign'd.
(For so thou art with me) now she is gone.
Looke on thy sloth, and give thy selfe undone,
My wounded mind cannot sustaine this stroke,
It rages, runs, flies, stands, and would provoke
The world to ruin with it; in her fall,
I summe up my owne breaking, and wish all.
Thou hast no more blowes, Fate, to drive at one:
Sure, I am dead, and know it not! I feele
What's left a poet, when his Muse is gone?
Nothing I doe; but, like a heavy wheele,
Whoorles me about, and, to blaspheme in fashion,
Am turned with another's powers. My passion
I murmure against God, for having ta'en
Her blessed soule hence, forth this valley vaine
Of teares, and dungeon of calamitie!
I envie it the angels amitie!
The joy of saints! the crowne for which it lives,
The glorie, and gaine of rest, which the place gives!
Dare I prophane, so irreligious be,
To 'greet, or grieve her soft euthanasee!
So sweetly taken to the court of blisse,
As spirits had stolne her spirit in a kisse,
From off her pillow and deluded bed;
And left her lovely body unthought dead !
Indeed, she is not dead! but laid to sleepe
In earth, till the last trumpe awake the sheepe
And goates together, whither they must come
To heare their judge and his eternall doome;
To have that finall retribution,
Expected with the fleshe's restitution.
For, as there are three natures, schoolemen call
One corporall only, th' other spirituall,
Like single; so, there is a third, commixt
Of body and spirit together, plac'd betwixt

To body and soule! where Love is all the guest!
And the whole banquet is full sight of God!
Of joy the circle, and sole period!

All other gladnesse, with the thought is barr'd;
Hope, hath her end! and Faith hath her reward!
This being thus: why should my tongue or pen
Presume to interpell that fulnesse, when
Nothing can more adorne it then the seat
That she is in, or make it more compleat?
Better be dumbe then superstitious!
Who violates the god-head, is most vitious
Against the nature he would worship. He
Will honour'd be in all simplicitie !

Have all his actions wondred at, and view'd
With silence, and amazement! not with rude,
Dull, and prophane, weake and imperfect eyes,
Have busie search made in his mysteries! [guest,
He knowes what worke h' hath done, to call this
Out of her noble body, to this feast:
And give her place, according to her blood
Amongst her peeres, those princes of all good!
Saints, martyrs, prophets, with those hierarchies,
Angels, arch-angels, principalities,

The dominations, vertues, and the powers,
The thrones, the cherube, and seraphick bowers,
That, planted round, there sing before the Lamb,
A new song to his praise, and great I AM:
And she doth know, out of the shade of death,
What 't is t' enjoy an everlasting breath!
To have her captiv'd spirit freed from flesh,
And on her innocence a garment fresh
And white, as that, put on: and in her hand
With boughs of palme, a crowned victrice stand!
And will you, worthy sonne, sir, knowing this,
Put black, and mourning on? and say you misse
A wife, a friend, a lady, or a love;
Whom her Redeemer, honour'd hath above
Her fellowes, with the oyle of gladnesse, bright
In Heav'n's empire, and with a robe of light?
Thither, you hope to come; and there to find
That pure, that pretious, and exalted mind
You once enjoy'd: a short space severs ye
Compar'd unto that long eternitie,

That shall re-joyne ye. Was she, then, so deare,
When she departed? you will meet her there,
Much more desir'd, and dearer then before,
By all the wealth of blessings, and the store
Accumulated on her, by the Lord

Of life and light, the Sonne of God, the Word!
There all the happy soules that ever were,
Shall meet with gladnesse in one theatre;
And each shall know there one another's face,
By beatifick vertue of the place.

There shall the brother with the sister walke,
And sons and daughters with their parents talke;
But all of God; they still shall have to say,
But make him All in All, their theme, that day:
That happy day, that never shall see night!
Where he will be, all beautie to the sight:
Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste;
A musique in the eares will ever last;

Unto the scent, a spicerie, or balme;
And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palme,
He will all glory, all perfection be,
God, in the union, and the Trinitie!
That holy, great, and glorious mysterie,
Will there revealed be in majestie!
By light, and comfort of spirituall grace;
The vision of our Saviour, face to face
In his humanitie! to heare him preach
The price of our redemption, and to teach
Through his inherent righteousnesse, in death,
The safetie of our soules, and forfeit breath!
What fulnesse of beatitude is here?
What love with mercy mixed doth appeare?
To style us friends, who were by nature, foes?
Adopt us heires, by grace, who were of those
Had lost our selves? and prodigally spent
Our native portions, and possessed rent;
Yet have all debts forgiven us, and advance
B' imputed right to an inheritance
In his eternall kingdome, where we sit
Equall with angels, and co-heires of it.
Nor dare we under blasphemy conceive

He that shall be our supreme judge, should leave
Himselfe so un-inform'd of his elect,

Who knowes the heart of all, and can dissect
The smallest fibre of our flesh; he can
Find all our atomes from a point t'a span!
Our closest creekes, and corners, and can trace
Each line, as it were graphick, in the face.
And best he knew her noble character,
For 'twas himselfe who form'd, and gave it her.
And to that forme lent two such veines of blood
As nature could not more increase the flood
Of title in her! all nobilitie

(But pride, that schisme of incivilitie)
She had, and it became her! she was fit
T' have knowne no envy, but by suffring it!
She had a mind as calme as she was faire;
Not tost or troubled with light lady-ayre,
But kept an even gaite; as some straight tree
Mov'd by the wind, so comely moved she.
And by the awfull manage of her eye
She swaid all bus'nesse in the familie!
To one she said, doe this, he did it; so
To another, move; he went; to a third, go,
He run; and all did strive with diligence
Tobey, and serve her sweet commandements.
She was in one a many parts of life;
A tender mother, a discreeter wife,

A solemne mistress, and so good a friend,
So charitable, to religious end,

In all her petite actions, so dévote,

As her whole life was now become one note

Of pietie, and private holinesse.

She spent more time in teares her selfe to dresse
For her devotions, and those sad essayes
Of sorrow, then all pompe of gaudy daies:
And came forth ever cheered with the rod
Of divine comfort, when sh' had talk'd with God.
Her broken sighes did never misse whole sense:
Nor can the bruised heart want eloquence :
For, prayer is the incense most perfumes
The holy altars, when it least presumes.
And her's were all humilitie! they beat
The doore of grace, and found the mercy-seat.
In frequent speaking by the pious psalmes
Her solemne houres she spent, or giving almes,
Or doing other deeds of charitie,

To cloath the naked, feed the hungry. She