Or with those pearls and rubies which she was?
Join the two Indies in one tomb, 'tis glass;
And so is all to her materials,

Though every inch were ten Escurials

;

Yet she 's demolished; can we keep her then
In works of hands, or of the wits of men?
Can these memorials, rags of paper, give

Life to that name, by which name they must live?
Sickly, alas short-lived, abortive be

Those carcase verses, whose soul is not she;
And can she, who no longer would be she,
(Being such a tabernacle) stoop to be
In paper wrapt, or, when she would not lie
In such an house, dwell in an elegy?
But 'tis no matter; we may well allow
Verse to live so long as the world will now,
For her death wounded it. The world contains
Princes for arms, and counsellors for brains;
Lawyers for tongues; divines for hearts, and more ;
The rich for stomachs, and for backs the poor;
The officers for hands; merchants for feet,
By which remote and distant countries meet;
But those fine spirits, which do tune and set
This organ, are those pieces which beget
Wonder and love; and these were she; and she
Being spent, the world must needs decrepit be ·
For since death will proceed to triumph still
He can find nothing after her to kill,
Except the world itself, so great was she.
Thus brave and conndent may nature be

Death cannot give her such another blow,
Because she cannot such another show.

But must we say she's dead? may it not be said,
That as a sundered clock is piecemeal laid,
Not to be lost, but by the maker's hand
Repolished, without error then to stand,
Or, as the Afric Niger stream enwombs
Itself into the earth, and after comes
(Having first made a natural bridge, to pass
For many leagues) far greater than it was,
May it not be said, that her grave shall restore
Her greater, purer, firmer than before?
Heaven may say this, and joy in 't; but can, we,
Who live, and lack her here, this 'vantage see?
What is 't to us, alas! if there have been
An Angel made a Throne or Cherubin?
We lose by it; and, as aged men are glad,
Being tasteless grown, to joy in joys they had,
So now the sick-starved world must feed upon
This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.
Rejoice then, Nature and this world, that you,
Fearing the last fire's hastening to subdue
Your force and vigor, ere it were near gone,
Wisely bestowed and laid it all on one;
One, whose clear body was so pure and thin,
Because it need disguise no thought within, [roll
'T was but a through-light scarf her mind to en-
Or exhalation breathed out from her soul;
One, whom all men, who durst no more, admired,
And whom, who'er had worth enough, desired,

As, when a temple 's built, saints emulate

To which of them it shall be consecrate.

But as when heaven looks on us with new eyes,
Those new stars every artist exercise ;

What place they should assign to them, they doubt,
Argue, and agree not, till those stars go out;
So the world studied whose this piece should be,
Till she can be no body's else, nor she :
But like a lamp of balsam um, desired
Rather to adorn than last, she soon expired,
Clothed in her virgin-white integrity;

For marriage, though it doth not stain, doth dye.
To 'scape the infirmities which wait upon
Woman, she went away before she was one;
And the world's busy noise to overcome,
Took so much death as served for opium;
For though she could not, nor could choose to die,
She bath yielded to too long an ecstasy.
He which, not knowing her sad history,
Should come to read the book of destiny, [been,
How fair and chaste, humble and high she had
Much promised, much performed at not fifteen,
And measuring future things by things before,
Should turn the leaf to read, and read no more,
Would think that either destiny mistook,

Or that some leaves were torn out of the book;
But 'tis not so: Fate did but usher her

Το

years of reason's use, and then infer Her destiny to herself, which liberty

She took, but for this much, thus much to die;

Aur -Ball "ive, which are tree good prefer,

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OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.

WHEREIN BY OCCASION OF THE RELIGIOUS DEATH OF MISTRESS ELIZABETH DRURY, THE INCOMMODITIES OF THE SOUL IN THIS LIFE, AND HER EXALTATION IN THE NEXT, ARE CONTEMPLATED.

THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY.

THE HARBINGER TO THE PROGRESS.

Two souls move here, and mine (a third) must

move

Paces of admiration, and of love.

Thy soul (dear virgin) whose this tribute is,
Moved from this mortal sphere to lively bliss;
And yet moves still, and still aspires to see
The world's last day, thy glory's full degree;
Like as those stars, which thou o'erlookest far,
Are in their place, and yet still moved are:
No soul (whilst with the luggage of this clay
It clogged is) can follow thee half way,
Or see thy flight, which doth our thoughts outgo
So fast, as now the lightning moves but slow.
But now thou art as high in heaven flown,
As heaven's from us; what soul beside thine own
Can tell thy joys, or say, he can relate

Thy glorious journals in that blessed state?