Volume 1 — AN ELEGY VPON THE DEATH OF MR. STANNINOW,

Hath aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine, To frozen Caucasus his flight now tane? Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a fleecy clowd? Is th' Earth disrobèd of her apron white, Kind Winter's guift, & in a greene one dight? Doth she beginne to dandle in her lappe Her painted infants, fedd with pleasant pappe, W^ch their bright father in a pretious showre From heaven's sweet milky streame doth gently poure Doth blith Apollo cloath the heavens with joye, And with a golden waue wash cleane away Those durty smutches, w^ch their faire fronts wore, And make them laugh, w^ch frown'd, & wept before? If heaven hath now forgot to weepe; ô then What meane these shoures of teares amongst vs men? These cataracts of griefe, that dare eu'n vie With th' richest clowds their pearly treasurie? If Winters gone, whence this vntimely cold, That on these snowy limmes hath laid such hold? What more than winter hath that dire art found, These purple currents hedg'd with violets round. To corrallize, w^ch softly wont to slide In crimson waueletts, & in scarlet tide? If Flora's darlings now awake from sleepe, And out of their greene mantletts dare to peepe O tell me then, what rude outragious blast Forc't this prime flowre of youth to make such hast? To hide his blooming glories, & bequeath His balmy treasure to the bedd of death? 'Twas not the frozen zone; one sparke of fire, Shott from his flaming eye, had thaw'd its ire, And made it burne in loue: 'twas not the rage, And too vngentle nippe of frosty age: 'Twas not the chast, & purer snow, whose nest Was in the mōdest nunnery of his brest: Noe, none of these ravish't those virgin roses, The Muses, & the Graces fragrant posies. W^ch, while they smiling sate vpon his face, They often kist, & in the sugred place Left many a starry teare, to thinke how soone The golden harvest of our joyes, the noone Of all our glorious hopes should fade, And be eclipsèd with an envious shade. Noe 'twas old doting Death, who stealing by, Dragging his crooked burthen, look't awry, And streight his amorous syth (greedy of blisse) Murdred the Earth's just pride with a rude kisse. A wingèd herald, gladd of soe sweet a prey, Snatch't vpp the falling starre, soe richly gay, And plants it in a precious perfum'd bedd, Amongst those lillies, w^ch his bosome bredd. Where round about hovers with siluer wing A golden Summer, an æternall Spring. Now that his root such fruit againe may beare, Let each eye water't with a courteous teare.