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His thoughts, triumphant, Heav'n alone employs,
And Hope anticipates his future joys.

-So good, so blest, the illustrious HOUGH we find,
Whose Image dwells with pleasure on my mind;
The mitre's glory,-Freedom's constant friend,
In times which ask'd a champion to defend ;
Who, after near a hundred virtuous years,
His senses perfect, free from pains and fears,
Replete with life, with honours, and with age,
Like an applauded actor left the stage;

Or like some victor in the Olympic games,

Who, having run his course, the crown of glory claims."





And as the moisture, which the thirsty earth
Sucks from the sea, to fill her empty veins,
From out her womb at last doth take a birth,
And runs a lymph along the grassy plains.

Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land,
From whose soft side she first did issue make!

She tastes all places, turns to ev'ry hand,
Her flow'ry banks unwilling to forsake.

Yet Nature so her streams doth lead and carry,
As that her course doth make no final stay,
Till she herself unto the Ocean marry,

Within whose wat'ry bosom first she lay.

E'en so the Soul, which in this earthly mould
The spirit of God doth secretly infuse,
Because at first she doth the earth behold,
And only this material world she views:

At first her Mother-earth she holdeth dear,

And doth embrace the world, and worldly things;
She flies close by the ground, and hovers here,
And mounts not up with her celestial wings:

Yet under heav'n she cannot light on aught,
That with her heav'nly nature doth agree;
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought,
She cannot in this world contented be.

For who did ever yet, in honour, wealth,

Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find?
Who ever ceas'd to wish, when he had health?
Or having wisdom, was not vex'd in mind?

Then as a Bee which among weeds doth fall,
Which seem sweet flow'rs, with lustre fresh and gay;

She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all;

But pleas'd with none, doth rise, and soar away.

So when the Soul finds here no true content,
And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take,
She doth return from whence she first was sent,
And flies to Him that first her wings did make.

Since then her heav'nly kind she doth display,
In that to God she doth directly move;
And on no mortal thing can make her stay,

She cannot be from hence, but from above.

And yet this first true cause and last good end,
She cannot here so well and truly see;
For this perfection she must yet attend,
Till to her Maker she espoused be.

As a King's daughter, being in person sought
Of divers princes, who doth neighbour near,
On none of them can fix a constant thought,
Though she to all do lend a gentle ear.

Yet she can love a foreign Emperor,

Whom of great worth and pow'r she hears to be, If she be woo'd but by Ambassador,

Or but his letters, or his picture see!

For well she knows, that when she shall be brought Into the kingdom where her spouse doth reign, Her eyes shall see what she conceiv'd in thought, Himself, his state, his glory, and his train.

So while the virgin-soul on earth doth stay,

She woo'd and tempted is ten thousand ways,
By these great pow'rs, which on the earth bear sway;
The wisdom of the world, wealth, pleasure, praise.

With these sometimes she doth her time beguile,
These do by fits her fantasy possess;
But she distastes them all within awhile,

And in the sweetest finds a tediousness.

But if upon the world's Almighty King

She once doth fix her humble loving thought,

Who by his picture drawn in ev'ry thing,

And sacred messages her love hath sought;

Of him she thinks she cannot think too much;
This honey tasted still, is ever sweet;
The pleasure of her ravish'd thought is such,

As almost here she with her bliss doth meet.

But when in heav'n she shall his essence see,
This is her sov'reign good and perfect bliss;
Her longing, wishings, hopes, all finish'd be;
Her joys are full, her motions rest in this:

There is she crown'd with garlands of content,
There doth she manna eat, and nectar drink:
That presence doth such high delights present,

As never tongue could speak, nor heart could think.


W. Molineux, Printer, Bream's Buildings, Chancery Lane.

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