Piety, and poesy. Contracted. By T. J.

On the Death of the most worthily honour'd Mr. John Sidney, who dyed sull of the Small Pox.

SIdney is dead, a Man whose name makes furrows In his Friends Cheeks, channel'd with Tears for Sorrows, Within whose Microcosm was combin'd All Ornaments of Body, and of Minde:

In whose good Acts, you might such vollumes see, As did exceed th' extent of Heraldry; Whose well-composed Excellencies, wrought Beyond the largest scope of humane thought. Indeed, within his Life's short little Span, Was all could be contracted in one Man; And He that would write his true Elegie, Must not Court Muses, but Divinity. He's Dead: But Death, I have a Speech, in vain, Directed unto Thee, where I complain Upon thy cruel Office, that could find No way to part his Body and his Mind, But by a fatal ficknesse, that confounds The beautious Patient, with so many wounds; Sure when thou mad'st his Fabrick to shiver, Thou could'st not chuse but empty all thy Quiver, What Man (to all odds open) in the Wars, Dies with such a Solemnity of Scarrs? Yet his great Spirit gives the Reason why, Without that Number, Sidney could not die: And therefore we will Pen it in his Story, What thou intend'st his Ruine, is his Glory; So when the Heavenly Globe I've look'd upon, Have I beheld the Constellation Of Jupiter, and on all parts descri'd Th'illuminated Body stellified, Sprinkled about with Stars, so that you might Behold his Limbs and Hair, powder'd with Light: This wee'l apply, that, though we lose him here, His Soul shall shine in a Caelestial Sphere.