Recreation for ingenious head-peeces, or, A pleasant grove for their wits to walk in of epigrams 700, epitaphs 200, fancies a number, fantasticks abundance : with their addition, multiplication, and division.

163. To Death.

Death, art thou mad? or having lost thine eyes, Now throw'st thy dart at wild uncertainties? Which hits those men, who hadst thou eyes or sense Would challenge from thee mild obedience. Their prudent looks gilt with Divinity, Thy trembling hand would cast thy dart away, And grant the wearied Bells a holy day; And thou griev'd for thy former cruelty, Wouldst to the world proclaim a Jubilee. But thou art blind and deaf: yet one or two At most, me thinks, had been enow To satisfie thy bloody Tyranny. But thou wouldst fain rob poor mortality Of all true worth, that men might be as base As thou art, and the Devils of thy race. Art thou Coward grown? why didst not dart Thy spight at lusty youth? whose valiant heart Would scorn thy fond Alarums, and would sl••ght Thy mighty malice, and thy puny might. This had bin fair enough; but thou goest further: That had been but man-slaughter, this is murther; To kill those rich-soul'd men, who sweetly doe Whisper unto their willing souls to goe. But knowledge of thy weaknesse makes thee wise, Thou seek'st not triumphs now, but sacrifice.

Thy malice fools thee too, thou hop'st they'd griev Because they should be forc'd behind to leave Their honour'd worth; but (fond fool) they be Now crown'd and cloath'd with immortality. Nor shal•• thou kill their fames; here we will raise A Monument to them, shall out-last dayes; Nor shall decay, untill the Trumpets call The world to see thy long-wish'd Funerall: Till then sleep blest soules, freed from hopes and fears. Whilst we do write your Epitaphs in tears.