Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

Elegie on the Lady Marckham.

MAn is the World, and death th'Ocean, To which God gives the lower parts of man. This Sea invirons all, and though as yet God hath set markes, and bounds, twixt us and it, Yet doth it rore, and gnaw, and still pretend, And breaks our banke, when ere it takes a friend. Then our land waters (teares of passion) vent; Our waters, then, above our firmament. (Teares which our Soule doth for her sins let fall) Take all a brackish tast, and Funerall. And even those teares, which should wash sin, are sin. We, after Gods Noe, drowne the world againe. Nothing but man of all invenom'd things

Doth worke upon itselfe, with inborne stings. Teares are false Spectacles, we cannot see Through passions mist, what wee are, or what shee. In her this sea of death hath made no breach, But as the tide doth wash the slimie beach, And leaves embroderd workes upon the sand, So is her flesh refin'd by deaths cold hand. As men of China, 'after an ages stay Do take up Porcelane, where they buried Clay; So at this grave, her limbecke, which refines The Diamonds, Rubies, Saphires, Pearles, & Mines, Of which, this flesh was, her soule shall inspire Flesh of such stuffe, as God, when his last fire Annuls this world, to recompence it, shall, Make and name then, th'Elixar of this All. They say, the sea, when it gaines, loseth too; If carnall Death (the yonger brother) doe Usurpe the body, 'our soule, which subject is To th'elder death, by sinne, is freed by this; They perish both, when they attempt the just; For, graves our trophies are, and both, deaths dust. So, unobnoxious now, she'hath buried both; For, none to death sinnes, that to sinne is loth. Nor doe they die, which are not loth to die, So hath she this, and that virginity. Grace was in her extremely diligent, That kept her from sinne, yet made her repent. Of what small spots pure white complaines! Alas, How little poyson cracks a christall glasse? She sinn'd, but just enough to let us see

That, extreme truth lack'd little of a lye, Making omissions, acts; laying the touch Of sinne, on things that sometimes may be such. As Moses Cherubines, whose natures doe Surpasse all speed, by him are winged too: So would her soule, already'in heaven, seeme then, To clyme by teares, the common staires of men. How fit she was for God, I am content To speake, that death his vaine hast may repent. How fit for us, how even and how sweet, How good in all her titles, and how meet, To have reform'd this forward heresie, That woman can no parts of friendship bee; How Morall, how Divine shall not be told, Lest they that heare her vertues, thinke her old. And lest we take Deaths part, and make him glad Of such a prey, and to his tryumph adde.