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

Epithalamion made at Lincolnes Inne.

THe Sun-beames in the East are spred, Leave, leave, faire Bride, your solitary bed, No more shall you returne to it alone, It nourseth sadnesse, and your bodies print, Like to a grave, the yielding downe doth dint; You and your other you meet there anon; Put forth, put forth that warme balme-breathing thigh, Which whē next time you in these sheets wil smother There it must meet another, Which never was, but must be, oft, more nigh; Come glad from thence, goe gladder then you came, To day put on perfection, and a womans name.

Daughters of London, you which bee Our Golden Mines, and furnish'd Treasurie, You which are Angels, yet still bring with you Thousands of Angels on your mariage daies, Help with your presence, and devise to praise These rites, which also unto you grow due; Conceitedly dresse her, and be assign'd, By you, fit place for every flower and jewell, Make her for love fit fewell As gay as Flora, and as rich as Inde;

So may shee faire and rich, in nothing lame, To day put on perfection, and a womans name.

And you frolique Patricians Some of these Senators wealths deep oceans, Ye painted courtiers, barrels of others wits, Yee country men, who but your beasts love none, Yee of those fellowships whereof hee's one, Of study and play made strange Hermaphrodits, Here shine; This Bridegroom to the Temple bring Loe, in yon path which store of straw'd flowers graceth, The sober virgin paceth; Except my sight faile, 'tis no other thing; Weep not nor blush, here is no griefe nor shame, To day put on perfection, and a womans name.

Thy two-leav'd gates faire Temple unfold, And these two in thy sacred bosome hold, Till, mystically joyn'd, but one they bee; Then may thy leane and hunger-starved wombe Long time expect their bodies and their tombe, Long after their owne parents fatten thee; All elder claimes, and all cold barrennesse, All yeelding to new loves bee far for ever, Which might these two dissever, Alwaies, all th'other may each one possesse; For, the best Bride, best worthy of praise and fame, To day puts on perfection, and a womans name.

Winter dayes bring much delight, Not for themselves, but for they soon bring night;

Other sweets wait thee then these diverse meats, Other disports then dancing jollities, Other love tricks then glancing with the eyes; But that the Sun still in our halfe Spheare sweates; Hee flies in winter, but he now stands still, Yet shadowes turne; Noone point he hath attain'd, His steeds will bee restrain'd, But gallop lively downe the Westerne hill; Thou shalt, when he hath come the worlds half frame, To night but on perfection, and a womans name.

The amorous evening starre is rose, Why then should not our amorous starre inclose Her selfe in her wish'd bed? Release your strings Musicians, and dancers take some truce With these your pleasing labours, for great use As much wearinesse as perfection brings; You, and not only you, but all toyl'd beasts Rest duly; at night all their toyles are dispensed; But in their beds commenced Are other labours, and more dainty feasts; She goes amaid, who, least she turne the same, To night puts on perfection, and a womans name.

Thy virgins girdle now untie, And in thy nuptiall bed [loves alter] lye A pleasing sacrifice; now dispossesse Thee of these chaines and robes which were put on T'adorne the day, not thee; for thou, alone, Like vertue' and truth, art best in nakednesse;

This bed is onely to virginitie A grave, but, to a better state, a cradle; Till now thou wast but able To be what now thou art; then that by thee No more be said, I may bee, but, I am, To night put on perfection, and a womans name.

Even like a faithfull man content, That this life for a better should be spent; So, shee a mothers rich stile doth preferre, And at the Bridegroomes wish'd approach doth lye, Like an appointed lambe, when tenderly The priest comes on his knees t'embowell her; Now sleep or watch with more joy; and O light Of heaven, to morrow rise thou hot, and early; This Sun will love so dearely Her rest, that long, long we shall want her sight; Wonders are wrought, for shee which had no maime, To night puts on perfection, and a womans name.