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

Elegie on Prince Henry.

LOoke to mee faith, and looke to my faith, God; For both my centers feele this period. Of waight one center, one of greatnesse is; And Reason is that center, Faith is this; For into'our reason flow, and there do end All, that this naturall world doth comprehend: Quotidian things, and equidistant hence, Shut in, for man, in one circumference. But for th'enormous greatnesses, which are So disproportion'd, and so angulare, As is Gods essence, place and providence, Where, how, when, what soules do, departed hence, These things (eccentrique else) on faith do strike; Yet neither all, nor upon all, alike. For reason, put to'her best extension, Almost meetes faith, and makes both centers one. And nothing ever came so nere to this, As contemplation of that Prince, wee misse. For all that faith might credit mankinde could, Reason still seconded, that this prince would. If then least moving of the center, make More, then if whole hell belch'd, the world to shake. What must this do, centers distracted so, That wee see not what to beleeve or know? Was it not well beleev'd till now, that hee, Whose reputation was an extasie,

On neighbour States, which knew not why to wake, Till hee discover'd what wayes he would take; For whom, what Princes angled, when they tryed, Met a Torpedo, and were stupified; And others studies, how he would be bent, Was his great fathers greatest instrument, And activ'st spirit, to convey and tie This soule of peace, through Christianity; Was it not well beleev'd, that hee would make This generall peace, th'Eternall overtake, And that his times might have stretch'd out so farre, As to touch those, of which they emblems are? For to confirme this just beleefe, that now The last dayes came, wee saw heav'n did allow, That, but from his aspect and exercise, In peacefull times, Rumors of war did rise. But now this faith is heresie: we must Still stay, and vexe our great grand mother, Dust. Oh, is God prodigall? hath he spent his store Of plagues, on us, and onely now, when more Would ease us much, doth he grudge misery; And will not let's enjoy our curse; to dy. As, for the earth throwne lowest downe of all, T'were an ambition to desire to fall, So God, in our desire to dye, doth know Our plot for ease, in being wretched so. Therefore we live; though such a life wee have, As but so many mandrakes on his grave. What had his growth, and generation done, When, what we are, his putrefaction

Sustaines in us; Earth, which griefes animate; Nor hath our world now, other Soule then that. And could griefe get so high as heav'n, that Quire, Forgetting this their new joy, would desire (With griefe to see him) hee had staid below, To rectifie our errours, They foreknow. Is th'other center, Reason, faster then? Where should we looke for that, now we'are not men? For if our Reason be'our connexion Of causes, now to us there can be none. For, as if all the substances were spent, 'Twere madnesse, to enquire of accident, So is't to looke for reason, hee being gone, The onely subject reason wrought upon. If Fate have such a chaine, whose divers links Industrious man discerneth, as hee thinks, When miracle doth come, and so steale in A new linke, man knowes not, where to begin▪ At a much deader fault must reason bee, Death having broke off such a linke as hee. But now, for us, with busie proofe to come, That we'have no reason, would prove wee had some. So would just lamentations: Therefore wee May safelyer say, that we are dead, then hee. So, if our griefs wee do not well declare, We'have double excuse; he'is not dead; and we are. Yet I would not dy yet; for though I bee Too narrow, to thinke him, as hee is hee, (Our Soules best baiting, and midd-period, In her long journey, of considering God)

Yet, (no dishonour) I can reach him thus, As he embrac'd the fires of love, with us. Oh may I, (since I live) but see, or heare, That she-Intelligence which mov'd this spheare, I pardon Fate, my life: who ere thou bee, Which hast the noble conscience, thou art shee, I conjure thee by all the charmes he spoke, By th'oathes, which onely you two never broke, By all the soules yee sigh'd, that if you see These lines, you wish, I knew your history. So much, as you, two mutuall heav'ns were here, I were an Angell, singing what you were.