Ho thésauros en ostrakinois skeuesin. A pearl in an oyster-shel: or, pretious treasure put in perishing vessels. The sum or substance of two sermons preached at Withall-Chappel in Worcestershire. Wherein is set forth the mightiness of the Gospel, the meanness of its ministration. Together with a character of Mr. Thomas Hall, his holy life and death. By Richard Moore, a willing, though a most unworthy servant of God in the Gospel of his Son Jesus Christ.

Ʋpon the Death of many Reverend Ministers since Bartholomew, 1662.

IF passion be a spur to poetry, Sure it should teach me for to verifie, Were there but Sympathy, who can but weep, To see so many Pastors laid to sleep? What shall the poor Sheep do, now these are dead, But dread likewise they shall be scattered? The Lord hath smitten many Cedars tall, How should poor poplars chuse but fear a fall? Are Israels chariots and horsemen gone? How should we chuse but weep, and make great moan? Old Ash foreseeing what a dearth would be, Of Sions Seers, fell, fell down suddenly? Although it proved his death, yet would he grieve, And buried was on Barthol'mew Eve. As father Ely bowed his aged head, First when the news came, thy two sons are dead: But when he heard once that the Ark was lost, It brake his heart, his neck, his life it cost.

Vines, Naulton, Cawdry, Calamy went hence, Like Nard and Camphire, trees of Frankincense; Still sending forth their aromatick scent, Till twice extinct from us, to Heaven they went: Learned Vines went away as in a sleep, And Zealous Naulton, who was wont to weep; Calamy for London he loved so well, When in the Fire he heard her passing-Bell. Cawdry crowded on, Caryl, White and Strong, Gouge, Gataker, Hill, whitaker and Young, Gravely, judicious Burges and Hall, Who was Tom-tell-troth, Baker and Burdall; Pale death, why do'st thou make such haste, And the true Churches Treasure waste? Tell me in truth, what is there no reprieve, That such renowned Worthies might survive? See that a Supersedeas thou grant, That such the Clergies benefit may'nt want: Though thou accostest them with swiftest wing, I'me well assured thou hast lost thy sting; They're now made more than conquerors since dead, And are triumphant, who were conquered: Their Captain Christ hath got the Victory, And soon (O Death) will make an end of thee; In the mean time, thou canst not surely kill A Child of God, but cure him of his ill: His Soul's above thy reach, and in a trice When once dismiss'd shall mount to Paradice, Nor hurt the Body, only lay't to bed In th' Grave or Coffin, where it's buried.

RICHARD MOORE.