His noble numbers,: or, His pious pieces vvherein (amongst other things) he sings the birth of his Christ : and sighes for his Saviours suffering on the crosse.

The VViddowes teares: or, Dirge of Dorcas.

1

COme pitie us, all ye, who see Our Harps hung on the Willow-tree: Come pitie us, ye Passers by, Who see, or heare poor Widdowes crie: Come pitie us; and bring your eares, And eyes, to pitie Widdowes teares.

Chor.

And when you are come hither; Then we will keep A Fast, and weep Our eyes out all together.

2.

For Tabitha, who dead lies here, Clean washt, and laid out for the Beere; O modest Matrons, weep and waile! For now the Corne and Wine must faile: The Basket and the Bynn of Bread, Wherewith so many soules were fed

Chor.

Stand empty here for ever: And ah! the Poore, At thy worne Doore, Shall be releeved never.

3.

Woe worth the Time, woe worth the day, That reav'd us of thee Tabitha! For we have lost, with thee, the Meale, The Bits, the Morsells, and the deale Of gentle Paste, and yeelding Dow, That Thou on Widdowes didst bestow.

Chor.

All's gone, and Death hath taken Away from us Our Maundie; thus, Thy Widdowes stand forsaken.

4.

Ah Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieu We bid the Creuse and Pannier too: I and the flesh, for and the fish, Dol'd to us in That Lordly dish. We take our leaves now of the Loome, From whence the house-wives cloth did come:

Chor.

The web affords now nothing; Thou being dead, The woosted thred Is cut, that made us clothing.

5.

Farewell the Flax and Reaming wooll, With which thy house was plentifull. Farewell the Coats, the Garments, and The Sheets, the Rugs, made by thy hand. Farewell thy Fier and thy Light, That ne're went out by Day or Night:

Chor.

No, or thy zeale so speedy, That found a way By peep of day, To feed and cloth the Needy.

6.

But, ah, alas! the Almond Bough, And Olive Branch is wither'd now. The Wine Presse now is ta'ne from us, The Saffron and the Calamus. The Spice and Spiknard hence is gone, The Storax and the Cynamon,

Chor.

The Caroll of our gladnesse Ha's taken wing, And our late spring Of mirth is turn'd to sadnesse.

7.

How wise wast thou in all thy waies! How worthy of respect and praise! How Matron-like didst thou go drest! How soberly above the rest Of those that prank it with their Plumes; And jet it with their choice purfumes.

Chor.

Thy vestures were not flowing: Nor did the street Accuse thy feet Of mincing in their going.

8.

And though thou here li'st dead, we see A deale of beauty yet in thee. How sweetly shewes thy smiling face,

Thy lips with all diffused grace! Thy hands (though cold) yet spotlesse, white, And comely as the Chrysolite.

Chor.

Thy belly like a hill is, Or as a neat Cleane heap of wheat, All set about with Lillies.

Sleep with thy beauties here, while we Will shew these garments made by thee; These were the Coats, in these are read The monuments of Dorcas dead. These were thy Acts, and thou shalt have These hung, as honours o're thy Grave,

Chor.

And after us (distressed) Sho'd fame be dumb; Thy very Tomb Would cry out, Thou art blessed.