His kidneys encreast
So much, that his wast

Was hooped all round:
But his girdle death cuts,
And down fell his guts,
'Bouts heels to the ground.

126. On John Newter.

Reader, John Newter who erst plaid
The Jack on both sides, here is laid
Who like the herb John indifferent
Was not for King or Parliament,
Yet fast and loose he could not play
With death, he took him at a Bay;
What side his soul hath taken now
God or Devil? we hardly know:
But this is certain, since he dy'd
He hath been mist of neither side.

127. On Hocas Pocas.

Here Hocas lyes with his tricks and his knocks,
Whom death hath made sure as his Juglers box:
Who many hath cozen'd by his leiger-demain.
Is presto convey'd and here underlain :

Thus Hocas he's here, and here he is not,

While death plaid the Hocas, and brought him to th'pot.

128.

On a child of two years old, being born and dying in

Fuly.

Here is laid a July flow'r
With surviving teares bedew'd,
Not despairing of that houre
When her spring shall be renew'd;
Ere she had her Summer seen,
She was gather'd, fresh and green.

129. On a Cobler.

Death at a Coblers doore oft made a stand,
And alwayes found him on the mending hand;
At last came death in very foul weather,
And ript the soale, from the upper leather:
Death put a trick upon him, and what was't?
The cobler call'd for's awle, death brought his Laste.

130. On a young gentlewoman.

Nature in this small volume was about
To perfect what in woman was left out:
Yet carefull least a piece so well begun,
Should want preservatives when she had done:
Ere she could finish, what she undertooke,
Threw dust upon it, and shut up the booke.

131. On a Scholler.

Forbeare friend t'unclaspe this booke,

Only in the forefront looke,

For in it have errours bin,

Which made the author call it in:

Yet know this, 't shall have more worth,
At the second comming forth.

132. On a young woman.

The body which within this earth is laid,
Twice sixe weekes knew a wife, a saint, a maid;
Fair maid, chast wife, pure saint, yet 'tis not strange
She was a woman, therefore pleasd to change:
And now shees dead, some woman doth remaine,
For still she hopes once to be chang'd againe.

133. On Brawne.

Here Brawne the quondam begger lyes,

Who counted by his tale,

Full sixscore winters in his life;

Such vertue is in ale.

Ale was his meat, ale was his drinke,

Ale did him long reprive,

And could he still have drunke his ale,

He had beene still alive.

134. On a Candle.

Here lyes (I wot) a little star

That did belong to Fupiter,

Which from him Prometheus stole,

And with it a fire-coale.

Or this is that I mean to handle,
Here doth lie a farthing candle,
That was lov'd well, having its light,
But losing that, now bids good night.

135. On M. R.

Who soonest dyes, lives long enough,
Our life is but a blast or puffe.

I did resist and strive with death,
But soone he put me out of breath;
He of my life thought to bereave me,
But I did yeeld onely to breathe me.
O're him I shall in triumph sing,

Thy conquest Grave, where is thy sting?

136. On a Child.

Here she lyes a pretty bud,

Lately made of flesh and blood:
Who, as soon, fell fast asleep,
As her little eyes did peep;
Give her strewings; but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her.

137. On an Inne-keeper.

It is not I that dye, I doe but leave an Inn,
Where harbour'd was with me all filthy kind of sin ;

It is not I that dye, I do but now begin

Into eternall joy by faith to enter in.

Why weep you then my friends, my parents, & my kin? Lament ye when I lose, but weep not when I win.

138. On a Cobler.

Come hither, reade, my gentle friend,

And here behold a Coblers end.
Longer in length his life had gone,
But that he had no last so long;
O mighty Death! whose dart can kill
The man that made him souls at will.

139. On M. Aire.

Under this stone of Marble faire,

Lies th❜body intomb'd of Gervaise Aire.
He dy'd not of an ague fit,

Nor surfeited of too much wit,

Me thinks this was a wondrous death,

That Aire should dye for want of breath.

140. On Mr. Rice M.

Who can doubt (Rice) to what eternall place
Thy soul is fled, that did but know thy face?
Whose body was so light, it might have gone
To heaven without a resurrection;

Indeed thou wert all type, thy limbs were signes,
Thy Arteries but Mathematick lines;

As if two souls had made the compound good,

Which both should live by faith, and none by blood.