On one Andrew Leigh, who was vext with a shrewd
Here lyes Leigh, who vext with a shrewd wife,
To gain his quiet, parted with his life;
But see the spight! she that had alwayes crost
Him living, dyes, and means to hunt his Ghost.
But she may faile, for Andrew out of doubt
Will cause his brother Peter shut her out.
Stay mortall, stay, remove not from this Tomb,
Before thou hast considered well thy doome;
My bow stands ready bent, and couldst it see,
Mine arrow's drawn to th'head, and aims at thee:
Prepare yet wandring Ghost, take home this line;
The grave that next is open'd may be thine.
157. On a vertuous youth.
Reader, let a stone thee tell
That in this body there did dwell
A soule, as heavenly, rich, and good,
As e'r could live in flesh and blood :
And therefore heav'n that held it deare,
Did let it stay the lesse while here,
Whose Corps here sacred ashes makes ;
Thus heav'n and earth have parted stakes.
Farewell stout Hot-spur, now the battel's done,
In which thou'rt foil'd, and death hath overcome,
Having o'r-match'd thy strength that made thee stoop
She quickly forc'd thee on the pit to droop :
From whence thou art not able rise or stir ;
For death is now become the vanquisher.
159. On a Mathematician.
Loe, in small closure of this earthly bed,
Rests he, that heavens vast motions measured,
Who having known both of the Land and sky,
More than fam'd Archimed, or Ptolomy,
Would further presse, and like a Palmer went,
With Facobs staffe, beyond the Firmament.
Fack Snip the Taylor's dead, 'tis now too late
To brawle or wrangle with the cruel fate,
Yet sure 'twas hardly done to clip his thred,
Before he gave them leave, in his own bed.
He dy'd at forty just; poor shred of base
Mortality! who pities not his case?
Of a whole ell of cloth, he would not take
Above a nail at most, for conscience sake:
But of his span of life, I dare to say,
Death stole not much lesse than one half away;
And Coward-like, just when he was not well,
With his own bodkin (pitiful to tell)
He board a hole through him, that all his men
And Prentises could not stitch up agen.
161. On his Mistris Death.
Unjustly we complain of Fate,
For shortning our unhappy dayes,
When death doth nothing but translate,
And print us in a better phrase.
Yet who can chuse but weep? not I:
That beauty of such excellence,
And more vertue than could dye,
By deaths rude hand is vanish'd hence.
Sleep blest creature in thine Urn,
My sighs, my teares shall not awake thee.
I but stay untill my turn;
And then, O then! I'l overtake thee.
162. On Hobson the Carrier.
If Constellations which in heaven are fixt,
Give life by influence to bodies mixt,
And every sign peculiar right doth claime
Of that to which it propagates a name;
Then I conjure, Charles the great Northern star
Whistled up Hobson for to drive his Car.
He is not dead, but left his mansion here,
Has left the Bull, and flitted to the Beare.
Me thinks I see how Charons fingers itches,
But he's deceiv'd he cannot have his riches.
163. Another on Hobson.
Whom seek ye sirs? Old Hobson? fie upon
Your tardinesse, the Carrier is gon,
Why stare you so? nay, you deserve to faile,
Alas, here's nought, but his old rotten maile.
He went a good-while since, no question store
Are glad, who vext he would not goe before:
And some are griev'd hee's gone so soone away,
The Lord knows why he did no longer stay.
How could he please you all? I'm sure of this,
He linger'd soundly, howsoe'r you misse;
But gone
he is, nor was he surely well
At his departure, as mischance befell:
For he is gone in such unwonted kind,
As ne'r before, his goods all left behind.
164. Old Hobsons Epitaph.
Here Hobson lyes among his many betters,
A man unlearned, yet a man of Letters ;
His carriage was well known, oft hath he gone
In Embassy 'twixt father and the sonne:
There's few in Cambridge, to his praise be it spoken,
But may remember him by some good Token.
From whence he rid to London day by day,
Till death benighting him, he lost his way:
His Team was of the best, nor would he have
Been mir'd in any way, but in the grave.
Nor is't a wonder, that he thus is gon,
Since all men know, he long was drawing on.
Thus rest in peace thou everlasting Swain,
And supream Waggoner, next Charles his wain.
165. Vpon John Crop, who dyed by taking a vomit.
Mans life's a game at Tables, and he may
Mend his bad fortune by his wiser play;
Death playes against us, each disease and sore
Are blots, if hit, the danger is the more
To lose the game; but an old stander by
Binds up the blots, and cures the malady,
And so prolongs the game; John Crop was he
Death in a rage did challenge for to see
His play, the dice are thrown, when first he drinks,
Casts, makes a blot, death hits him with a Sinque:
He casts again, but all in vain, for death
By th'after game did win the prize, his breath.
What though his skill was good, his luck was bad,
For never mortall man worse casting had.
But did not death play false to win from such
As he? no doubt, he bare a man too much.
Here lyes an honest man, Reader, if thou seek more, Thou art not so thy selfe; for honesty is store
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