An hymne to the Saints, and to Marquesse Hamylton

Whether that soule which now comes up to youFill any former ranke or make a new;Whether it take a name nam'd there before,Or be a name it selfe, and order moreThen was in heaven till now; (for may not heeBee so, if every severall Angell beeA kind alone?) What ever order growGreater by him in heaven, wee doe not so.One of your orders growes by his accesse;But, by his losse grow all our orders lesse;The name of Father, Master, Friend, the nameOf Subject and of Prince, in one are lame;Faire mirth is dampt, and conversation black,The household widdow'd, and the garter slack;The Chappell wants an eare, Councell a tongue;Story, a theame; and Musicke lacks a song;Blest order that hath him! the losse of himGangreend all Orders here; all lost a limbe.Never made body such hast to confesseWhat a soule was; All former comelinesseFled, in a minute, when the soule was gone,And, having lost that beauty, would have none;So fell our Monasteries, in one instant growneNot to lesse houses, but, to heapes of stone;So sent this body that faire forme it wore,Unto the spheare of formes, and doth (beforeHis soule shall fill up his sepulchrall stone,)Anticipate a Resurrection;For, as in his fame, now, his soule is here,So, in the forme thereof his bodie's there.And if, faire soule, not with first InnocentsThy station be, but with the Pænitents,(And, who shall dare to aske then when I amDy'd scarlet in the blood of that pure Lambe,Whether that colour, which is scarlet then,Were black or white before in eyes of men?)When thou rememb'rest what sins thou didst findeAmongst those many friends now left behinde,And seest such sinners as they are, with theeGot thither by repentance, Let it beeThy wish to wish all there, to wish them cleane;Wim him a David, her a Magdalen.