Elegie on Mris Boulstred

Death I recant, and say, unsaid by meeWhat ere hath slip'd, that might diminish thee.Spirituall treason, atheisme 'tis, to say,That any can thy Summons disobey.Th'earths face is but thy Table; there are setPlants, cattell, men, dishes for Death to eate.In a rude hunger now hee millions drawesInto his bloody, or plaguy, or sterv'd jawes.Now hee will seeme to spare, and doth more wast,Eating the best first, well preserv'd to last.Now wantonly he spoiles, and eates us not,But breakes off friends, and lets us peecemeale rot.Nor will this earth serve him; he sinkes the deepeWhere harmelesse fish monastique silence keepe,Who (were Death dead) by Roes of living sand,Might spunge that element, and make it land.He rounds the aire, and breakes the hymnique notesIn birds (Heavens choristers,) organique throats,Which (if they did not dye) might seeme to beeA tenth ranke in the heavenly hierarchie.O strong and long-liv'd death, how cam'st thou in?And how without Creation didst begin?Thou hast, and shalt see dead, before thou dyest,All the foure Monarchies, and Antichrist.How could I thinke thee nothing, that see nowIn all this All, nothing else is, but thou.Our births and lives, vices, and vertues, beeWastfull consumptions, and degrees of thee.For, wee to live, our bellowes weare, and breath,Nor are wee mortall, dying, dead, but death.And though thou beest, O mighty bird of prey,So much reclaim'd by God, that thou must layAll that thou kill'st at his feet, yet doth heeReserve but few, and leaves the most to thee.And of those few, now thou hast overthrowneOne whom thy blow makes, not ours, nor thine own.She was more stories high: hopelesse to comeTo her Soule, thou'hast offer'd at her lower roome.Her Soule and body was a King and Court:But thou hast both of Captaine mist and fort.As houses fall not, though the King remove,Bodies of Saints rest for their soules above.Death gets 'twixt soules and bodies such a placeAs sinne insinuates 'twixt just men and grace,Both worke a separation, no divorce.Her Soule is gone to usher up her corseWhich shall be'almost another soule, for thereBodies are purer, then best Soules are here,Because in her, her virtues did outgoeHer yeares, would'st thou, O emulous death, do so?And kill her young to thy losse? must the costOf beauty,'and wit, apt to doe harme, be lost?What though thou found'st her proofe 'gainst sins of youth?Oh, every age a diverse sinne pursueth.Thou should'st have stay'd, and taken better hold,Shortly, ambitious; covetous, when old,She might have prov'd: and such devotionMight once have stray'd to superstition.If all her vertues must have growne, yet mightAbundant virtue'have bred a proud delight.Had she persever'd just, there would have binSome that would sinne, mis-thinking she did sinne.Such as would call her friendship, love, and faineTo sociablenesse, a name profane;Or sinne, by tempting, or, not daring that,By wishing, though they never told her what.Thus might'st thou'have slain more soules, had'st thou not crostThy selfe, and to triumph, thine army lost.Yet though these wayes be lost, thou hast left one,Which is, immoderate griefe that she is gone.But we may scape that sinne, yet weepe as much,Our teares are due, because we are not such.Some teares, that knot of friends, her death must cost,Because the chaine is broke, though no linke lost.