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An hymne to the Saints, and to Marquesse
Hamylton.
Whether that soule wch now comes up to you
Fill any former ranke or make a new,
Whether it take a name nam'd there before,
Or be a name it selfe, and order more
Then was in heaven till now; (for may not hee
Be so, if every severall Angell bee
A kinde alone?) What ever order grow
Greater 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 name
Of Subject and of Prince, in one is lame;
Faire mirth is dampt, and conversation black,
The Houshold 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 him
Gangreend all Orders here; all lost a limbe.
Never made body such haste to confesse
What a soule was; All former comelinesse
Fled, in a minute, when the soule was gone,
And, having lost that beautie, would have none,
So fell our Monasteries, in an instant growne
Not to lesse houses, but to heapes of stone;
So sent his body that faire forme it wore
Vnto the spheare of formes, and doth (before

[CW: His]