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An hymne to the Saints, and to Marquesse |
Hamylton. |
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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
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[CW: His] |