Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice;

Fruits of the Earth and Fatlings each do bring:
On Abels gift the fire descends from Skies,
But no such sign on false Cain's offering.
With sullen hateful looks he goes his wayes,

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Hath thousand thoughts to end his brothers dayes,
Upon whose blood his future good he hopes to raise.

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There Abel keeps his sheep, no ill he thinks;
His brother comes, then acts his fratricide:
The Virgin Earth of blood her first draught drinks,
But since that time she often hath been cloy'd.
The wretch, with gastly face and dreadful mind,
Thinks each he sees will serve him in his kind,

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Though none on Earth but kindred near then could he find.

Who fancyes not his looks now at the Barr ?
His face like death, his heart with horror fraught.
Nor Male-factor ever felt like warr

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When deep dispair with wish of life hath fought.
Branded with guilt and crusht with treble woes,

A Vagabond to Land of Nod he goes;

A City builds, that wals might him secure from foes.

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Who thinks not oft upon the Fathers ages?

Their long descent; how nephews sons they saw;
The starry observations of those Sages,

And how their precepts to their sons were law;
How Adam sigh'd to see his Progeny

IIC

Cloath'd all in his black sinfull Livery,

Who neither guilt nor yet the punishment could fly.

Our Life compare we with their length of dayes;
Who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive?
And though thus short, we shorten many wayes,
Living so little while we are alive:

In eating, drinking, sleeping, vain delight,

So unawares comes on perpetual night,

And puts all pleasures vain unto eternal flight.

When I behold the heavens as in their prime,

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And then the earth, though old, stil clad in green,
The stones and trees insensible of time,

Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen;

If winter come and greeness then do fade,

A Spring returns and they more youthfull made;

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But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid:

By birth more noble then those creatures all,
Yet seems by nature and by custome curs'd:

No sooner born but grief and care makes fall,

That state obliterate he had at first;

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Nor youth nor strength nor wisdom spring again,

Nor habitations long their names retain,

But in oblivion to the final day remain.

Shall I, then, praise the heavens, the trees, the earth,

Because their beauty and their strength last longer?
Shall I wish there or never to had birth,

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Because they're bigger, & their bodyes stronger?
Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade, and dye,
And when unmade so ever shall they lye;
But man was made for endless immortality.

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And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.

While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye,

Which to the long'd for Ocean held its course,

I markt nor crooks nor rubs that there did lye Could hinder ought, but still augment its force: "O happy Flood," quoth I, "that holds thy race Till thou arrive at thy beloved place,

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Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace.

"Nor is 't enough that thou alone may'st slide,

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But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet;
So hand in hand along with thee they glide
To Thetis house, where all imbrace and greet:

Thou Emblem true of what I count the best,

O could I lead my Rivolets to rest,

So may we press to that vast mansion ever blest!

"Ye Fish which in this liquid Region 'bide,

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That for each season have your habitation,
Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide
To unknown coasts to give a visitation,

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In Lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry;
So nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You watry folk that know not your felicity.

Look how the wantons frisk to tast the air,
Then to the colder bottome streight they dive;
Eftsoon to Neptun's glassie Hall repair,

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To see what trade they great ones there do drive,
Who forrage o're the spacious sea-green field

And take the trembling prey before it yield,
Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins

their shield."

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While musing thus, with contemplation fed,

And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,

The sweet-tongu'd Philomel percht ore my head,

And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight.

"O merry Bird," said I, "that fears no snares, That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn, Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares

To gain more good or shun what might thee harm;
Thy cloaths ne're wear, thy meat is every where,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer;
Reminds not what is past, nor whats to come dost
fear.

"The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent.
Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument

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And, warbling out the old, begin anew;

And thus they pass their youth in summer season,

Then follow thee into a better Region,

Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion."

Man at the best a creature frail and vain,

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In knowledg ignorant, in strength but weak,
Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,

Each storm his state, his mind, his body break;

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From some of these he never finds cessation,

But day or night, within, without, vexation,

Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st
Relation.

And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow;
Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation,
In weight, in frequency and long duration,

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Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation.

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The Mariner that on smooth waves doth glide
Sings merrily and steers his Barque with ease,
As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now become great Master of the seas;

But suddenly a storm spoiles all the sport,

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And makes him long for a more quiet port,

Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,

Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre,

That's full of friends, of honour, and of treasure,

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Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heav'ns bower.
But sad affliction comes & makes him see

Their names without a Record are forgot,

Their parts, their ports, their pomp 's all laid in th' dust,

Nor wit nor gold nor buildings scape times rust:

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But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone

Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

1678.

A LETTER TO HER HUSBAND

Phœbus, make haste: the day's too long; be gone;

The silent night's the fittest time for moan.

But stay this once, unto my suit give ear,
And tell my griefs in either Hemisphere;
And if the whirling of thy wheels don't drown'd
The woful accents of my doleful sound,

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If in thy swift Carrier thou canst make stay,
I crave this boon, this Errand by the way:

Commend me to the man more lov'd then life;
Shew him the sorrows of his widdowed wife,

My dumpish thoughts, my groans, my brakish tears,
My sobs, my longing hopes, my doubting fears;

And if he love, how can he there abide?

My Interest's more then all the world beside.

He that can tell the starrs or Ocean sand,

Or all the grass that in the Meads do stand,

The leaves in th' woods, the hail or drops of rain,
Or in a corn-field number every grain,
Or every mote that in the sun-shine hops,
May count my sighs and number all my drops.
Tell him the countless steps that thou dost trace
That once a day thy Spouse thou mayst imbrace;
And when thou canst not treat by loving mouth,
Thy rayes afar salute her from the south.
But for one moneth I see no day, poor soul,

Like those far scituate under the pole,
Which day by day long wait for thy arise:

O how they joy when thou dost light the skyes.
O Phœbus, hadst thou but thus long from thine
Restrain'd the beams of thy beloved shine,
At thy return, if so thou could'st or durst,
Behold a Chaos blacker then the first.

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