On Mr. Rice, the Manciple of Christ-Church in Oxford

Who can doubt, Rice, but to th’ eternall place
Thy soule is fledd, that did but know thy face?
Whose body was soe light, it might have gone
To heav’ne without a resurrection.
Indeed thou wert all type; thy limmes were signes,
Thy arteryes but mathematicke lines:
As if two soules had made thy compound good,
That both should live by faith, and none by blood.