Vpon Mr. Staninough's Death.

DEare reliques of a dislodg'd soule, whose lacke
Makes many a mourning Paper put on blacke;
O stay a while e're thou draw in thy Head,
And wind thy selfe up close in thy cold Bed:
Stay but a little while, untill I call
A summons, worthy of thy Funerall.
Come then youth, Beauty, and Blood, all ye soft powers,
Whose silken flatteryes swell a few fond hou…es.
Into a false Eternity, come man,
(Hyperbolized nothing!) know thy span.
Take thine owne measure here, downe, downe, and bow
Before thy selfe in thy Idaea, thou
Huge emptinesse contract thy bulke, and shrinke
All thy wild Circle to a point! ô sinke
Lower, and lower yet; till thy small size,
Call Heaven to looke on thee with narrow eyes▪
Lesser and lesser yet, till thou begin
To show a face, fit to confesse thy kin
Thy neighbour-hood to nothing! here put on
Thy selfe in this unfeign'd reflection;
Here gallant Ladyes, this unpartiall glasse
(Through all your painting) showes you your own face.
These Death-scal'd Lipps are they dare give the lye,
To the proud hopes of poor Mortality.
These curtain'd windowes, this selfe-prison'd eye,
Out-stares the Liddes of large-look't Tyranny.
This posture is the brave one: this that lyes
Thus low stands up (me thinkes) thus, and defyes
The world — All daring Dust and Ashes, onely you
Of all interpreters read nature true.