Let none suppose this relic of the Just
Was here wrapped up, to perish in the dust!
No, like best fruits, her time she fully stood,
Then, being grown in Faith, and ripe in Good
(With stedfast hope that She, another day,
Should rise with Christ), with Death, here down she lay.
And, that each part which Her in life had graced,
Preserved might be, and meet again at last;
The Poor, the World, the Heavens, and the Grave,
Her Alms, her Praise, her Soul, her Body have.
An Epitaph upon a Woman and her Child buried together in the same Grave.
Beneath this marble stone doth lie
The subject of Death's tyranny;
A Mother, who, in this close tomb,
Sleeps with the issue of her womb.
Though cruelly inclined was He.
And, with the Fruit, shook down the Tree;
Yet was his cruelty in vain!
For Tree and Fruit shall spring again.
A Christmas Carol.
So, now, is come our joyful'st feast;
Let every man be jolly!
Each room with ivy leaves is drest;
And every post, with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine;
Round your foreheads, garlands twine!
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine;
And let us all be merry!
Now, all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks be burning;
Their ovens, they with baked meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door, let sorrow lie!
And if, for cold, it hap to die;
We'll bury it in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry!
Now, every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labour;
Our lasses have provided them,
A bagpipe and a tabor.
Young men and maids, and girls and boys,
Give life to one another's joys;
And you, anon, shall by the noise,
Perceive that they are merry.