I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
To rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,
That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.
My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes come
From th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdome
The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose
When the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowes
Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East
Vying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.
These gentle perfumes usher in the day