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Hither with
hallowed steps as is the ground,
That must enshrine
this saint with lookes profound,
And sad aspects as
the dark vails you weare,
Virgins opprest, draw
gently, gently neare;
Enter the dismall chancell of
this rooome,
Where each pale guest stands fixt a
living tombe;
With trembling hands helpe to remove
this earth
To its last death and first victorious
birth:
Let gums and incense fume, who are at strife
To enter th' hearse and breath in it new life;
Mingle
your steppes with flowers as you goe,
Which, as they
haste to fade, will speake your woe.
And when y'
have plac't your tapers on her urn,
How poor a
tribute 'tis to weep and mourn!
That flood the
channell of your eye-lids fils,
When you lose
trifles, or what's lesse, your wills.
If you'l be
worthy of these obsequies,
Be blind unto the world,
and drop your eyes;
Waste and consume, burn downward
as this fire
That's fed no more: so willingly expire;
Passe through the cold and obscure narrow way,
Then
light your torches at the spring of day,
There with
her triumph in your victory.
Such joy alone and such
solemnity
Becomes this funerall of virginity.
Or, if you faint to be so blest, oh heare!
If not to
dye, dare but to live like her:
Dare to live virgins,
till the honour'd age
Of thrice fifteen cals matrons
on the stage,
Whilst not a blemish or least staine is
scene
On your white roabe 'twixt fifty and fifteene;
But as it in your swathing-bands was given,
Bring't
in your winding sheet unsoyl'd to Heav'n.
Daere to do
purely, without compact good,
Or herald, by no one
understood
But him, who now in thanks bows either
knee
For th' early benefit and secresie.
Dare
to affect a serious holy sorrow,
To which delights of
pallaces are narrow,
And, lasting as their smiles,
dig you a roome,
Where practise the probation of your
tombe
With ever-bended knees and piercing pray'r,
Smooth the rough passe through craggy earth to ay'r;
Flame there as lights that shipwrackt mariners
May
put in safely, and secure their feares,
Who, adding
to your joyes, now owe you theirs.
Virgins, if
thus you dare but courage take
To follow her in life,
else through this lake
Of Nature wade, and breake her
earthly bars,
Y' are fixt with her upon a throne of
stars,
Arched with a pure Heav'n chrystaline,
Where round you love and joy for ever shine.
But
you are dumbe, as what you do lament
More senseles
then her very monument,
Which at your weaknes weeps.
Spare that vaine teare,
Enough to burst the rev'rend
sepulcher.
Rise and walk home; there groaning
prostrate fall,
And celebrate your owne sad funerall:
For howsoe're you move, may heare, or see,
YOU ARE
MORE DEAD AND BURIED THEN SHEE.
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