ge; put case it should
Nere know an end, alas, our _Leases_ would;
What hast thou then, _proud flesh and blood_, to boast
Thy daies are evil, at best; but few, at most;
But sad, at merriest; and but weak, at strongest;
Unsure, at surest; and but short, at longest.

He afterwards went over into _Ireland_, where he became Secretary to
the Reverend _James Usher_, Arch-bishop of _Armagh_: one suitable to
his disposition, having a Genius byassed to Devotion; Here at leisure
times did he exercise himself in those ravishing delights of Poetry,
but (alwaies with the _Psalmist_) his _heart was inditing a good
matter_; these in time produced those excellent works of his, _viz._
his Histories of _Jonas_, _Esther_, _Job_, and _Sampson_; his _Sions
Songs_ and _Sions Elegies_, also his _Euchyridion_, all of them of such
a heavenly strain, as if he had drank of _Jordan_ instead of _Helicon_,
and slept on Mount _Olivet_ for his _Pernassus_. He had also other
excursions into the delightful walks of Poetry, namely, his _Argulus_
and _Parthenia_, a Science (as he himself saith) taken out of Sir
_Philip Sidney's_ Orchard, likewise his _Epigrams_, _Shepherds
Oracles_, Elegies on several persons, his _Hierogliphicks_, but
especially his _Emblems_, wherein he hath _Out-Alciated Alcialus_
himself. There hath been also acted a Comedy of his called, _The Virgin
Widdow_, which passed with no ordinary applause. But afterwards the
Rebellion breaking forth in _Ireland_ (where his losses were very
great) he was forced to come over; and being a true Loyalist to his
Soveraign, was again plundred of his Estate here, but what he took most
to heart (for as for his other losses he practiced the patience of
_Job_ he had described) was his being plundred of his Books, and some
rare Manuscripts which he intended for the Press, the loss of which, as
it is thought, facilitated his death, which happned about the year of
our Lord, 1643. to whose memory one dedicated these lines by way of
Epitaph.

To them that understand themselves so well,
As what, and who lies here, to ask, I'll tell,
What I conceive Envy dare not deny,
Far both from falshood, and from flattery.

Here drawn to Land by Death, doth lie
A Vessel fitter for the Skie,
Than _Jason's Argo_, though in _Greece_
They say, it brought the Golden Fleece.
The skilful Pilot steered it so,
Hither and thither, too and fro.
Through all the Seas of Poverty,
Whether they