OMAN, MRS. M. S.

Here lies a virgin, and as sweet
As e'er was wrapt in winding sheet.
Her name if next you would have known,
The marble speaks it, Mary Stone:
Who dying in her blooming years,
This stone for name's sake melts to tears.
If, fragrant virgins, you'll but keep
A fast, while jets and marbles weep,
And praying, strew some roses on her,
You'll do my niece abundant honour.

765. FELICITY KNOWS NO FENCE.

Of both our fortunes good and bad we find
Prosperity more searching of the mind:
Felicity flies o'er the wall and fence,
While misery keeps in with patience.

766. DEATH ENDS ALL WOE.

Time is the bound of things; where'er we go
_Fate gives a meeting, Death's the end of woe_.

767. A CONJURATION TO ELECTRA.

By those soft tods of wool
With which the air is full;
By all those tinctures there,
That paint the hemisphere;
By dews and drizzling rain
That swell the golden grain;
By all those sweets that be
I' th' flowery nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate;
By all aspects that bless
The sober sorceress,
While juice she strains, and pith
To make her philters with;
By time that hastens on
Things to perfection;
And by yourself, the best
Conjurement of the rest:
O my Electra! be
In love with none, but me.

_Tods of wool_, literally, tod of wool=twenty-eight pounds, here used
of the fleecy clouds.
_Tinctures_, colours.
_Three forms of Hecate_, the _Diva triformis_ of Hor. Od. iii. 22.
Luna in heaven, Diana on earth, Persephone in the world below.
_Aspects_, _i.e._, of the planets.

768. COURAGE COOLED.

I cannot love as I have lov'd before;
For I'm grown old and, with mine age, grown poor.
_Love must be fed by wealth_: this blood of mine
Must needs wax cold, if wanting bread and wine.

769. THE SPELL.

Holy water come and bring;
Cast in salt, for seasoning:
Set the brush for sprinkling:
Sacred spittle bring ye hither;
Meal and it now mix together,
And a little oil to either.
Give the tapers here their light,
Ring the saints'-bell, to affright
Far from hence the evil sprite.

770. HIS WISH TO PRIVACY.

Give me a cell
To dwell,
Where no foot hath
A path:
There will I spend
And end
My wearied ye