6
Tixall Poetry.
On the Death of
Mr P's Little Daughter,
in the Beginning of The Spring, at Amsterdam.
Say not, because no more you see
I' th' faire armes of her mother tree
This infant bloome, the wind or time
Has nippt the flower before the prime;
Or what ere Autumne promiss'd to make good
In early fruit is withered i' th' budd:
I' th' faire armes of her mother tree
This infant bloome, the wind or time
Has nippt the flower before the prime;
Or what ere Autumne promiss'd to make good
In early fruit is withered i' th' budd:
But, as when roses breath away
Their sweet consenting soûles, none say
The still deflowers those virgin leaves,
But them extracts, exalts, receaves;
Even so has heavens allmighty Chymike here
Drawn this pure spiritt to its proper spheare.
Their sweet consenting soûles, none say
The still deflowers those virgin leaves,
But them extracts, exalts, receaves;
Even so has heavens allmighty Chymike here
Drawn this pure spiritt to its proper spheare.
