above her age, and died in her infancy when not full four years old. Being minded by those about her to call upon God even when the pangs of Death were upon her; "I am not able," saith she, "to say my long prayer (meaning the Lord's-prayer), but I will say my short one, Lighten mine eyes, O Lord, lest I sleep the sleep of death." This done, the little lamb gave up the ghost. Thomas Fuller
KING JAMES came in Progress to the House of Sir
William Pope, Knight, when his Lady was lately delivered of a daughter, which Babe was presented to King James with this paper of verses in her hand :
ERRY Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower:
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning
In everything,
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write
Of merry Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
As patient and still
And as full of good will
As fair Isaphill,
Coliander,
Sweet pomander,
Good Cassander;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought,
Far may be sought,
Ere that ye can find
So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in her mother's arms ◇
`IMELY blossom, infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue.
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush,
Like the linnet in the bush,
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat,
Chirping forth thy pretty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May,
Flitting to each bloomy spray.
Wearied then and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest.
This thy happy present lot,
This, in time, will be forgot;
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever-busy Time prepares ;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see
This picture once resembled thee.
EEP not because this childe hath dyed so yong,
But weepe because yourselves have livd so
long :
Age is not fild by growth of time, for then
What old man lives to see th' estate of men?
Who sees the age of grande Methusalem?
Ten years make us as old as hundreds him.
Ripenesse is from ourselves: and then wee dye
When nature hath obteynde maturity.
Summer and winter fruits there bee, and all
Not at one time, but being ripe, must fall.
Death did not erre: your mourners are beguilde;
She dyed more like a mother than a childe.
Weigh the composure of her pretty parts:
Her gravity in childhood; all her arts
Of womanly behaviour; weigh her tongue
So wisely measurde, not too short nor long ;
And to her youth adde some few riches more,
She tooke upp now what due was at threescore.
She livd seven years, our age's first degree ;
Journeys at first time ended happy bee;
Yet take her stature with the age of man,
They well are fitted: both are but a span.
A Young Lady five months old
MY pretty, budding, breathing flower,
Methinks, if I to-morrow,
Could manage, just for half an hour,
Sir Joshua's brush to borrow,
I might immortalise a few
Of all the myriad graces
Which Time, while yet they all are new,
With newer still replaces.
I'd paint, my child, your deep-blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes;
I'd paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes;
I'd draw with most fastidious care
One eyebrow, then the other,
And that fair forehead, broad and fair,
The forehead of your mother.
I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek
Where health in sunshine dances;
And oft the pouting lips, where speak
A thousand voiceless fancies;
And the soft neck would keep me long,
The neck, more smooth and snowy
Than ever yet in schoolboy's song
Had Caroline or Chloe.
Nor less on those twin rounded arms
My new-found skill would linger,
Nor less upon the rosy charms
Of every tiny finger;
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