An Epitaph on Niobe turned to Stone

This Pile thou seest built out of Flesh, not Stone,

Contains no shroud within, nor mouldring bone:

This bloodless Trunk is destitute of Tombe

Which may the Soul-fled Mansion enwombe.

This seeming Sepulchre (to tell the troth)

Is neither Tomb nor Body, and yet both.

AN ELEGY Occasioned by the losse of the most incomparable Lady Stanhope, daughter to the Earl of Nor

Lightned by that dimme Torch our sorrow bears

We sadly trace thy Coffin with our tears;

And though the Ceremonious Rites are past

Since thy fair body into earth was cast;

Though all thy Hatchments into ragges are torne,

Thy Funerall Robes and Ornaments outworn;

We still thy mourners without Shew or Art,

With solemn Blacks hung round about our heart,

Psalm CL

Praise ye the Lord, your Songs address

To praise His Holynes:

O praise Him in His pow'rs extent,

Who rules the firmament.

Praise Him for all His acts of might,

Our wonder which invite:

In praises due His greatness tell,

Which all things doth excell.