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And struck a Unison to her selfe, and liv'd.
Was't this? or was it, that the Goatish Flow
Of thy Adulterous veines (from thence let goe
By second Æsculapius his hand)
Dissolv'd the Parcæ's Adamantine Band,
And made Thee Artist's Glory, Shame of Fate,
Triumph of Nature, Virbius his Mate.
HAng up the Gallow-Tree, since 'twould not doo't
The Maid was hang'd for her Abortive fruit:
Yet doe not: for, though weak, perhaps next yeare
It may, like Her, get strength againe, and Beare.
Another.
If Life be but a Tennis play, Thou then
Com'st from the Hazzard to be Toss'd agen.
Here only was the difference, in Thine
The Game was sav'd by playing under Line.
To the happy Instruments of the Executed Maids Recovery.
Oxford (the Arts Metropolis) ner'e knew
A rarer feat then was perform'd by you.
Brave Æsculapian friends! whose Art could give
After the Execution a Reprieve.
And yet 'twas timely too: for though grim Death
Had seiz'd the passage of her Vitall breath,
Yet you a new one made: And the same Veine
That let out blood, receiv'd in Life againe.
The Soule, which is in every part entire,
Can, undiscern'd by you, to none retire:
Since you no lesse the tracke of soules doe know,
Than that of Liverets in new-fallen Snow.
Others can by their Chymistry reduce
A Plant or flower from its dust or juyce;
But your sublimer Art hath done much more
Whil'st humane soules you from their Urnes restore.
