Selected quad for the lemma: england_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
england_n	head_n	king_n	supreme_a	4,443	5	9.1068	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A96974	Parnassus biceps. Or Severall choice pieces of poetry, composed by the best wits that were in both the universities before their dissolution. With an epistle in the behalfe of those now doubly secluded and sequestred Members, by one who himselfe is none.	Wright, Abraham, 1611-1690.	1656 (1656)	Wing W3686; Thomason E1679_1; ESTC R204146	62,203	178

Yet an injunction stranger nature willd her Poor mother to be tomb to that which kild her And not with so much cruelty content Buries the child the grave and monument Where shall we write the Epitaph whereon The child the grave the monument is gone Or if upon the child we write a staffe Where shall we write the tombs own Epitaph Onely this way is left and now we must As on a table carpeted with dust Make chisells of our fingers and engrave An Epitaph both on the tomb and grave Within the dust but when some hours are gone Will not the Epitaph have need of one I know it well yet grave it therefore deep That those which know the losse may truly weep And shed their tears so justly in that place Which we before did with a finger trace That filling up the letters they may lie As inlaid Christall to posterity Where as in glasse if any write another Let him say thus here lies a haplesse mother Whom cruel sate hath made to be a tomb And kept in travell till the day of doom On Man ILl busied man why shouldst thou take such care To lenghthen out thy lives short callendar Each dropping season and each flower doth cry Fool as I fade and wither thou must die The beating of thy pulse when thou art well Is but the towling of thy passing bell Night is thy hearse whose sable Canopy Covers alike deceased day and thee And all those weeping dewes which nightly fall Are but as tears shed for thy funerall On Faireford windows TEll me you anti-Saints why glasse With you is longer lived then brasse And why the Saints have scap'd their falls Better from windowes then from walls Is it because the brethrens fires Maintaine a glasse-house in Black-friers Next which the Church stands North and South And East and West the Preachers mouth Or i st because such painted ware Resembles something what you are So pied so seeming so unsound In doctrine and in manners found That ont of emblemattick wit You spare your selves in sparing it If it be so then Faireford boast Thy Church hath kept what all have lost And is preserved from the bane Of either war or Puritan Whose life is colour'd in the paint The inside drosse the outside Saint On a Gentlewoman playing on the Lute BE silent you still musick of the sphears And every sence make hast to be all eares And give devout attention to her aires To which the Gods doe listen as to prayers Of pious votaries the which to hear Tumult would be attentive and would swear To keep lesse noise at Nile if there she sing Or with a sacred touch grace but one string Amongst so many auditors so many throngs Of Gods and men that presse to hear her songs Oh let me have an unespied room And die with such an anthem ore my tomb On Love WHen I do love I would notwish to speed To plead fruition rather then desire But on sweet lingring expectation feed And gently would protract not feed my fire What though my love a martyrdome you name No Salamander ever feels the flame That which is obvious I as much esteem As Courtiors doe old cloths for novelty Doth rellish pleasures and in them we deem The hope is sweeter then the memory Injoying breeds a glut men better tast Comforts to come then pleasures that are past The Catholick I Hold as faith What Romes Ch saith Where the King is head The flocks misled Where the Altars drest The peoples blest He 's but an asse Who shuns the Masse What Englands Church alow My conscience disallowes That Church can have no shame That holds the Pope supreame There 's service scarce divine With table bread and wine Who the Communion flies Is Catholick and wise On Faireford windowes I Know no paint of Poetry Can mend such colours Imagery In sullen inke Yet Faireford I May rellish thy faire memory Such is the ecchoes fainter found Such is the light when Sun is drownd So did the fancy look upon The work before it was begun Yet when those shews are out of sight My weaker colours may delight Those Images so faithfully Report the feature to the eye As you would think each picture was Some visage in a looking-glasse Not a glasse-window face unlesse Such as Cheap-side hath when a presse Of painted Gallants looking out Bedeck the casement round about Bnt these have holy phisnomy Each pane instructs the laity With silent eloquence for here Devotion leads the eye not eare To note the cetechising paint Whose easie phrase did so acquaint Our sence with Gospel that the Creed In such a hand the weak may read Such types can yet of vertue be And Christ as in a glasse we see Behold two Turtles in one Cage With such a lovely equipage As they who mark them well may doubt Some young ones have been there stolne out When with a fishing rod the Clark St. Peters draught of fish doth mark Such is the scale the eye the fin You 'd think they strove and leap'd within But if the net which holds them brake He with his angle some would take But would you walk a turne in Pauls Look up one little pane inroules A fairer Temple fling a stone The Church is out of the window flown Consider but not ask your eyes And ghosts at mid-day seem to rise The Saints their striving to descend Are past the glasse and downward bend Look there the Devils all would cry Did they not see that Christ was by See where he suffers for thee see His body taken from the tree Had ever death such life before The limber corps besullied ore With meager palenesse doth display A middle state 'twixt flesh and clay His armes his head his legs his crown Like a true Lambskin dangling down Who can forbear the grave being nigh To bring fresh ointment in his eye The Puritans were sure deceiv'd Who thought those shadows mov'd and heav'd So held from stoning Christ the wind And boisterous tempests were so kind As on his Image not to pray Whom both the winds and Sea obey At Momus wish be not dismaied For if each Christians heart were glaz'd With such a window then each breast Might be his own Evangelist On the praise of an ill-favourd Gentlewoman MArry and love thy Flavia for she Hath all things whereby others beautious be For though her eyes be small her mouth is great Though her lips Ivory be her teeth be jet Though they be dark yet she is light enough And though her harsh hair fail her skin is rough And what if it be yellow her haires red Give her but thine she has a maidenhead These things are beauties elements where these Compounded are in one she needs must please If red and white and each good quality Be in the wench nere ask where it doth lye In buying things perfumed we ask if there Be musk and amber in it but not where Though all her parts be not i