Were't not for faith and that I firmely trust,

Heavens wayes (how ere obscure) are allwayes iust,

And that all lynes of great’st circumference

Meete in the center of Godes providence;

I should (as others) cladd in sable weed,

Warble sadd ditties on my vntun’d reed,

And curse the fates for cutting of the thredd

Of howlettes life. Howlett they say is dead,

Dead! tis an error. See how sorrow blindes

Our blubbering eyes, and so distractes our myndes,

As passion leades us headlong, and wee deeme

Of thinges not as they are, but as they seeme:

ffor lett but settled reason deeper dive,

The tale proves false and howlett is alive.

‘Tis true, hee is remov’d: for here being pent

In a close dwelling, giving small content

To such a tenant, hee dislik’d his Cell,

Which soone, for want of due repayring, fell

Into the Lordes handes. Finding him thus fledd

(Though to a better house) men thought him dead:

Nor was this th’onely reason which remov’d him,

A patron, which had ever dearly lov’d him,

To a farr better living call’d him hence:

This but depended on benevolence,

A meere impropriated Donative,

Where men thinck nothing due, but what they give,

Is of meere curtesie, so his strongest tye

ffor endles paynes, was meere vncertayntie.

Where now hee is, his labor's nothing such,

Yet his reward most ample: in so much

As nothing can be added: and so sure

As (spight of chances) ever shall endure.

Now to bewayle him seemes no lesse,

Then envye him this height of happines.

This urne contaynes so much as mortall was

Of reverent Howlett: man thus fades like grasse:

Or like a flower, which while wee gaze upon

With admiration, in a trice ‘tis gon.