A PANEGYRIC UPON THE Blessed Virgin MARY.  
WHat Eye dares search the Brightness of the Sun?  
What Pencil draw it? What Conception  
Is clean enough Thy Pureness to descry,  
Or strong enough to speak Thy Dignity,  
Blessed Mother of our Lord, whose Happy State  
None but an Angel's Tongue did first relate?  
Thou wert on Earth a Star most heavenly bright,  
That didst bring forth the Sun that lent Thee Light:  
An Earthly Vessel full of heavenly Grace,  
That brought'st forth Life to Adam's dying Race.  
For God on Earth Thou wert a Royal Throne,  
The Quarry to cut out our Cornerstone,  
The chosen Cloth to make his Mortal Weed,  
Soil blest with Fruit, yet free from Mortal Seed.  
In Marriage-bands thou ledst a Virgin-life,  
And, tho' untouched, becamest a Fruitful Wife.  
Tho' Thou to aged Joseph wert assured,  
No Carnal Love that Sacred League procured,  
All vain Delights were far from your Assent,  
For chaste by Vow you sealed you chaste Intent.  
Thus God his Paradise to Joseph lent,  
Wherein to plant the Tree of Life he meant,  
To raise a Birth miraculous, and by  
His sacred ways of Power disclose that high  
And holy Mystery, which Angels (tho'  
So full of Light) desired to look into.  
When Thou thy Maker didst bring forth, and he  
Whose Age had been from all Eternity,  
Was born an Infant from Thy Blessed Womb,  
He lay enclosed in that narrow Room,  
Whose Greatness Heaven and Earth could not contain.  
Who made the World, and Nature did ordain,  
Was made of Thy Flesh; he, whose opened Hand  
Feeds all the Creatures both by Sea and Land;  
That even to Thee thy Life and Being lent,  
Did from Thy Breast receive his Nourishment.  
His Birth no Human Tongues were fit to sing:  
Th' Angelic Choir did greet their newborn King.  
So bright a Consort, and so sweet a Lay,  
Made Night more fair and cheerful than the Day,  
And little Bethlem with more Glory filled  
Than all the Roman Palaces could yield.  
How wondrous great is then Thy Happiness,  
That wert his Mother? But who can express  
So high a Bliss? When we desire to fame  
Some other Maid or virtuous Woman's Name,  
When we of other Ladies write the Lives,  
Of chaste Maids, happy Mothers, constant Wives,  
Such as best Writers have renowned of yore,  
When we have told their Noble Virtues o'er,  
We draw Examples, and besides their own  
Fair Stories, praise them by Comparison.  
But in Thy Life we cannot; Thou alone  
Canst not at all admit Comparison.  
So far thy happy Name and Honour lives  
Above all other Mothers, Maids, or Wives,  
That 'twere a Sin, when we Thy Story tell,  
So much as once to think of Parallel.  
We'll let Thee in Thine own pure Titles live,  
And speak no Praise of Thee but Positive;  
As when we say, All Ages, Nations all  
Shall Thee most Happy among Women call;  
That of the greatest Blessing God e'er sent  
To sinful Man, Thou wert the Instrument.   

Published with Allowance.   

LONDON, Printed by H. H. 1686.