University of Virginia Library

Yea, and a good cause

A funerall song, vpon the deceas of Annes his moother.

Yea, and a good cause why thus should I playn.
For what is hee, can quietly sustayn
So great a grief, with mouth as styll, as stone?
My loue, my lyfe, of ioye my ieewell is gone.
This harty zeale if any wight disprooue,
As womans work, whom feeble minde doth mooue:
Hee neither knowes the mighty natures laws,
Nor touching elders deeds hath seen old saws.
Martius, to vanquish Rome, was set on fire:
But vanquisht fell, at moothers boon, his ire.
Into Hesperian land Sertorius fled,
Of parent aye cheef care had in his hed.
Dear weight on shoulders Sicil brethren bore,
While Etnaes gyant spouted flames full sore.
Not more of Tyndars ymps hath Sparta spoke,
Than Arge of charged necks with parents yoke.
Nor onely them thus dyd foretyme entreat:
Then, was the noorsse also in honour great.
Caiet the Phrygian from amid fireflame
Rescued, who gaue to Latine stronds the name.
Acca, in dubble sense Lupa ycleaped,
To Romane Calendars a feast hath heaped.
His Capra Ioue among the sterres hath pight:
In welkin clere yet lo she shineth bryght.
Hyades as gratefully Lyai did place,

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O4v

Whom, in primetide, supports the Bulls fayr face.
And should not I expresse my inward wo,
When you, most louyng dam, so soon hence go?
I, in your frutefull woomb conceyued, born was,
Whyle wanderyng moon ten moonths did ouerpasse.
Mee, brought to light, your tender arms sustaynd:
And, with my lips, your milky paps I straynd.
You mee embraced, in bosom soft you mee
Cherished, as I your onely chylde had bee.
Of yssue fayr with noombers were you blest:
Yet I, the bestbeloued of all the rest.
Good luck, certayn forereadyng moothers haue,
And you of mee a speciall iudgement gaue.
Then, when firm pase I fixed on the ground:
When toung gan cease to break the lispyng sound:
You mee streightway did too the Muses send,
Ne suffered long a loytervng lyfe to spend,
What gayn the wooll, what gayn the wed had braught,
It was his meed, that me there dayly taught.
When with Minerue I had acquaintance woon:
And Phebus seemd to loue mee, as his soon:
Browns hold I bad, at parents hest, farewell:
And gladly there in schools I gan to dwell:
Where Granta giues the ladies nyne such place,
That they reioyse to see theyr blisfull case.
With ioyes at hert, in this pernasse I bode,
Whyle, through his signes, fiue tymes great Titan glode:
And twyse as long, by that fayr foord, whereas
Swanfeeder Temms no furder course can passe.
O, what desire had you, therwhile, of mee?
Mid doutfull dreeds, what ioyes were wont to bee?
Now linnen clothes, wrought with those fyngers fyne,
Now other thynges of yours dyd you make myne:
Tyll your last thredes gan Clotho to vntwyne,
And of your dayes the date extreem assygne.
Hearyng the chaunce, your neybours made much mone:
A dearworth dame, they thought theyr coomfort gone.
Kinswoomen wept: your charge, the maydens wept:
Your daughters wept, whom you so well had kept.
But my good syre gaue, with soft woords, releef:
And clokes, with outward chere, his inward greef:
Leste, by his care, your sicknes should augment,

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P1r

And on his case your thoughtfull hert be bent.
You, not forgetting yet a moothers mood,
When at the dore dartthirling death there stood,
Did saye: Adeew, dear spouse, my race is roon:
Wher so he bee, I haue left you a soon,
And Nicolas you naamd, and naamd agayn:
With other speech, aspiring heauenly raign:
When into ayre your sprite departed fled,
And left the corps a cold in lukewarm bed.
Ah, could you thus, deare mother, leaue vs all?
Now, should you liue: that yet, before your fall,
My songs you might haue soong, haue heard my voyce,
And in commodities of your own reioyce.
My sisters yet vnwedded who shall guide?
With whose good lessons shall they bee applyed?
Haue, mother, monumentes of our sore smart:
No costly tomb, areard with curious art:
Nor Mausolean masse, hoong in the ayre:
Nor loftie steeples, that will once appayre:
But waylful verse, and doolfull song accept.
By verse, the names of auncient peres be kept:
By verse, liues Hercules: by verse, Achil:
Hector, Ene, by verse, be famous still.
Such former yeres, such death hath chau[n]ced thee:
Closde, with good end, good life is woont to bee.
But now, my sacred parent, fare you well:
God shall cause vs agayn togither dwell,
What time this vniuersall globe shall hear
Of the last troomp the rynging voyce: great fear
To soom, to such as you a heauenly chear.
Til then, reposde rest you in gentle sleep:
While hee, whom to you are bequeathd, you keep.