University of Virginia Library

Upon the death of the Lady Haddington dying of the Small Pox.

Deare losse! to tell the world I griev'd, were true,
But that were to bewayle my selfe, not you.
That were to cry out helpe for my affaires,
For which nor publike thoughts nor private cares,
For when thy fate I publish among men
I should have power to write with the States pen.
I should by naming thee force publique teares,
And bid their eyes pay ransome for their eares.
First, thy whole life was a short feast of wit,
And death the attendant which did wait on it;
To both mankind doth owe devotion ample,
To that their first, to this their last example.
And though 'twere fame enough with thee, where fame
And vertues nothing but an ample name,
That thou wert highly borne, which no man doubts,
And so might swathe base deeds in noble {clouts},
Yet thou thy selfe in titles didst not shroud,
And being noble wast not foule, nor proud;
And when thy fruit was ripe, when all the suite
Of all the longing Courtiers for thy fruit,
How wisely didst thou choose soure blessed eyes,
The Kings and thine had taught thee to be wise.
Did not the best of men the Virgin give
Into his hands by whom himselfe did live,
Nor did they two yeares after talke of force,
Or Lady-like, make suite for a divorse;
Who when their owne vile lust is fully spent
Cry out my Lord, my Lord is impotent;
Nor hast thou in his Nuptiall armes injoyd
Barren embraces, but sweet girld and boyd;
Twice pretty ones, twice worthy were their youth
Mightst thou but bring them up that broughtst them forth,
She would have taught them by a thousand straines
Her blood runs in their manners, not their veines,
That glory is a lie, state a grave sport,
And country sicknesse above breath at Court,
Oh what a want of her losse gallants have,
Since she hath changd her window for a grave;
From whence she wont to dart her wit so fast,
And sticke them in their Coaches as they past,
Who now shall make well coloured vice looke pale
And a curld meteor with her eyes exhale
And talke him into nothing, who shall dare
Tell barren braine they live in fertile ayre?
Who now shall keepe old Countesses in awe,
And by tart similies repentance draw
From those whom Preachers had given ore? some such
Whom Sermons could not reach her arrowes touch,
Hereafter fooles shall prosper with applause,
And wise men smile, and no man aske the cause,
He of fourscore, three night caps, and two hands,
Shall marry her of twenty and get heirds,
Which shall be thought his owne, and none shall say,
But 'tis a wondrous blessing, and he may.
Nor which is more then pitty, many a knight
Who can doe more then quarrell, lesse then fight;
Shall choose his weapons, ground, draw seconds thither,
Put up his sword, and not be laught at neither;
O thou deformed unwoman-like disgrace,
Thou plowst up flesh and blood, and there fowst peace,
And leaves such print on beauty if thou come,
As clouted shooes doe on a floore of loome,
Thou that of faces hony combes dost make,
And of two breasts two costenders; forsake
Thy deadly trade, thou are now rich, give ore,
Or if thou needst wilt magnifie thy power,
Goe where thou art invoked every houre;
Amongst the gamesters where they call thee thick
At the last maine, of the last pockie nick,
Get thee a lodging where thy clients dice,
There thou shalt practise on more then one vice,
There's where withall to entertain the pox,
Ther'es more then reason cousening for the Box,
Thou who hast such superfluous store of gaine,
Why stickst thou on whose ruine is thy shame {?}
O thou hast murdered where thou shouldst have kist,
And where thy shaft was needfull there thou mist,
Thou shouldst have chosen out some homely face,
Where thy ill favoured kindnesse might adde grace,
That men might say, How beauteous once was she,
Or what a peece ere she was seasd by thee!
Thou shouldst have wrought upon some Ladies mould
That nere did love her Lord, nor never could,
Untill she were deform'd, this crueltie
Were then within the rule of charitie:
But upon one whose beautie was above
All sort of beautie, whose love was more then love,
On her to fix thy ugly counterfeit,
Was to erect a pyramis of Jeat,
And put out fire to dig a turfe from hell,
And place it where a blessed soule should dwell;
A soule which in the body would not stay,
When 'twas no more a body nor good clay,
But a high ulcer, O thou heavenly race,
Thou soule which shun'st th'infection of thy case,
Thy house, thy prison; Soule, spotlesse, faire
Rest where no health, no cold not compounds are,
Rest in that Country, and enjoy that ease
Which thy fraile flesh divides and thy disease.