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Du Bartas

His Divine Weekes And Workes with A Compleate Collectio[n] of all the other most delight-full Workes: Translated and written by yt famous Philomusus: Iosvah Sylvester

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1155

AN ELEGIAC EPISTLE

What Obiect, less then our Great Henry's Herse,
Could so haue seiz'd the voice of euery Verse?
What Subiect else could haue ingrossed so
The publique Store and priuate Stock of Woe?
What Sea, but th'Ocean of His Vertues Fame,
Could drink all Teares, or drown a Sidney's Name
(As buried quick) so quickly (though so yong)
So vn-bewayled, sovn-sigh't, vn-sung?
O, glorious Henry! though alone to Thee,
I owe my all, and more then all of Mee;
And though (alas!) the best and most of mine
Reach not the least, the lowest Dues of Thine:
Yet, wouldst thou, couldst Thou hear (as heer-to-fore)
And grant a Boon; I onely would implore
Thy leaue a little, for a Sidney's Death
To sigh a little of my Mournfull breath:
The rather, that, as Yerst Hee seru'd You heer,
And, in His End attended Yours so neer;
Through-out all Ages subsequent to Ours,
His Name and Fame may ever waite on Yovrs:
Sith All the Mvses owe that Name alone,
A Dia-pason of each sad-sweet Groan:
But, more peculiar, and precisely, Mine;
Lineally bound vnto That Noble Ligne.
Arcadians knowe no Other, for Apollo,
No other Mars (in Arms or Arts to follow
As Demi-Gods, as well of Warre as VVit)
Then Sidneys yerst, or Semi-Sidneys, yet.
Yet, fit I said: for, of This deare Descent,
Nature (of late) too-lauishly hath spent,
(Like My Ill-Huswifes which at once doe burn
Two or three lights, where One would serue the turn)
Not her Own only, but more orient Gemms,
More rich, more rare; more fitting Diadems.

1168

As, first, th'old Father, famous-fortunate,
The prime firm Founder of our Irish State:
Next, His Son Philip (more then Philip's Son)
Whose World of Worth, a World of Honor won:
Then, His sole Heire (sole Venvs-Ivno-Pallas)
All Beauties Pattern, and All Vertues Palace;
(Whose memory, on Mvses Fairest Hill
Is Canonized, by a Phœnix Quill).
These Three, the which Three Ages might have grac't,
All These and moe in My short Age have past:
Besides This new Sweet-William now deceast
(Th'Epitome and Summe of All the rest)
The Flower of Youth, of Honor, Beauty, Blood,
Th'Apparant Heire of All the SIDNEYS Good;
For Minde, for Mould, for Spirit, Strength, and Stature,
A Miracle, a Master-peece of Nature.
Alas! How grossely doo our Painters erre
In drawing Death's grim Visage (every-where)
With hollow holes, as wholly dark and blinde!
As! See we not, how still Hee sees to finde
The fairest Mark, the rarest and the best
Of Vertues Budds, and lets alone the rest?
Ravens, Brambles, Bandogs, Sirens, heer he leaves;
Swans, Roses, Lions, Dians, hence he reaves:
Nay; th'onely Phoenix hath he newly slain
(But, maugre Death, That Bird reviues again).
No marvaile then, if SIDNEYS fall so fast.
So earely ripe are seldom apt to last:
So Eminent are imminent to die;
Malicious Death doth Such so eas'ly spie.
But, why of Death and Nature, rave I Thus;
Another Stile (my LISLE) befitteth vs.
Another Hand, another Eye, directs
Both Death and Nature in These high Effects;
The Eye of Providence, the Hand of Power,
Disposing All in Order and in Hower;
So working in, so waking over All,
That but by Those doth Nothing heer befall.
Then, not (as Currs) the stone or staffe to bite,
Vn-heeding why, or who doth hurl or smite;
Vnto That Eye let vs erect our owne;
And humble vs vnder That Hand alone,
Which as the Potter his owne Work controules)
Dissolveth Bodies, and absolveth Soules:
Vn-partiall ever, Vn-preposterous;
How-ever Other it may seem to vs.
For, ever since first Woman teemed Twin,
And at a Birth brought forth both Death and Sin

1169

(Sin, as her Heir; Death, as an Heritage
Iustly deriued down from Age to Age)
It is Decreed (by a more Change-lesse Lawe:
Then euer yet the Medes and Persians sawe)
That All men once (as well as Lowe, the High,
Of Either Sex, of Every Sort) must die.
Yea, th'Innocent, for Our imputed Ill
(Who came, not Lawes to break, but to ful-fill)
The Son of God (The Son of Man become)
Th'Immortall yielded to This mortall Doome.
So that (for Sin) no Son of Man hath breath
But once must dye. Wages of Sin is Death.
As for the reason, Why it comes to passe
Somtimes, that Age seems to haue turn'd his Glasse;
While oftentimes Youth's, yer it seem begun,
Is crackt, or broken, or already run:
Why Lillies, Roses, Gillie flowers, be reft;
VVhen Nettles, Thistles, Hemlocks heere be left:
Why Cedars, Okes, Vines, Oliues, rather fall,
Then Brush and Bryars (good for nought at all)
Let Flesh and Blood, let Dust, be rather mute,
Then with His MAKER sawcily dispute.
Yet heer (me thinks) but little Question needs.
Doe not We rather gather Herbes then Weeds?
Doe not VVe take the timber for our turn,
And leaue the Dottrells, in their time to burn?
And, in the Shambles, who is it but would
Be rather sped of yong Flesh then of old?
And yet in Season, when we see it good,
Wee weed our Gardens, fell our Vnder-wood:
And kill old Cattell, least they goar the yong,
Or fall away, or mix some Mange among.
Much like, the Lord, who knoweth best all Season,
And best obserues. But, will we vrge his Reason?
His Reason is His Wil: His Wil is iust,
Or rather Iustice; which His Power must
In Wisedome execute (right vnderstood)
To His Owne Glory, and His Childrens Good;
Wherein His Goodnes through His Mercy shines,
To cleer and cheer devout and humble mindes.
For, to the Godly (in despight of Hell)
Heav'n maketh all things to re-issue well.
Heer, heer's a Harbour; heer's a quiet Shore
From Sorrowe's Surges, and all Storms that rore.
This is Cap Comfort (a high Promontorie,
Of richer Store then heer is roome to storie).
Heer let vs bide, and ride-out all Events,
With Anchor Hope, and Cable Patience;

1170

Vntill our Bark some happy Gale shall driue
Home to the' Haven where we would All arriue.
Come, Noble Vi-Count, put into This Bay,
Where (with a Light) our A'm'ral leads the way,
Though deepest laden, and the most distrest,
The greatest Ship of Burthen, and the best.
Him boldly follow: & though heer, as CHIEF
In Grief, as Greatnes, His must drown your Grief,
Count it an Honour, to be call'd to try
Your Vertue's Valour, in your Soueraine's eye.
Wee All partake His Cross; His Losse is Ours:
But His Affections (to the life) are Yours.
The neerer then You match His mournfull fate,
His royal Patience neerer imitate.
And you, sad Lady, Mother of annoy
For hauing lost the prime Sonne of your Ioy;
Ah! see, the Soueraine of your Sex hath so.
Some think it ease, to haue some peer in Woe:
But such a PEER, and such a Pattern too,
Should much (me thinks) confirm & comfort You
To beare-vp hard into this happy Road,
And lighten somwhat of Your heauy Load:
The rather, sith besides the Happinesse,
Which now, aboue, your Darling doth possesse;
(The Crown, the Kingdom, and the Companie
Of All the holy, heauenly HIERARCHIE)
Besides your Mess of goodly GRACES left
(Whose Worth, from All, the Prize of Worth hath reft;
Foure louely Nymphs, foure Riuers, as it were,
Your veines of Vertue through the Land to bear)
You haue another Model of The same,
To propagate renowned SIDNEY'S Name;
Another, like in every part to proue
As worthy of our Honor; and your Loue;
In whom (if now, You, Ioe-like, bear this Cross)
Heav'n may restore you, manifould your Loss.
FINIS.