University of Virginia Library

EPITAPHS.

Epitaphium Regis Swedorum.

An Elegy on the death of the renowned, and victorious Gustavus Adolphus King of Sweathland.

Can the dry sound, Hee's dead, no more affright
The world with terrour, than had some meane knight,
Languish't to death in downe? or can the sound,
That Sweaden hath received a fatall wound
Passe by, and like the bullet, hurt no more
Than his stout brest, that felt the mortall sore?
Oh no! it rankles in each weak'ned part,
And strikes a chill amazement to the heart
Of feeble Christendome, that by his losse,
Puts on it's titles badge, The Christian Crosse:
And 'twas a great one too, yet let none wonder
That heaven forbore to ring his knell in thunder:
Or that some angry Meteor did not stare,
And to the world their publique losse declare.
No, no, some such Ambassador as this
Had beene too mercifull, and made us misse
Our just deserved punishment, for wee
Knowing our sinne begot this misery,
Might by a faign'd repentance have procur'd
A pardon for the Prince: but now assur'd
Of our owne weaknesse, we with teares may say,
We are losers, though our army wonne the day.
His death begot his conquest, and his foes
Mourn'd at his fate, witnesse those death wing'd blows
Which heaven by meanes of his impressure steele,
Did make their bleeding carcasses to feele.
Then what remaines? but that out prayers gaine
This be the latest losse we may sustaine.
And that no more of Heavens great Champions fall
Through our default, to so sad funerall.

To the truly worthy, and his worthily honoured friend Mris Judith Dyke, on the death of her brother Mr John Dyke, obiit ult. Martii 1636.

Tamely, and soft as the Prophetique breath,
That pants, the fatall passing bell of death
Move my sad soule, and to his happy hearse,
Pay the deserved tribute of thy verse:
And you blest maid, whose griefe hath almost wonne
Death by your griefe to make you both but one,
Cease your laments, for how can you be crost
In this, since what God finds, can neere be lost?
And wisely thinke you may offend in this,
Love hath its errours, and may doe amisse.
Death may looke dreadfull in an ill mans eye,
'Tis no great thing to live, but lesse to die
To die indeed, as Common people doe,
That with perplexed soules bid earth adieu,
And by necessity of late compeld,
Their strugling spirits to the Coffin yeeld,
Were matter worthy griefe, and onely they
Are like the houses that entombe them, clay:
But where the soule (like his) rapt with desire,
Disdaines dull earth, and aymes at glories higher:
And by a bright Angelicke fire inflam'd,
Mounts towards heaven, as oft as heares it nam'd;
Like a sweete odor upward as it goes,
It yeelds a perfume to th' Almighties nose:
And hence ascended, 'tis not just that wee
Lament at its exalted dignity.
And sure no matter if wee must away,
Whether it be to morrow, or to day,
And if to day, at morne, or night, or noone,
So wee die well, what need we care how soone.
I know the fertile soyle of his pure heart
Gave warmth to every vertuous roote of Art:
And had the August of his age bin come
They had bin crown'd with a blest harvest home.
But now hee's clouded from your eyes to show,
That none but Angels worthy are to know
What hee shall aged be: Oh! 'tis a fate
VVorth your best thankes; that day deserves it's date,
Be registred to Glory, when his Maker
Made him, of him and all his blisse partaker.
Now dare you loose a teare, unlesse it bee,
Because you are not happie yet as hee?
'Tis charity to wish you so: but then
As you know how, yet God knowes better when,
Death comes to call, yet nor to call as one;
Though all men die, yet good men well alone.
The Sunne's not lost, but set, the approaching day
Shall make it's light more glorious by delay:
If then in death such differences consist,
Desire so to dissolve to be with Christ.

Encomium Poetarum ad fratrem Galiel Scot.

Twice I began, and twice my trembling hand
Startled from what my Genius did command,
Lest harmelesse it should hazzard all my fame,
And my attempt win nothing but selfe shame.
It deem'd the praise of Poets worth the pen,
Rather of Angels, than of mortall men.
My bolder heart bid on: for blind men may,
Although not see, yet know there is a day,
And said (perhaps) my credit I might save,
The proverbe sayes, nought venter nothing have.
Then come, yea Muses were you nine times nine,
I could imploy you in this worke of mine.
Fill my wide sailes, that while you stand my friend,
I may swimme safe unto my journey's end.
Since the first Mistique Chaos did entombe
The earths faire fabricke in confusions wombe.
There is no art can plead antiquity
Before the heavenly birth of Poesie:
I speake of those arts which this day we call,
As witnesse to their nature: Liberall.
Next by th' ffect the worth of things is knowne,
They in respect of this seeme to have none.
The end of verse is to preserve from death
VVhat ever from a Poet tooke its breath:
VVitnesse that golden age, whose fame lives still
By some few drops, from Naso's golden quill:
He rescued Saturnes Godhead from the ground,
And by his lines his aged temples crown'd.
He in a brasse-outlasting paper page,
Created thee, Great Jove, a silver age:
Apollo for his Daphne, to his Layes
Owes a rich wreath of thunder-scorning bayes.
One petty blast from his immortall breath,
Preserv'd Diana's chastity from death:
Nor need Acteon take it much in scorne,
That Ovid did cornute him with a horne.
Homer yet lives, whose pen for want of eyes,
Did point his name the way to kisse the skies.
Young schollers in the darke might grope like fooles,
Were not he plac't the lanthorne of the Schooles.
The world had lost among it's Worthies, one

Alcides.

Who had not Homer sung, had neere beene knowne.
Ulysses act had perish'd like a toy,
Had this blind guide not led him out of Troy,
And rapt his memory up so safe in rime,
That it shall equall, if not out-live time.
Maro, thy lines great Cæsar hath extold,
That paid each severall verse a piece of gold,
Yet thought his purchase easie, and did more
Esteeme thy wit, than all his wealth and store,
And justly too, since what thy labour spent
On him, lasts longer than his monument.
This (Rome being fired) is ashes, but his name
Lives Salamander-like, spight of the flame.
Didst thou not snatch Aeneas from that fire,
That up to Illions Turrets did aspire,
And bor'st his feeble father by thy pen
On his sons shoulders, through an hoast of men?
For which, thy selfe, great Virgill shalt remaine
To endlesse times, even till thou rise againe.
No envious fire thy able skill shall burne,
Till fire and earth into one substance turne,
Till when (that I may come to speake our dayes)
Daniel thou livest circled with breath for bayes.
Nor Spencer to whose verse the world doth owe
Millions of thankes can unremembred goe:
Nor thou great Johnson, who knowst how to write
Such lines as equall profit with delight,
Whil'st thy untired readers wish each sheete
Had beene a volume, 'tis so neate, so sweete.
Next, fame seemes charily to spread her wings,
O're what the never dying Drayton sings,
Still lives the Muses Appollinean son,
The Phænix of his age, rare Harrington,
Whose Epigrams when time shall be no more,
May die (perhaps) but never can before.
This cloud can witnesse that a Poet may
Bring darknesse out of light, make night seeme day.
These can make lawes, and Kingdomes, alter States,
Make Princes Gods, and poore men Potentates.
An amorous verse (faire Ladies) winnes your loves,
Sooner than busk points, farthingalls, or gloves:
A Poets quill doth stand in greater stead,
Than all such toyes to gaine a maiden head.
A line well writ, and by a Potent skill,
Charmes the rapt soule with musique of a quill
VVhilst the by-standers deem 't a blisse to die,
Tickled to death by such sweet harmony.
Againe, if thou deserve the Muses frowne
(Wretch that thou art) a quill can hurle thee downe,
To that abisse of ignomy, that fate,
Cannot condemne thee to a baser state,
I will make each finger point at thy disgrace,
And like a Monster each man shun thy face:
VVhile thou thus branded, finding no reliefe,
With a strong halter choakest thy stronger griefe.
Thus Poets like fates factors here do hold
All power underneath their pens controld.
Lastly deare brother, thinke not I forgot,
Amongst this learned file to ranke my Scot:
Thy early Muse sings in so sweete a straine,
As if Apollo had compos'd thy vaine;
Superlatively taking, while each letter
Disdaines our Moderne Poets should sing better.
Now faints my pen, and fainting feares that I
My selfe may perish, if with clemencie,
My reader censure not, yet hopes to raise
A memory to it selfe, though not of praise;
That I being earth, something may live of mee
Perhaps this paper if approv'd by thee.

Against prejudicate opinion.

The humble soule, the mind opprest,
Shall finde unto his conscience rest:
The cleare in heart, the single eye,
Laughs at his neighbours jealousie,
Then let men censure what they can,
The inside makes the honest man.
Who'ld thinke a clod of earth should hold
Within, a masse of splendent gold?
So filly woods have fragrant smels,
And Pearles are found in sordid shels,
Base scabbards hold approved swords;
And leatherne covers golden words.
Digge up the earth, and burne the wood,
The gold, and smell will both be good;
Unsheath the blade, the booke untye,
One takes your heart, to'ther your eye,
Had these laid still they might have gone,
Thought hardly worth the looking on:
Then judge what folly there had beene
To censure any thing unseene.

------Mors æquo pede pulsat Pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres.

Mans life's a game, each hath his card in's hand,
And death a while a looker on doth stand:
At last hee shuffles in a gamester too;
Then cuts, deales, rubbes, and winnes, and so adieu.
(The King like common creatures) in death must
Find no respect, nor reverence in the dust:
Their royalty put off, their state laid downe,
There sits a clod of dirt, where once a Crowne.
Their eyes like expir'd tapers drop, and fall,
And leave their Sockets emptie; for the Ball,
Or golden Globe, which once their hands did keepe,
A knot of wormes doth role about, and creepe,
Who tast no difference 'twixt their flesh and those
Who fed lesse dainty, wore farre courser cloathes.
In his dominions Death impartiall knowne,
The King and begger there are all but one.
Rejoyce then rich men, and your game pursue,
In death I'le be as good a man as you.

To the Noble Sr Francis Drake.

The Translation

Drake, who the world hast conquer'd like a scrole;
VVho saw'st the Articke, and Antarticke Pole;
If men were silent, starres would make thee knowne,
Phœbus forgets not his companion.

To his friend Mr. Em. D. on a rich vaporing sot, whom hee stiles Ignoramus.

Blesse us! why here's a thing as like a man,
As Nature to our fancie fashion can.
Beshrew mee, but he has a pretty face,
And weares his rapier with indifferent grace.
Makes a neat congie, dances well, and sweares:
And weares his Mistresse pendant in his eares:
Has a neat foot as ever kist the ground,
His shoes and roses cost at least five pound.
Those hose have not a peere, for by relation,
They're cut a moneth at least since the last fashion.
He knowes two Ladies that will vow there's none
At Court, a man of parts, but he alone.
And yet this fop, scarce ever learn'd to know
The mixture of the dis-joyn'd Christ-crosse row.
Strip off his ragges, and the poore thing is then
The just contempt of understanding men,
Being Fortunes minion, Nature thought it fit,
Since he had wealth enough, he should want wit.

To my matchlesse friend, my dearest William Scot, a New-yeares guift.

How shall I thanke my fate that wrought this end
To my best wishes? that thou art my friend.
I may lose all (if I have any) wealth,
My sicknesse may bereave mee of my health.
Bondage may steale my freedome, but my love,
Which is a sacred blessing from above
Can neere be wanting, since 'tis lock't in thee,
Who art true friendships safest treasurie.
It joyes mee that my soule so well did light
To dwell with thine, thou that dost speake, and write,
And thinke the same with mee, as if my spirit,
Did nothing else but what is thine, inherit.
If e're (which heaven defend and still uphold)
Our league should breake: Oh! horror to be told,
And that the knot of our strong amity,
Should be dissolv'd by any crime in mee,
Then count mee lighter than my fleeting breath,
Show by this paper, and I'le blush to death.
But I feare no such mischiefe, since our love
So aptly in each others soules doth move.
No Rhetoricke can my zeale to thee impart,
So well I love thee, that thou hast my heart;
And that my action may concord with time,
Be this thy New-yeares guift, and call mee thine

The Corner stone.

'Twas a faire stone, though it was abus'd,
And by the senselesse builder was refus'd;
Alas their sinne blind soules, and blinder eyes,
Sought by the pride of all their industries
To polish martle, porphery, or that
On which proud folly set so high a

Diamonds, or other pretious stones.

rare,
And with such earth-bred trifles to refine
Materiall Temples to the powre divine.
Whilst that bright stone from th' heavenly square taken,
Lies on the mountaine by these fooles forshaken.
Ah! had they knowne the value of this Jem,
It had not beene so underpriz'd by them.
Oh! when that Babell building of their sinne
Shall ruin'd dash upon themselves agin:
And wanting props to under-set it shall
Uppon the builders head with terrour fall.
How will they wish this abject stone had beene
By faith well laid, them and their sinnes betweene:
Then had it like a storme-contemning rocke,
Secur'd their Mansions from their heavy shocke
Of wrath and judgement, both the which unjust,
Shall make them roare with woe: Oh! had I wist.
Lord be the Basis of my hopes high Throne,
And then I'le build on that strong Corner-stone.

The Royall Navy.

What's his breath? a vapor: glory? a vaine chat:
What's man? a span: what's life? shorter than that:
What's death? a key: for what? to ope heavens dore,
Who keepes it? time: for whom? both rich and poore:
What's heaven? a haven: what's ships anchor there?
Hope, faith, and love, with one small pinnace feare.
What are those? men of warre, how fraught? with armes:
What burthen? weighty, suiting their alarum?
Whose ships? the Kings: what colours? the red crosse:
What ensignes? bloody from their Princes losse:
And whither bound? to earth: Oh! what's their strife?
To conquer breath, and glory, man and life.
Oh! I foresee the storme, Lord I confesse,
Then vapour, or vaine chat, or span I'm lesse,
Save a relenting foe; thy glories are
More excellent in peace, than death and warre;
For to that time, that time his key shall lend,
And to thy tent my yeelding spirit send:
I will strike saile to these, and strive to prove
Thy Captive, in my hope, faith, feare and love.