Poems consisting of Epistles and Epigrams, Satyrs, Epitaphs and Elogies, Songs and Sonnets With variety of other drolling Verses upon several Subjects. Composed by no body must know whom, and are to be had every body knows where, and for somebody knows what [by John Eliot] |
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An Elogie. On the Lady Jane Paulet Marchioness of Winchester
daughter to the right honorable the Lord Savage of Rock-savage.
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 | Poems consisting of Epistles and Epigrams, Satyrs, Epitaphs and Elogies, Songs and Sonnets |  |
An Elogie. On the Lady Jane Paulet Marchioness of Winchester daughter to the right honorable the Lord Savage of Rock-savage.
I would invite this my humble verseSome weeping eyes to wait upon this Herse,
But when I view who 'tis that lodges here
I know not then from whom to beg a tear;
To Ladies if I should this sute prefer,
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Such as had beauty whilst they stood alone,
If once compar'd with her they then had none;
Those spangle vertues that they gloried in,
To her Test brought, prov'd then but gilded sin;
She was the Lyllie of the Field, the rest
But Dasies, Primrose, Cowslips at the best;
This blazing star all others thus out shining,
Inferiour lights grow great, by her declining;
Since Ladies then are better'd by her death,
To beg their tears were but to wast my breath.
Should I to vertuous men my self adress,
And crave some sighs from them they would confess,
That if a thought of her but crost their way
Even in the Temple, they no more could pray.
The fire of love, their sparkes of Zeal put forth,
And they no text could studie, but her worth;
The thickskin'd Boar, that at high noon defies
The scorching Sun was melted by her eyes.
The stiff-neckt Puritane doth not allow
His god a knee, yet to this Saint would bowe.
Her granest Chaplins in the midst of grace
Stood often mute, till gazing on her face
They from her Cheeks, as from two well pend books,
Found graces store, and read them in her looks.
And thus all men Idolatrie commit,
Some with her feature, others with her wit.
All good men then how deer soe er'e they lov'd her
Are glad e'n for their souls sake, death remov'd her
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From tender Parents eyes press drops of rain;
That were a Crime that would beget a storie,
To mourn for her they know is crown'd with glory,
But they religious are, and will repent
The sighs, and groans, and teares already spent;
For being married thus before they die,
To Ioyes Long liv'd, as is eternitie,
Part of her hapiness they shall destroy
That weep for her, unless they weep for Ioye.
Should I awake her Lord, and from his eyes
Requier teares, by way of sacrifice,
That were a Crueltie her gentle soul
Would sharply in his sleeps and dreams controule;
For if the Saints our actions doe discover,
To weep for her would show he did not love her;
For being Crown'd with bliss, 'twere most unjust
To wish her here again, to dwell with dust,
What Ioy, what honour can there be like this,
She that was once his wife an Angell is.
A piece of his own flesh with her is gone,
As in his right, to take possession,
Of these eternall Ioyes long since decreed
To godly Parents, and their righteous seed;
Nor was high heaven content to grace him so,
But knowing nature apt to over throw
Foundations, that by faith are weakly laid,
This goodly Fabrick must not be decay'd
By slow pac't time; nor did those powers please
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Sure common messengers were thought too mean,
This was a Temple pure, and chast, and clean,
And must not cancel'd be the Common way,
Or sink like houses built of Lyme and clay:
She was a Diamond, and a Diamond must
Be found to cut her er'e she fall to dust;
A Diamond of the self same Rock, or none,
The Flesh of her own Flesh, bone of her bone;
And this must cut and pollish either other,
The mother fit the Child, the Child the mother,
For Gods own wearing, O now tell me where
A husband can find room to place a tear,
Or Parents ground whereon to drop a grone,
Happie, unhappie Lady, is their none
Hath cause to mourn, or to lament thy death,
Yes blessed soul, more then doe yet draw breath;
Children unborne, and ages yet to come
Shal bring their offerings to thy honour'd Tombe,
Pilgrimes from furthest parts shall here arrive,
To kiss the earth thou trod'st on being alive;
Chast virgins, widows, wives shall every spring
Branches of Palme and Laurell hither bring;
And round about thy Sepulcher shall kneell,
And vent in sighs what their sad hearts do feel.
Infants shall to thy Infant every hower
Offer a garland, or at least a Flower,
And then the elder shall the Yonger tell,
That they must never hear a passing Bell;
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Of those two blessed souls, whose bones there lye.
And as each year that day shall bring about,
On which the Tyrant death those lights put out,
They must invent a curse, and that curse lay
So heavie, that it prove a dismall day,
A day on which no work shall be begun,
No fruit be planted, nor a seed be sow'n:
No traveller that conscience makes of sin
Shall dare a Journey on that day begin:
And if a Yew that day bring forth a Lamb,
Let it be Fatall to the sillie dam;
Let not a dove that day a dove disclose,
Nor hunts-man find a Fawn, fal'n from his does;
Let Midwives only on that day be blest
With what they seldom get, sweet sleep, sweet rest;
For on that day, that dismall day, the earth
Lost all her pride, by an untimely birth,
And this poor Isle was utterly undone,
And rob'd of such a mother, such a Son,
As doting nature with her palsie fist
Shall never frame again, nor fates untwist
Such gentle stuff, so soft so debonayr,
As was this Child, nor mother half so fair
As was the lovely mould in which twas cast.
For never was there womb so pure so chast,
Nor shall mankind so much as hope to see
The world inricht with fruit from such a tree;
A Child that saw the world, and fell a Crying,
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A mother wisely apprehending too,
One Phenix to one world was onely due:
And thus as by consent they both retire;
And both to ashes burn in their own fire.
Is it a sea that overwhelms each eye?
Or is it some black cloud that masks the skie?
Or is the Sun eclipst, or hath the day
Clapt on her swiftest wings and fled away?
And left me thus, as if this subject might
Be best pursude in solitarie night?
Or whence proceeds those mists that thus involves me,
Alas there dropt a tear and that resolves me,
My heart surcharg'd with grief seeks ease, and tries
How sorrow may be vented by the eyes;
The blots of Inck that from my pen do fall,
Like hired mourners, at a Funerall,
No power have to move the Lookers on,
To speaking actions of compassion,
Let others then sad Epitaphs invent,
And paste them up about thy moniment;
Let such whose sorrows are not great as mine,
With golden verses beautifie thy Shrine;
Whilst my poor muse contents it self, that she
Vents sighes, not words unto thy memorie;
Nor canst thou want blest Soul an Elogie;
I see one writ in every Readers eye
Rest then in peace, the world to dust shall turne
When tears are wanting to keep moyst thy urne.
| Poems consisting of Epistles and Epigrams, Satyrs, Epitaphs and Elogies, Songs and Sonnets | |