 | The Shorter Poems of Ralph Knevet |  |
[44] Upon the death of Sir RALPHE SHELTON.
I am what, passion will: a stone, or tree:A mad Hercuba or sad Niobe.
For who can see such ruines, and not feele
A marble chilnesse creepe from head to heele:
Like sad Electra that could not abide
To see Troy Urn'd: but her pale face did hide.
Or Phoebus-like that brooks not to behold
The Thyestaean dainties, but did fold
His head in Pitchie cloudes, so loathes my eye
To be spectator of this Tragedie;
Wherein, thou Shelton no meane person werst
And did'st so to the life well act thy part
That we lament thy exit, and give thee,
Sad sighes, instead of a glad plaudite.
Yet shall not griefe so prejudice thy worth,
But fame shall sing alowd thy praises forth
To checke the pride of France; who in thy fate,
Lost three for one: it at so deare a rate
Thou sold'st; yet was it cheape to them (I sweare)
Out valuing more lives, then they had there.
Thy life, and death were fatall both alike
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French braverie downe; and boldly trodst upon
The dustie Plumes, of that proud Champion,
That durst thy valour tempt: with thine owne hands,
Thou paidst thy owne revenge; which ever stands
Huge Columne-like, to counter-checke the pride
Of France; and shew how bravely Shelton dy'd.
| The Shorter Poems of Ralph Knevet | |