An Elegie vpon my Deare Brother The Jonathan of my Heart, Mr Iohn Wheeler, Sonne to Sir Edmond Wheeler of Riding Court neare Windsor, in the County of Buckingham, deceased [by Francis Quarles] |
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 | An Elegie vpon my Deare Brother |  |
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An Elegie.
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Away, those Ioyes; away, those full delights,The late vnbenders of my thoughtfull minde;
Which fedde my Time with sweeter dayes and nights
Then were, at first, allotted to Mankinde:
Goe seeke out those that feast;
Leave me to sadnesse: Sorrow is the Guest
Which I must entertaine, and billet in my brest,
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Breake not the Peace of my compos'd ResolvesRebellious fancy; cease to make resort
Into my setled Browes, whose thought revolves
Businesse of great import:
Invention, rest; till Servile Bribes entice
Some Bards corrupted Pen, to set a price
On some unworthy Lord, or paint his noble vice.
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Come then, my Genius; Let the needlesse CareOf quaint expressions passe:
The mourners garbe is not to crispe the hayre,
And true bread teares consult not with the Glasse:
Lick not thy lines, nor scanne their carelesse feete,
Vnmeasur'd Griefe and Measures seldome meete:
Neglected wrineles best beseeme the Winding-sheete.
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Draw neere you gentle hearts, draw neere,Whilst I bedable my suffused eyes;
You shall not spend a teare;
You are my Guests, and these my Obsequies.
No neede to begge a droppe; my dearest Sim
And I will fill the Cisterne to the Brim:
Then let me beg my bread, if I beg teares for Him.
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Ev'n Him, to whose sweet Memorie I oweThis sad Memoriall of my deare Affection;
Whereby (who ever please to reade) may knowe
The perfect President of youths Perfection:
But, ah, these too supicious times! Alas,
It will surpasse
A good Beleevers Faith, to tell but what hee was.
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For me; let scorne and slight Opinion fillMy undervalu'd Rymes with disrepute;
Let every tongue deride my baffled Quill,
And let my lines consume like Summer fruit,
When I turne Vices Advocate; or when
Affection, or base by-respects of Men,
Shall falsify the just Geometry of my Pen.
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Goodnes, and vertue, and heroick worth,Sweetnesse of Nature, seconded with Arts;
A noble brest, and Birth;
Compleatnes both of Person, and of Parts:
Must be our Theame: We charge the mouth of Fame
To blow her louder Trumpet, and proclame
His Merits, whom we mourne, and glorifie his Name.
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He was an early Spring, and beautifiedWith all that Flora's bounty could bestow;
Life-breathing Zephyr tooke a pride
To see his Buds sprout forth, and flowers growe;
The Nymph Pomona feard the Lord of Time
Mistooke his Tropick, to show fruit in prime
Before the Time of fruit, and in so cold a Clime.
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Injurious Sisters, tell me why you madeHis Twine so small, yet spun so short a twine?
His Thread had beene the Glory of your Trade,
Had you spun strong as well as fine:
But ah! what strength is able to withstand
The direfull stroke of your imperious hand,
Which prayers can not entreat, nor power countermand?
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Know, Readers, know, he was a Marke too fayreFor Death to misse; His ripenesse did invite
Her over-daynty Palate not to spare
My lifes delight:
He was the flowre of youth; the Ioy of Art;
A faithfull Partner of a faithfull heart:
The very Soule of love, and friendships Counterpart.
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Learning divine and morall did enrichHis wealthy Soule with her abundant store:
There was no Excellence, in whch
He was not halfe a Master, if not more:
Sometimes, the busy Quadrant, now and then,
Appelles Pencill, and Appollo's Pen
Imployd his skilfull hand: He studyed Bookes and Men.
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Mvsick, the language of th'eternall Quire,Breath'd in his soule celestiall straynes,
And fild his Spirits with Seraphick fyre,
Whose gentle flames calcin'd his ravisht braynes;
And made him ripe for heav'n: He did depart
More then a Scholler in that sacred Art,
His fancy, singers, voyce, perform'd a Masters part.
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Noble were all his Actions, strict and just,Quicke, but advis'd; and milde, yet full of spirit:
His heart was buxom, tender, full of Trust;
Prudently simple, free to men of merit:
His Resolutions weighd, reserv'd and strong,
His silence studious, sweet his tongue;
Lesse ready to requite, then to conceive a wrong.
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O, but those firme Indentures, sweetly pastBetwixt his soule and mine,
(Thy bands, ô Hymen, are not halfe so fast;
Ours are too strong for death; death cancells thine)
O, how they vrge my frailty! How they thresh
My wounded Soule, and tribulate my flesh!
And all my teares being sqent, they spueeze out teares afresh.
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Passion usurpes the kingdome of my Soule:My heart is full and it must vent, or breake:
Peace, Iudgement, peace; O, shall I not condole
So deare a losse? Give losers leave to speake.
Thou knowest my teares are just
Shall, shall they not embalme the precious dust
Of my true bosome friend? They shall, they will, they must.
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Qvench not those flames which your owne breath hath blowneIn my Affection;
O, limit not those Bon-fires which are growne
Beyond your reach; love burnes without direction:
Nor tell me what I know, that he sits crown'd
With endlesse Ioy: My sorrow does propound
The joyes that I have lost, not those which he hath found.
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Reason must stoope, and Iudgement strike her sayle:His Ioyes befoole the wisedome of a Pen;
Fancy must flagge, and language must turne taile;
No, these are heights for Angels, not for men:
Alas the stormes of passion
That burst from natures Clowds, have dispensation
To ease themselves by vent, & vent by lamentation.
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So vaine, so fraile, so poore a thing is Man!A weather cocke, that's turnd with every blast;
His Griefes are Armefulls; and his mirth a span;
His Ioyes soone crost, or past
His best delights are sauc'd with doubts and feares:
If had; we plunge in Care: If lost; in teares:
Let goe, or hold, they bite; We hold a Wolfe by th'eares.
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Time, shake thy Glasse, and let thy Minits flye,Switcht on with Angels, till thy Sand be spent;
Till then, their's nothing certaine, but to dye;
Or worse, to droyle in feares, or discontent:
Thy best of all thy Sweets are but a Snare,
Thy Honours, blasts of Ayre;
Thy wealth, but golden Trash; and trifles, full of cars.
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Vndresse thy selfe, my Soule, and dissinvestThy thoughts of all these Ragges of flesh and blood;
Returne thee to thy Rest;
O, there be Monsters lurke in Natures flood:
Close up thy springs; thy bankes are to the brim:
Weepe for thy selfe; my Soule, thou canst not swim
In the dead Sea of teares; O; weepe no more for Him.
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Wander no more in the distracted PathOf Sense: The teares are lost which Passion vent;
O, rather seeke the Pleasures that he hath,
Whose death thine eyes lament;
He lives in joy; Thou show'st a weeping eye;
He sits in Glory; Thou sittst downe to cry;
Thou either lou'dst him not, or giv'st his joyes the Lye.
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You, that are Partners in so great a losse,Strive to be partners in so great a gaine;
Pry not too much into his Dust, his Drosse;
The hopes of Comfort there, are lesse then vaine.
Cast up your better eyes,
And view that Palace, where his Glory lyes,
Where Time cannot suppresse, where Death cannot surprize.
FINIS.
| An Elegie vpon my Deare Brother | |