Clarastella Together with Poems occasional, Elegies, Epigrams, Satyrs. By Robert Heath |
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To a Ladie on the Death of her little Dog.
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 | Clarastella |  |
To a Ladie on the Death of her little Dog.
Madam
, that any dog should die,
I not at all do wonder, I;
Nor can I yours bemoane indeed,
Since like it self a dog it died.
I not at all do wonder, I;
Nor can I yours bemoane indeed,
Since like it self a dog it died.
Yet 'twas a pretty dog, I vow,
Descended wel, welfavoured too;
Kept clean, and cleanly with the maid
Ayr'd it self every day, 'tis said:
Then it would smiling fawn, and at
Your trencher with much dutie waite;
Bark when it wanted chicken, and
Would take no meat but from your hand;
And like your shadow follow you
Close wheresoever you would go:
Then to your bed 'twould duly come
And lick you where you pleas'd, whose room
Many good Christians would have tane
With willing hearts, and there have lane.
Lastly (which must not be forgot)
'Twas good condition'd; was it not?
A Dog of wax assoon it was;
It did not Tobits dog surpass,
In mood and form that wag'd his taile
As 'twould ha' said to his master, haile!
When bold Ulisses after ten
Whole years to Ithaca agen
Return'd his dog yet him did know
And welcom'd home; your dog had no
Such memorie I think; nor would
Ha' shown such daintie tricks as could
The Tinkers cur of Wapping, that
Did pray and dance on two, and what
More wondrous is, with taile in's mouth
Trip the Canaries round forsooth.
Your dog I grant was better bred,
Brought up at hand; and better fed
Then taught, for this same stately wretch
Scorn'd ought to carry or to fetch.
What worth was in it then, that you
So much should prize and love it too?
For I'l be bold the last great fal
Of men where Death had conquer'd all
The field almost, and you did loose
On each side friends, that none of those
Nor, all so much afflicted you
As your dogs fatal end doth now.
Descended wel, welfavoured too;
Kept clean, and cleanly with the maid
Ayr'd it self every day, 'tis said:
Then it would smiling fawn, and at
Your trencher with much dutie waite;
Bark when it wanted chicken, and
Would take no meat but from your hand;
And like your shadow follow you
Close wheresoever you would go:
Then to your bed 'twould duly come
And lick you where you pleas'd, whose room
Many good Christians would have tane
With willing hearts, and there have lane.
Lastly (which must not be forgot)
'Twas good condition'd; was it not?
A Dog of wax assoon it was;
It did not Tobits dog surpass,
In mood and form that wag'd his taile
As 'twould ha' said to his master, haile!
When bold Ulisses after ten
Whole years to Ithaca agen
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And welcom'd home; your dog had no
Such memorie I think; nor would
Ha' shown such daintie tricks as could
The Tinkers cur of Wapping, that
Did pray and dance on two, and what
More wondrous is, with taile in's mouth
Trip the Canaries round forsooth.
Your dog I grant was better bred,
Brought up at hand; and better fed
Then taught, for this same stately wretch
Scorn'd ought to carry or to fetch.
What worth was in it then, that you
So much should prize and love it too?
For I'l be bold the last great fal
Of men where Death had conquer'd all
The field almost, and you did loose
On each side friends, that none of those
Nor, all so much afflicted you
As your dogs fatal end doth now.
Oh! it did love you: wel it might,
So 'twould whoe'r made much of it.
But let me tel you by the way
(Not to offend you) I heard say,
Your dog so fed with sweetmeats was,
Cakebread, and Almondbutter, as
It's breath did shrewdly stink: but let
That pass; t'had a worse qualitie yet,
T'would stil be barking with it self,
That I have joy'd to see the Elf
How finely it would turn, when down
It rowld it self upon the ground:
For then t'would quiet lie awhile.
But since 'tis now more quiet; I'l
Not pitty it, but you, to grieve
'Cause your dog could not ever live.
Dogs have their daies, 'tis true: and though
A dog-star shins above, below
They die. Yet since you lov'd its sight
VVee'l pourtrayt e'r you bury it:
And for his Epitaph shal be
This underwrit in memorie;
So 'twould whoe'r made much of it.
But let me tel you by the way
(Not to offend you) I heard say,
Your dog so fed with sweetmeats was,
Cakebread, and Almondbutter, as
It's breath did shrewdly stink: but let
That pass; t'had a worse qualitie yet,
T'would stil be barking with it self,
That I have joy'd to see the Elf
How finely it would turn, when down
It rowld it self upon the ground:
For then t'would quiet lie awhile.
But since 'tis now more quiet; I'l
Not pitty it, but you, to grieve
'Cause your dog could not ever live.
Dogs have their daies, 'tis true: and though
A dog-star shins above, below
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VVee'l pourtrayt e'r you bury it:
And for his Epitaph shal be
This underwrit in memorie;
His Mistresse chiefest joy and griefe,
Lov'd too almost as her own life;
Here lies the best of Dogs, and lest,
That Album Græcum made the best
To cure sore throats with; for 'tis said
The Isle of Dogs such never had.
But dead doth now so worthless prove
His skin wil hardly make one glove
For a childs itchy hand: yet hee
Lives famous in Effigie.
Lov'd too almost as her own life;
Here lies the best of Dogs, and lest,
That Album Græcum made the best
To cure sore throats with; for 'tis said
The Isle of Dogs such never had.
But dead doth now so worthless prove
His skin wil hardly make one glove
For a childs itchy hand: yet hee
Lives famous in Effigie.
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