The Whole Works of William Browne of Tavistock ... Now first collected and edited, with a memoir of the poet, and notes, by W. Carew Hazlitt, of the Inner Temple |
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 | The Whole Works of William Browne |  |
Within this place (as wofull as my Verse)
She with her Crystall founts bedew'd his Herse,
Inuailed with a sable weed she sate,
Singing this song which stones dissolued at.
She with her Crystall founts bedew'd his Herse,
Inuailed with a sable weed she sate,
Singing this song which stones dissolued at.
What time the world clad in a mourning robe,
A Stage made for a wofull Tragedie:
When showers of teares from the Cœlestiall Globe
Bewaild the fate of Sea-lou'd Britanie;
When sighs as frequent were as various sights,
When Hope lay bed-rid, and all pleasures dying,
When Enuy wept,
And Comfort slept:
When Cruelty it selfe sate almost crying,
Nought being heard but what the minde affrights,
When Autumne had disrob'd the Summers pride,
Then Englands honour, Europes wonder dy'd.
A Stage made for a wofull Tragedie:
When showers of teares from the Cœlestiall Globe
Bewaild the fate of Sea-lou'd Britanie;
When sighs as frequent were as various sights,
When Hope lay bed-rid, and all pleasures dying,
When Enuy wept,
And Comfort slept:
When Cruelty it selfe sate almost crying,
Nought being heard but what the minde affrights,
When Autumne had disrob'd the Summers pride,
Then Englands honour, Europes wonder dy'd.
O saddest straine that e'er the Muses sung!
A text of Woe for Griefe to comment on;
Teares, sighes, and sobs, giue passage to my tongue,
Or I shall spend you till the last is gone.
Which done, my heart in flames of burning loue
(Wanting his moisture) shall to cinders turne:
But first, by me
Bequeathed be
To strew the place wherein his sacred Vrne
Shall be inclos'd, this might in many moue
The like effect: (who would not doe it?) when
No graue befits him but the hearts of men.
A text of Woe for Griefe to comment on;
Teares, sighes, and sobs, giue passage to my tongue,
Or I shall spend you till the last is gone.
Which done, my heart in flames of burning loue
(Wanting his moisture) shall to cinders turne:
But first, by me
Bequeathed be
To strew the place wherein his sacred Vrne
Shall be inclos'd, this might in many moue
The like effect: (who would not doe it?) when
No graue befits him but the hearts of men.
That man whose masse of sorrowes hath been such,
That by their weight laid on each seuerall part,
His fountaines are so drie, he but as much
As one poore drop hath left to ease his heart;
Why should he keepe it? since the time doth call,
That he ne'er better can bestow it in:
If so he feares
That others teares
In greater number, greatest prizes winne;
Know none giues more then he which giueth all.
Then he which hath but one poore teare in store,
O let him spend that drop, and weepe no more.
That by their weight laid on each seuerall part,
131
As one poore drop hath left to ease his heart;
Why should he keepe it? since the time doth call,
That he ne'er better can bestow it in:
If so he feares
That others teares
In greater number, greatest prizes winne;
Know none giues more then he which giueth all.
Then he which hath but one poore teare in store,
O let him spend that drop, and weepe no more.
Why flowes not Helicon beyond her strands?
Is Henry dead, and doe the Muses sleepe?
Alas! I see each one amazed stands,
“Shallow foords mutter, silent are the deepe:
Faine would they tell their griefes, but know not where:
All are so full, nought can augment their store:
Then how should they
Their griefes display
To men, so cloid, they faine would heare no more?
Though blaming those whose plaints they cannot heare:
And with this wish their passions I allow,
May that Muse neuer speake that's silent now!
Is Henry dead, and doe the Muses sleepe?
Alas! I see each one amazed stands,
“Shallow foords mutter, silent are the deepe:
Faine would they tell their griefes, but know not where:
All are so full, nought can augment their store:
Then how should they
Their griefes display
To men, so cloid, they faine would heare no more?
Though blaming those whose plaints they cannot heare:
And with this wish their passions I allow,
May that Muse neuer speake that's silent now!
Is Henry dead? alas! and doe I liue
To sing a Scrich-owles Note that he is dead?
If any one a fitter Theame can giue,
Come giue it now, or neuer to be read.
But let him see it doe of horror tast,
Anguish, destruction: could it rend in sunder
With fearefull grones
The senselesse stones,
Yet should we hardly be enforc'd to wonder,
Our former griefes would so exceed their last:
Time cannot make our sorrowes ought compleater;
Nor adde one griefe to make our mourning greater.
To sing a Scrich-owles Note that he is dead?
If any one a fitter Theame can giue,
Come giue it now, or neuer to be read.
But let him see it doe of horror tast,
Anguish, destruction: could it rend in sunder
With fearefull grones
The senselesse stones,
Yet should we hardly be enforc'd to wonder,
Our former griefes would so exceed their last:
Time cannot make our sorrowes ought compleater;
Nor adde one griefe to make our mourning greater.
132
England was ne'er ingirt with waues till now;
Till now it held part with the Continent:
Aye me! some one in pitty shew me, how
I might in dolefull numbers so lament;
That any one which lou'd him, hated me,
Might dearely loue me, for lamenting him.
Alas! my plaint
In such constraint
Breaks forth in rage, that though my passions swimme,
Yet are they drowned ere they landed be:
Imperfect lines! O happy! were I hurld
And cut from life as England from the world.
Till now it held part with the Continent:
Aye me! some one in pitty shew me, how
I might in dolefull numbers so lament;
That any one which lou'd him, hated me,
Might dearely loue me, for lamenting him.
Alas! my plaint
In such constraint
Breaks forth in rage, that though my passions swimme,
Yet are they drowned ere they landed be:
Imperfect lines! O happy! were I hurld
And cut from life as England from the world.
O happier had we beene! if we had beene
Neuer made happie by enioying thee!
Where hath the glorious eye of heauen seene
A spectacle of greater miserie?
Time turne thy course; and bring againe the Spring;
Breake Natures lawes; search the records of old,
If ought befell
Might paralell
Sad Britain's case: weepe Rocks, and Heauen behold,
What Seas of sorrow she is plunged in.
Where stormes of woe so mainly haue beset her;
She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better.
Neuer made happie by enioying thee!
Where hath the glorious eye of heauen seene
A spectacle of greater miserie?
Time turne thy course; and bring againe the Spring;
Breake Natures lawes; search the records of old,
If ought befell
Might paralell
Sad Britain's case: weepe Rocks, and Heauen behold,
What Seas of sorrow she is plunged in.
Where stormes of woe so mainly haue beset her;
She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better.
Britaine was whilome knowne (by more then fame)
To be one of the Ilands fortunate;
What franticke man would giue her now that name,
Lying so rufull and disconsolate?
Hath not her watry Zone in murmuring,
Fill'd euery shoare with Ecchoes of her crie?
Yes, Thetis raues,
And bids her waues
Bring all the Nymphes within her Emperie
To be assistant in her sorrowing:
See where they sadly sit on Isis shore,
And rend their haires as they would ioy no more.
To be one of the Ilands fortunate;
What franticke man would giue her now that name,
Lying so rufull and disconsolate?
Hath not her watry Zone in murmuring,
Fill'd euery shoare with Ecchoes of her crie?
Yes, Thetis raues,
And bids her waues
Bring all the Nymphes within her Emperie
To be assistant in her sorrowing:
133
And rend their haires as they would ioy no more.
Isis the glory of the Westerne world,
When our Heroë (honour'd Essex) dy'd,
Strucken with wonder, backe againe she hurld,
And fill'd her banckes with an vnwoonted Tyde:
As if she stood in doubt, if it were so,
And for the certaintie had turn'd her way.
Why doe not now
Her waues reflow?
Poore Nymph, her sorrowes will not let her stay;
Or flies to tell the world her Countries woe:
Or cares not to come backe, perhaps, as showing
Our teares should make the flood, not her reflowing.
When our Heroë (honour'd Essex) dy'd,
Strucken with wonder, backe againe she hurld,
And fill'd her banckes with an vnwoonted Tyde:
As if she stood in doubt, if it were so,
And for the certaintie had turn'd her way.
Why doe not now
Her waues reflow?
Poore Nymph, her sorrowes will not let her stay;
Or flies to tell the world her Countries woe:
Or cares not to come backe, perhaps, as showing
Our teares should make the flood, not her reflowing.
Sometimes a Tyrant held the reynes of Rome,
Wishing to all the City but one head,
That all at once might vndergoe his doome,
And by one blow from life be seuered.
Fate wisht the like on England, and 'twas giuen:
(O miserable men, enthral'd to Fate!)
Whose heauy hand
That neuer scand
The misery of Kingdomes ruinate,
Minding to leaue her of all ioyes bereauen,
With one sad blow (Alas! can worser fall!)
Hath giuen this little Ile her Funerall.
Wishing to all the City but one head,
That all at once might vndergoe his doome,
And by one blow from life be seuered.
Fate wisht the like on England, and 'twas giuen:
(O miserable men, enthral'd to Fate!)
Whose heauy hand
That neuer scand
The misery of Kingdomes ruinate,
Minding to leaue her of all ioyes bereauen,
With one sad blow (Alas! can worser fall!)
Hath giuen this little Ile her Funerall.
O come yee blessed Impes of Memory,
Erect a new Parnassus on his graue!
There tune your voices to an Elegy,
The saddest Note that ere Apollo gaue.
Let euery Accent make the stander by
Keepe time vnto your Song with dropping teares,
Till drops that fell
Haue made a well
To swallow him which still vnmoued heares?
And though my selfe proue senselesse of your cry,
Yet gladly should my light of life grow dim,
To be intomb'd in teares are wept for him.
Erect a new Parnassus on his graue!
There tune your voices to an Elegy,
The saddest Note that ere Apollo gaue.
Let euery Accent make the stander by
Keepe time vnto your Song with dropping teares,
Till drops that fell
Haue made a well
134
And though my selfe proue senselesse of your cry,
Yet gladly should my light of life grow dim,
To be intomb'd in teares are wept for him.
When last he sickned, then we first began
To tread the Labyrinth of Woe about:
And by degrees we further inward ran,
Hauing his thread of life to guide vs out.
But Destinie no sooner saw vs enter
Sad Sorrowes Maze, immured vp in night,
(Where nothing dwels
But cryes and yels
Throwne from the hearts of men depriu'd of light,)
When we were almost come into the Center,
Fate (cruelly) to barre our ioyes returning,
Cut off our Thread, and left vs all in mourning.
To tread the Labyrinth of Woe about:
And by degrees we further inward ran,
Hauing his thread of life to guide vs out.
But Destinie no sooner saw vs enter
Sad Sorrowes Maze, immured vp in night,
(Where nothing dwels
But cryes and yels
Throwne from the hearts of men depriu'd of light,)
When we were almost come into the Center,
Fate (cruelly) to barre our ioyes returning,
Cut off our Thread, and left vs all in mourning.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |