The Whole Works of William Browne :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Browne, William (1590- ca. 1645)

1, 2.

THE FIRST VOLUME, THE SECOND VOLUME.

Britannia's PASTORALS.

THE SHEPHEARDS PIPE.

THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

I. Love Poems.

II.

II. Odes, Songs, and Sonnets.

III.

IV.

VII.

VIII.

VIII. Paraphrases, &c.

IX.

IX. Miscellaneous Pieces.

X. Commendatory Verses.

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261

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
[_]

FROM LANSDOWNE MS. 777 AND OTHER SOURCES.

263

I. Love Poems.

[Loue who will, for Ile loue none]

1

Loue who will, for Ile loue none,
Theres fooles enough besides me:
Yet if each woman haue not one,
Come to me where I hide me,
And if she can the place attain,
For once Ile be her foole againe.

2

It is an easye place to find,
And women sure should know it;
Yet thither serues not euery wind,
Nor many men can show it:
It is the storehouse, where doth lye
All womens truth & constancy.

3

If the Jorney be so long,
No woman will aduentvr;

264

But dreading her weake vessels wrong,
Ye voiage will not enter:
Then may she sigh & lye alone,
In loue with all, yet loude of none.

ON A FAIRE LADYES YELLOW HAIRE POWDRED WITH WHITE.

WRITTEN IN THE DISSOLUING OF A SNOW.

Say, why on your hayre yet stayes
That Snow resembling white;
Since the Suns lesse powerfull rayes
Thawd that wch fell last night?

Sure to hinder those extreames
Of Loue they might bestow;
Art hath hid your Golden Beames
Within a fleece of Snow.

Yet as on a Cloth of gould,
With siluer flowers wrought ore,
We doe now and then beholde
A radyant wyre or more:

So sometymes the amorous ayre
Doth with youre faire lockes playe,
And vncloudes a Golden hayre;
And then breakes forth the daye.

On your Cheekes the Rosy Morne
We plainly then descry;
And a thousand Cupids borne,
And playing in each eye.

265

Now we all are at a staye,
And know not where to turne vs;
If we wish that Snow awaye,
Those Glorious beames would burne vs.

If it should not fall amayne,
And cloud your louefull eyes,
Each gentle heart would sone be slayne,
And made their Sacrifice.

[Not longe agone a youthfull swayne]

Not longe agone a youthfull swayne,
Much wronged by a maid's disdayne,
Before Loues Altar came & did implore
That he might like her lesse, or she loue more.
The god him heard, & she began
To doate on him, he (foolish man)
Cloyde with much sweets, thus changde his note before,
O let her loue me lesse, or I like more.

[Shall I loue againe, & try]

1

Shall I loue againe, & try
If I still must loue to lose,
And make weake mortalitye
Giue new birth vnto my woes?
No, let me euer liue from Loues enclosing,
Rather yn loue to liue in feare of loosing.

2

One whom hasty Nature giues
To the world without his sight,

266

Not so discontented lives,
As a man deprived of light:
'Tis knowledge that gives vigour to our woe,
And not the want, but losse that paines us soe.

3

With the Arabian Bird then be
Both the Louer and belou'd;
Be thy lines thy progeny
By some gracious faire approu'd;
So may'st thou live, & be belov'd of many,
Without the feare of losse, or want of any.

[Deepe are the wounds which strike a vertuous name]

Deepe are the wounds which strike a vertuous name;
Sharpe are the darts Reuenge still sets on wing:
Consumeing Jealousies abhorred flame!
Deadly the frownes of an enraged King.
Yet all these to Disdaynes heart-searching string
(Deepe, sharpe, consuming, deadlye) nothing be,
Whose darts, wounds, flames, and frownes, meet all in me.

[Poore silly foole! thou striv'st in vaine to knowe]

1

Poore silly foole! thou striv'st in vaine to knowe
If I enioy, or loue whom thou lou'st soe;
Since my affection euer secret tryde
Bloomes like the ferne, & seeds still vnespide.

2

And as the subtill flames of Heauen, that wound
The inward part, yet leaue the outward sound:

267

My loue warres on my heart, kills that within,
When merry are my lookes, & fresh my skin.

3

Of yellow Jaundice louers as you be,
Whose Faces straight proclaime their maladye,
Thinke not to find me one; who knowe full well,
That none but french & fooles loue now & tell.

4

His griefes are sweet, his Joyes (o) heauenly move,
Whoe from the world conceales his honest loue;
Nay, letts his Mistris know his passions source,
Rather by reason then by his discourse.

5

This is my way, and in this language new
Shewing my merit, it demands my due;
And hold this Maxim, spight of all dispute,
He askes enough that serues well & is mute.

[Wellcome, wellcome, doe I sing]

Wellcome, wellcome, doe I sing,
Far more wellcome yn ye spring;
He that parteth from you neuer,
Shall enioy a spring for euer.

Love, that to ye voice is nere
Breaking from your Iu'ry pale,
Need not walke abroad to heare
The delightfull Nightingale.

Wellcome, wllc ome, then I sing,
Far more welcome yn ye spring;

268

He that parteth from you neuer,
Shall enioy a spring for euer.

Love, that lookes still on your eyes,
Though ye winter haue begun
To benumbe our Arteryes,
Shall not want the Summers Sun.
Wellcome, wellcome, yn I sing, &c.

Love that still may see your cheekes,
Where all rarenes still reposes,
Is a foole, if ere he seekes
Other Lillyes, other roses.
Wellcome, wellcome, &c.

Love, to whom your soft lips yeelds,
And perceiues your breath in kissing,
All the Odours of the fields
Neuer, neuer shall be missing.
Wellcome, &c.

Love that question would anew
What faire Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a briefe of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, yn I, &c.

[Ye merry birds, leaue of to sing]

Ye merry birds, leaue of to sing,
And lend your eares a while to me;
Or if you needs will court the Spring
With your enticing harmonye,
Flye from this groue, leaue me alone;
Your mirth cannot befit my mone.

269

But if yt any be inclyned
To sing as sad a song as I;
Let that sad bird be now so kind,
As stay & beare me companye:
And we will striue, which shall outgoe
Loues heauy straines, or my sad woe.

Ye Nimphes of Thames, if any Swan
Be readye now her last to sing;
O bring her hither, if yee can,
And sitting by vs in a ring,
Spend each a sigh, while she & I
Together sing, together dye.

Alas! how much I erre to call
More sorrow, where there is such store;
Ye gentle Birds, come not at all,
And Isis' Nimphes forbeare ye shore.
My sighs as groues of mandrakes be,
And would kill any one but me.

To me my griefes none other are,
Then poison is to one, that long
Had fed on it without impaire
Vnto his health, or Natures wrong;
What others liues would quickly spill,
I take, but cannot take to kill.

Then sorrow, since thou wert ordaind
To be ye inmate of my hart,
Thriue there so long, till thou hast gaind
In it then life a greater part:
And if thou wilt not kill, yet be
The means that some one pitye mee.

270

Yet would I not that pitty haue
From any other heart then hers,
Who first my wound of sorrowe gaue;
And if she still that cure deferres,
It was my ffate that did assure
A hand to wound, but none to cure.

A SIGH FROM OXFORD.

Goe, and if thou chance to finde
That is southwardes bent a wynde,
Take it vp on any hire,
But be sure it doe not tyre:
If with Loue-sighes mixt it bee,
Be secure 'twill carry thee;
Spurre it on, and make more haste,
Then ye Fleet that went out last;
Doe not stay to curle a Rill,
Clense a Corne, or driue a Mill;
Nor to crispe a locke, or turne it:
Thou hast fire, and so mayst burne it.

For thy lodging doe not come
In a bagpipe or a drumme:
In the belly of some Lute
That hath strooke Apollo mute;
Or a gentle ladyes eare,
That might dreame, whilst thou art there,
Of such vowes as thou dost carry,
There for one night thou mayst tarry;
Whisper there thy Message to her;
And if she haue any woor,
In her sleepe perhaps she maye
Speake what she denyes the daye,
And instruct thee to replye
To my Cælia more then I.

271

For thy lodging (the next daye)
Doe not thankelesse goe awaye;
Giue the Lute a Test of Ayre,
That a Poets Sigh lay there;
And informe it with a soule
Of so high diuine controule,
That whoeuer heares it next
Shall be with a Muse perplext;
And a Lawyer shall reherse
His Demurres and Pleas in verse.

In the Ladyes Labrynth leaue
Not a sound that may deceaue;
Driue it thence; and after see
Thou there leaue some part of thee,
By which shee maye well descry
Any louers forgery:
For yt neuer will admit
Ought that is not true as it.

When that office thou hast done,
And the Lady lastly wonne,
Let the ayre thou leftst the Girle,
Twine a dropp, and then a pearle;
Which I wish that she would weare
For a pendant in her Eare;
And its vertue still shall be,
To detect all flatterie.
Could I giue each Monarch such,
None would say I sighd to much.
When thy largesse thou hast giuen,
(My best sigh next that for heauen)
Make not any longer stay;
Kisse thine Hostesse, and awaye.

If thou meet, as thou dost stirre,
Any Sigh a Passenger,
Stand vpon thy Guard, and be
Jealous of a Robberye;

272

For the sighes that trauell now,
Beare not so much truth as thou;
Those may robbe thee to supply
That defect of constancye
Which their Masters left to be
Filld by what was stolne from thee:
Yet aduenture, for in soothe
Few dare meddle now with truthe;
'Tis a coyne that will not paye
For their Meat or horses haye;
'Tis cride downe, & such a coyne
As no great Thiefe will purloyne.

Petty-foot-sighes thou mayst meet,
From the counter or the Fleet,
To a Wife or Mistresse sent,
That her Louers meanes hath spent,
Of such ones beware, for those,
Much spent on their masters woes,
May want of that store which thou
Carry'st to my Cælia nowe:
And so robbe thee, and then spend thee,
Soe as I did nere intend thee;
With dishonor thou shalt moue
To begg an Almes, not get a loue.
Shun them, for they haue noe ruthe,
And know that few are hang'd for Truthe:
Naye the Lawes haue bin more briefe
To iayle that theft, more then a thiefe;
The Hue and Cry will not goe post
For the worth which thou hast lost.
Yet for Faith and Truth betrayde
Countryes heretofore haue payde.
Warye be, and fearing Losse,
Like those of the Rosy-Crosse,
Be not seen, but hye thee on
Like an Inspiration;

273

And as ayre, ascending hyer,
Turnes to drops, or else to fire;
So when thou art neerer come
To my Starre, and to thy Home,
If thou meet a Sigh, which she
Hath but coldly sent to me,
Kisse it, for thy warmer ayre
Will dissolue into a teare;
As the steame of Roses will
At the Cold top of a Still:
Nor shalt thou be lost; her eyes
Haue Apollo's facultys;
Their faire Rayes will work amayne,
And turne thee to a Sigh againe.

What thou art yet closely shroude,
Rise vp like a fleecy cloude;
And as thou doest so aspire,
To her Element of fire,
(Which afarre its forces darte,
And exhal'd thee from my heart).
Make thyne owne shape, iust as we
Fashion Clouds by phantasie;
Be a Cupid, be a Heart
Wounded, and her rayes the dart;
Have a Chasma too, and there
Only let our vowes appeare:
Lastly, I would wish thee be
Such a clowd resembling me,
That Ixion-like she might
Claspe thee with his appetite;
Yet more temperate and chaste,
And whilst thou art so imbrac't,
And afforded some sweet sipps
From her Muse inspiring lipps,
Vanish! and then slip by Art
Through those Rubyes to her heart.

274

Wynde yt round, and let yt be
Thoughtles of all earth, but mee;
Grow acquainted with that ayre,
Which doth to her heart repayre;
And so temper and so blysse yt,
And so fanne yt, and so kysse yt,
That the new borne Rose may be,
Not so truly chast as she.

With that Regent, from that howre,
Lieger lye Embassadour:
Keepe our truce vnbroke, preferre
All the suites I send to her:
Get Dyspatches, that may stand
With the good of either hand;
Soe that you be bold and true,
Neuer feare what may ensue;
For there is noe pollicy
Like to that of Honesty.

Gett into her Mynion thought,
Howsoeuer dearly bought;
And procure that she dispense
To transport some kisses thence:
These are Rarityes and deare,
For like hers I meet none heere.

This thy charge is; then begonne
With thy full Cōmission:
Make her myne, and cleere all doubts;
Kill each jealousye that sprouts;
Keepe the honor of thy place;
Let no other sigh Disgrace
Thy iust worth, and neuer sitt
To her, though [s]he brybe for it.

And when I shall call thee home,
To send another in thy roome;
Leaue these thoughts for Agents there:

275

Ffirste, I thinke her pure and chaste,
As the Ice congealed last;
Next, as Iron (though it glowes)
Neuer melts but once, and flowes;
So her loue will only be
Fluent once, and that to me:
Lastly, as the glow-wormes might
Neuer kindled other light,
I belieue that fire which she
Haplye shewes in louing mee,
Neuer will encorage man,
(Though her loues meridian
Heat him to it) once to dare
To mention Loue, though vnaware;
Much lesse fire a Sigh that may
Incorporate with my faire Raye.

I haue read of two erewhile,
Enemyes burnt in one pyle;
That their flames would neuer kisse,
But made a seuerall Pyramis.
Lett all Sighes that come to thee,
By thy loue inlightened be;
If they ioyne and make one flame,
Be secure from me they came.
If they seperate, beware,
There is Craft that would ensnare;
Myne are rarifyde and iust;
Truth and loue: the others lust.

With this charge, farewell, and try
What must be my destenye:
Wooe, secure her; pleade thy due;
This sigh is not so long as true:
And whoever shall enclyne
To send another after myne,
Though he haue more cunning farre,
Then the Jugler Gondimar,

276

All his sleights, and all his faults,
Hollownesse of heart, and halts;
By thy chaster fire will all
Be so wrought diaphanall;
She shall looke through them, and see
How much he comes short of mee:
Then my sigh shall be approud,
And kisse that heart whome I haue loude.

[A haples shepherd on a daye]

A haples shepherd on a daye
Yede to St. Michaels Mounte,
And spent more teares vpon the waye,
Then all the sands could counte.
Ffull was the Sea (so were the eyes
Of the vnhappy Louer)
Yet without Oare or Wynd in Skies,
His sighs did waft him over.

[Coelia is gone, & now sit I]

Coelia is gone, & now sit I
As Philomela, (on a thorne,
Turn'd out of natures liverye)
Mirthles, alone, & all forlorne;
Onelye she sings not, while my sorrowes can
Afford such notes as fit a dying swan.
So shuts the Marygold her leaues
At the departure of ye sunne;
Soe from honeysuckle sheaues
The Bee goes, when ye day is done.
Soe sits the Turtle, when she is but one;
So is all woe; as I, now she is gone.
To some few Birds, kind Nature hath
Made all the summer as one daye,
Which once enioyde, cold winters wrath,
As night, they sleeping passe away:

277

Those happy creatures are, that know not yet
The paines to be deprivde, or to forgett.
I oft haue heard men saye there be
Some, that with confidence professe
The helpefull art of memorie;
But could they teach Forgetfulnes,
I'd learne and trye what further art could doe,
To make me loue her, & forget her to.
Sad Melancholy that perswades
Men from themselues, to think they be
Headles or other bodyes shades,
Hath long & bootles dwelt with me;
For could I thinke she some Idea were,
I still might loue, forget, & haue her heere;
But such she is not: nor would I,
For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaued company
Hath brought to those I felt before;
For then noe future time might hap to know,
That she deseru'd, or I did loue her soe.
Ye howres then but as minutes be,
(Though soe I shall be sooner old,)
Till I those louely graces see,
Which but in her can none behold.
Then be an age that wee may neuer trye
More griefe in parting, but grow old & dye.

278

II. Odes, Songs, and Sonnets.

An Ode.

I

Awake, faire Muse; for I intend
These everlasting lynes to thee,
And, honord Drayton, come & lend
An eare to this sweet melodye:
For on my harpes most high & siluer string,
To those Nine Sisters whom I loue, I sing.

2

This man through death & horror seekes
Honor, by the Victorious Steele;
Another in vnmapped creekes
For Jewells moares his winged keele.
The clamrous Barre wins some, & others byte
At lookes throwne from a mushrome Fauorite.

3

But I, that serue the louely Graces,
Spurne at that drosse, which most adore;
And tytles hate, like paynted faces,
And heart-fed Care for euermore.
Those pleasures I disdaine, which are pursude
With praise & wishes by the multitude.

279

4

The Bayes, which deathles Learning crownes,
Me of Appollo's troope installs:
The Satyres following ore the downes
Fair Nymphs to rusticke festiualls,
Make me affect (where men no traffique haue)
The holy horror of a Sauage Caue.

5

Through the faire skyes I thence intend,
With an vnusd & powerfull wing,
To beare me to my Jorneyes end:
And those that taste the Muses spring,
Too much celestiall fire haue at their birth,
To lyue long tyme like cōmon soules in Earth.

6

From faire Aurora will I reare
My selfe vnto the source of floods;
And from the Ethiopian Beare,
To him as white as snowy woods;
Nor shall I feare (for this daye taking flight)
To be wounde vp in any vayle of night.

7

Of Death I may not feare the dart,
As is the vse of Humane State;
For well I knowe my better part
Dreads not the hand of Tyme or Fate.
Tremble at Death, Enuye, & fortune whoe
Haue but one life: Heauen giues a Poet two.

8

All costly obsequies invaye,
Marble & paintyng too, as vayne;

280

My ashes shall not meet with Clay,
As those doe of the vulgar trayne.
And if my Muse to Spencers glory come
No King shall owne my verses for his Tombe.”

A ROUNDE.

All.

Now that the Spring hath filld our veynes
With kinde and actiue fire,
And made green liuryes for the playnes,
And euery groue a Quire.

Sing we a Song of merry glee,
And Bacchus fill the bowle:

1.
Then heres to thee;

2.
And thou to mee
And euery thirsty soule.

Nor Care nor Sorrow ere payd debt,
Nor never shall doe myne;
I haue no Cradle goeing yet,
Not I, by this good wyne.

No wyfe at home to send for me,
Noe hoggs are in my grounde,
Noe suite at Law to pay a fee,
Then round, old Jocky, round.

281

All.
Sheare sheepe that haue them, cry we still,
But see that noe man scape
To drinke of the Sherry,
That makes us so merry,
And plumpe as the lusty Grape.

[Vnhappy Muse, that nothing pleasest me]

Vnhappy Muse, that nothing pleasest me,
But tyr'st thyself to reape anothers blisse,
She that as much forbeares thy melodye,
As feareful maydens doe the serpents hisse,
Doth she not fly away when I would sing?
Or doth she staye, when I with many a teare
Keepe solemne tyme to my woes vttering;
And aske what wilde Birds grant to lend an Eare?
O haples Tongue, in silence euer live,
And ye, my founts of teares, forbeare supply:
Since neither words, nor teares, nor muse can give
Ought worth the pittying such a wretch as I.
Grieue to your selues, if needs you will deplore,
Till teares & words are spent for euermore.

Vnhappy I, in whom no Joye appeares,
And but for sorrowe of all else forlorne;
Mishaps encreasing faster then my yeares,
As I to grieue & dye were onely borne.
Dark sullen night is my too tedious daye;
In it I labour when all others rest,
And wear in discontent those howres awaye,
Which make some lesse deseruing greater blest.
The rose cheekt morne I hate, because it brings
A sad remembrance of my fairer Faire,
From whose deare graue arise continuall springs,
Whose mistye vapours cloude the lightsome ayre.
And onely now I to my Loue preferre
Those Clouds which shed their rayne, & weepe for her.

282

THIRSIS' PRAISE OF HIS MISTRESSE.

On a hill that grac'd the plaine
Thirsis sate, a comely Swaine,
Comelier Swaine nere grac'd a hill:
Whilst his Flocke that wandred nie,
Cropt the green grasse busilie,
Thus he tun'd his Oaten quill:

Ver hath made the pleasant field
Many seu'rall odours yeeld,
Odors aromaticall:
From faire Astra's cherrie lip,
Sweeter smells for euer skip,
They in pleasing passen all.

Leauie Groues now mainely ring,
With each sweet birds sonnetting,
Notes that make the Eccho's long:
But when Astra tunes her voyce,
All the mirthfull birds reioyce,
And are list'ning to her Song.

Fairely spreads the Damaske Rose,
Whose rare mixture doth disclose
Beauties pensills cannot faine.
Yet if Astra passe the bush,
Roses haue beene seen to blush
She doth all their beauties staine.

Phœbus, shining bright in skie,
Gilds the floods, heates mountaines hie
With his beames all quick'ning fire:

283

Astra's eyes (most sparkling ones)
Strikes a heat in hearts of stones,
And enflames them with desire.

Fields are blest with flowrie wreath,
Ayre is blest when she doth breath,
Birds make happy eu'ry Groue,
She, each Bird, when she doth sing:
Phœbus heate to Earth doth bring,
She makes Marble fall in loue.

Those blessings of the earth we Swaines doe call,
Astra can blesse those blessings, earth and all.

CŒLIA.

SONNETS.

1. [Loe, I the man, that whilome lou'd & lost]

Loe, I the man, that whilome lou'd & lost,
Not dreading losse, doe sing againe of loue;
And like a man but latelie tempest-tost,
Try if my starres still inauspicious proue:
Not to make good, that poets neuer can
Long time without a chosen Mistris be,
Doe I sing thus; or my affections ran
Within the Maze of Mutabilitie;
What best I lov'de, was beauty of the mind,
And that lodgd in a Temple truely faire,
Which ruyn'd now by death, if I can finde
The Saint that livd therein some otherwhere,
I may adore it there, and love the Cell
For entertaining what I lov'd so well.

284

2. [Why might I not for once be of that Sect]

Why might I not for once be of that Sect,
Which hold that soules, when Nature hath her right,
Some other bodyes to themselues elect;
And sunlike make the daye, and license Night;
That soul, whose setting in one Hemispheare
Was to enlighten streight another part;
In that Horizon, if I see yt there,
Calls for my first respect and its desert;
Her vertue is the same and may be more;
For as the Sun is distant, so his powre
In operation differs, and the store
Of thick clowds interposed make him lesse owr.
And verely I thinke her clymate such,
Since to my former flame it adds soe much.

3. [Fairest, when by ye rules of palmistrye]

Fairest, when by ye rules of palmistrye
You tooke my hand to trye if you could guesse,
By lines therein, if anye wight there be
Ordain'd to make me know some happines;
I wish't that those Characters could explaine,
Whom I will neuer wrong with hope to win;
Or that by them a coppy might be sene,
By you, o loue, what thoughts I haue within.
But since the hand of Nature did not sett
(As providentlie loth to haue it knowne)
The meanes to finde that hidden Alphabet,
Mine Eyes shall be th' interpreters alone;
By them conceiue my thoughts, & tell me, faire,
If now you see her, that doth love me there?

285

4. [Soe sat the Muses on the Bankes of Thames]

Soe sat the Muses on the Bankes of Thames,
And pleas'd to sing our heauenly Spencers wit,
Inspireing almost trees with powrefull flames,
As Cælia when she sings what I haue writ:
Me thinkes there is a Spirrit more diuine,
An Elegance more rare when ought is sung
By her sweet voice, in euery verse of mine,
Then I conceiue by any other tongue:
So a musitian sets what some one playes
With better rellish, sweeter stroke, then he
That first composd; nay oft the maker weighes,
If what he heares, his owne, or others be.
Such are my lines: the highest, best of choice,
Become more gratious by her sweetest voice.

5. [Wer't not for you, here should my pen haue rest]

Wer't not for you, here should my pen haue rest
And take a long leaue of sweet Poesye;
Britannias swaynes, & riuers far by west,
Should heare no more mine oaten melodye;
Yet shall the song I sing of them, awhile
Vnperfect lye, and make noe further knowne
The happy loves of this our pleasant Ile;
Till I haue left some record of mine owne.
You are the subiect now, and, writing you,
I well may versify, not poetize:
Heere needs no fiction: for the graces true
And vertues clipp not with base flatteryes.
Heere should I write what you deserue of praise,
Others might weare, but I should win the bayes.

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6. [Sing soft, ye pretty Birds, while Cælia sleepes]

Sing soft, ye pretty Birds, while Cælia sleepes,
And gentle gales play gently with the leaues;
Learne of the neighbour brookes, whose silent deepes
Would teach him feare, that her soft sleep bereaues.
Myne Oaten reed, devoted to her praise,
(A theame that would befit the Delphian Lyre)
Give way, that I in silence may admire.
Is not her sleepe like that of innocents,
Sweet as her selfe; and is she not more faire,
Almost in death, then are the Ornaments
Of fruitfull trees, which newly budding are?
She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lye,
And sleep for euer, for she cannot dye.

7. [Fairest, when I am gone, as now the Glasse]

Fairest, when I am gone, as now the Glasse
Of Time is mark't how long I haue to staye,
Let me intreat you, ere from hence I passe,
Perhaps from you for euermore awaye,
Thinke that noe common Loue hath fir'd my Breast,
No base desire, but Vertue truely knowne,
Which I may love, & wish to haue possest,
Were you the high'st as fair'st of any one;
'Tis not your louely eye inforcing flames,
Nor beautious redd beneath a snowy skin,
That so much bindes me yours, or makes you Flames,
As the pure light & beauty shryn'd within:
Yet outward parts I must affect of duty,
As for the smell we like the Roses beauty.

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8. [As oft as I meet one that comes from you]

As oft as I meet one that comes from you,
And aske your health, not as the usual fashion,
Before he speakes, I doubt there will insue,
As oft there doth, the com̄on commendacōn:
Alas, thinke I, did he but know my minde
(Though for the world I would not haue if soe)
He would relate it in another kinde,
Discourse of it at large, and yet but slowe;
He should th' occasion tell, & with it too
Add how you charg'd him he should not forget;
For this you might, as sure some louers doe,
Though such a Messenger I haue not mett:
Nor doe I care, since 'twill not further moue me,
Love me alone, and say, alone you love me.

9. [Tell me, my thoughts (for you each Minute fly]

Tell me, my thoughts (for you each Minute fly,
And see those beautyes which mine eyes haue lost,)
Is any worthier Loue beneath the sky?
Would not the cold Norwegian mixt with frost
(If in their clyme she were) from her bright Eyes
Receiue a heat, so powrefully begun,
In all his veynes & nummed arteryes,
That would supply the lowenes of the sun?
I wonder at her harmony of words,
Rare (and as rare as seldome doth she talke)
That Riuers stand not in their speedy fords,
And downe the hills the trees forbeare to walke.
But more I muse, why I should hope in fine,
To get alone a Beauty so divine.

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10. [To gett a Love & Beauty so devine]

To gett a Love & Beauty so devine,
(In these so warye times) the fact must be,
Of greater fortunes to the world then myne;
Those are the stepps to that felicitye;
For love no other gate hath then the Eyes,
And inward worth is now esteem'd as none;
Mere outsides onely to that blessing rise,
Which Truth & Love did once account their owne;
Yet as she wants her fairer, she may misse
The common cause of Loue, and be as free
From Earth, as her composure heauenly is;
If not, I restles rest in miserie,
And daily wish to keepe me from despaire,
Fortune my Mistris, or you not so faire.

11. [Fair Laurell, that the onelye witnes art]

Fair Laurell, that the onelye witnes art
To that discourse, which vnderneath thy shade
Our griefe swolne brests did lovinglie impart,
With vowes as true as ere Religion made:
If (forced by our sighs) the flame shall fly
Of our kinde Love, and get within thy rind,
Be warye, gentle Baye, & shrieke not hye,
When thou dost such vnusual feruor finde;
Suppresse the fire; for should it take thy leaues,
Their crackling would betraye vs, & thy glorye

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(Honors faire symbole) dyes; Thy trunke receiues
But heate sufficient for our future story.
And when our sad misfortunes vanquish'd lye,
Imbrace our fronts in signe of memorie.

12. [Had not the soyle, that bred me, further donne]

Had not the soyle, that bred me, further donne,
And fill'd part of those veynes which sweetlye doe,
Much like the living streames of Eden, run,
Embracing such a Paradise as you;
My Muse had fail'd me in the course I ran,
But that she from your vertues tooke new breath,
And from your Eyes such fire that, like a Swan,
She in your praise can sing her selfe to death.
Now could I wish those golden howres vnspent,
Wherein my Fancy led me to the woods,
And tun'd soft layes of rurall merriment,
Of shepherds Loues & neuer resting Floods:
For had I seen you then, though in a dreame,
Those songs had slept, and you had bin my Theame.

13. [Night, steale not on too fast: wee haue not yet]

Night, steale not on too fast: wee haue not yet
Shed all our parting teares, nor paid the kisses,
Which foure dayes absence made vs run in debt,
(O, who would absent be where growe such blisses?)
The Rose, which but this morning spred her leaues,
Kist not her neighbour flower more chast then wee:
Nor are the timelye Eares bound vp in sheaues
More strict then in our Armes we twisted be;

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O who would part vs then, and disvnite
Twoo harmeles soules, so innocent and true,
That were all honest Love forgotten quite,
By our Example men might Learne Anew.
Night seuers vs, but pardon her she maye,
And will once make us happyer then the daye.

14. [Divinest Cælia, send no more to aske]

Divinest Cælia, send no more to aske
How I in absence doe; your seruant may
Be freed of that vnnecessary Taske:
For you may knowe it by a shorter waye.
I was a shaddow when I went from you;
And shaddowes are from sicknes euer free.
My heart you kept (a sad one, though a true)
And nought but Memorie went home with me.
Looke in your brest, where now two hearts you haue,
And see if they agree together there:
If mine want ayde, be mercifull & save,
And seek not for me any other where:
Should my physitian question how I doe,
I cannot tell him, till I aske of you.

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III. Epistles.

AN EPISTLE.

Deare soule, ye time is come, & we must part,
Yet, ere I goe, in these lynes read my heart;
A heart so iust, so louing, & so true,
So full of sorrow & so full of you.
That all I speake, or write, or pray, or meane,
And (which is all I can) all yt I dreame,
Is not wthout a sigh, a thought for you,
And as your beautyes are, so are they true.

Seauen summers now are fully spent & gone,
Since first I lou'd, lov'd you, & you alone;
And should myne eyes as many hundreds see,
Yet none but you should clayme a right in me;
A right so plac'd that time shall neuer heare
Of one so vow'd, or any lov'd so deare.
When I am gone (if euer prayers mov'd you)
Relate to none yt I so well haue lov'd you;
Ffor all that know your beauty & desert,
Would sweare he neuer lov'd, that knew to part.

Why part we then? that spring which but this daye
Met some sweet Riuer, in his bed can playe,
And with a dimple cheek smile at their blisse,
Who never know what separation is.

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The amorous vine with wanton interlaces
Clips still the rough Elme in her kind embraces:
Doues with their doues sit billing in ye groues,
And wooe the lesser birds to sing their loues;
Whilst haples we in grieffull absence sit,
Yet dare not ask a hand to lessen it.

AN EPISTLE

OCCASIONED BY THE MOST INTOLLERABLE JANGLING OF THE PAPISTS' BELLS ON ALL SAINTS' NIGHT, THE EVE OF ALL SOULES' DAYE, BEING THEN VSED TO BE RUNG ALL NIGHT (AND ALL AS IF THE TOWNE WERE ON FIRE) FOR THE SOULES OF THOSE IN PURGATORYE. WRITTEN FROM THOUARS TO SAUMUR, TO MR. BRYAN PALMES.

Palmes and my friend, this night of Hollantide,
Left all alone, and no way occupyed:
Not to be idle, though I idle be
In writeing verse, I send these lynes to thee:
Aske me not how I can be left alone,
For all are heere so in devotion,
So earnest in their prayers for the dead,
And with their De profundis soe farr led,
And so transported (poore night-seeing fowles)
In their oraisons for all Christian sowles,
That knowing me for one but yesterdaye,
May be they dreamt me dead, & for me praye.
This maye coniectur'd be the reason why
I haue this night with me noe company,

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I meane of that Religion; for indeed
But to consort with one that sayes his creed
In his owne Mother tongue, this daye for them
Were such a crime, that nor Jerusalem,
Not yet Romes voyage (for which I am sorry)
Could free those friends of mine from purgatorie.
And had I gone to visit them may be
They at my entrance might haue taken me,
(If that I spoke in English,) for some one
Of their good friends, new come from Phlegeton;
And so had put them to the pains to wooe
My Friend Fryer Guy and Bonaventure to;
To publish such a Miracle of theirs,
By ringing all the Bells about mine eares.

But peace be to their Bells, say I, as is
Their prayer euery day pax defunctis;
For I am sure all this long night to heare
Such a charauary, that if ther were
All the Tom Tinkers since the world began,
Inhabiting from Thule to Magellan;
And those that beat their kettles, when the Moone
Darkning the sun, brings on the Night ere Noone:
I thinke all these together would not make
Such a curs'd noyse as these for all soules sake.

Honest John Helms, now by my troth I wish,
(Although my popish hostess hath with fish
Fed me three dayes) that thou wert here with speed,
And some more of thy crue, not without need,
To teache their Bells some rime or tune in swinging,
For sure they haue no reason in their ringing.

For mine owne part, heareing so strange a coyle,
Such discord, such debate, & such turmoil,
In a high steeple, when I first came hither,
And had small language, I did doubt me whether

294

Some had the Towre of Babell new begun,
And god had plagued them with confusion:
For which I was not sorry, for I thought
To catch some tongue among them, & for nought.

But being much deceiu'd, good Lord! quoth I,
What pagan noise is this? One that stood by,
Swore I did wrong them, for he me aduised
The Bells vpon his knowledge were baptizd.
My friend, quoth I, y'are more to blame by farre,
To see poore Christian creatures so at jarr,
And seeke not to accord them; as for me,
Although they not of my acquaintance be,
Nor though we never have shooke hands as yet,
Out of my Love to peace, not out of debt,
See theres eight soulz, or ten, it makes not whether;
Get them some wyne, see them drinke together:
Or if the Sexton cannot bring them to it,
As he will sure have much adoe to doe it;
Tell him he shall be thank'd, if soe he strives
With special care to take away their knives;
And for their cause of stirre that he record it,
Untill a gen'ral councell doe accord it.
Till when, Ile hold, what ere the Jesuits say:
Although their church erre not, their steeple may.

W. B.

AN EPISTLE THROWNE INTO A RIUER, IN A BALL OF WAX.

Goe, gentle paper; happy (happier farre
Then he that sends thee) with this character:
Goe, view those blessed Banks, enriched by
A faire but faithles Maidens company;
And if consorted with my teares of bryne,
Which (Gentle floud) add waues to those of thyne,

295

Thou chance to touch the sand in thy progression,
Made valuable by her stepps impression:
Stay, stay thy course; and fortunate from danger
Dwell there, where my ill fate makes me a Stranger.
If, faithfull paper which holdst nought of Art,
Thou come into her hands who kylls my heart;
And she demands thee, how I spend my howres,
Tell her, O tell her! how in gloomy bowers,
In cauernes yet vnknowne euen to the sun,
And places free from all confusion
Except my thoughts, there sit I girt with feares;
Where day and night I turne my selfe to teares,
Onelye to wash away that stayne which she
Hath (carelesse) throwne vpon her constancye;
And if (touch'd with repentance) she bedewe
Thee with some christall drops, I would she knewe
Her Sorrowes or the breakyng of the dart
Heales not her wounded faith, nor my slaine hart.
And my iust Griefes of all redresse bereauen
Shall euer witnes before men and heauen,
That as she is the fair'st and most vntrue
Of those that euer man or read or knewe,
So am I the most constant without mate
Of all that breathe, and most affectionate;
Although assurd, that nor my loue nor Faith
Shall reape one Joye but by the hand of death.

AN EPISTLE.

Hasten, o hasten, for my loues sake haste:
The Spring alreadye hath your Beachworth grac'd.
What need you longer stay to grace it more;
Or adde to that which had enough before?
The heauens admit no suns: why should your Seate
Haue two, then, equall good & as complete?

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Hasten, o hasten then; for till I see
Whom most I loue, 'tis Winter still with mee.
I feele no Spring; nor shall I, till your light
Repell my too too long and lonely Night:
Till you haue quicken'd with your happy shine
A drooping discontented hart of mine,
No mirth, but what is forc'd, shall there be plac'd.
Hasten, o hasten then: for loues sake haste.

Soe longing Hero oftentymes was wont
Vpon the flowry bankes of Hellespont
To walke, expecting when her loue should land,
As I haue done on siluer Isis strand.

I aske the snowy swans, that swim along,
Seeking some sad place for their sadder song,
Whether they came from Mole, or heard her tell
What worth doth neere her wanton riuer dwell;
And naming you, the gentle spotlesse birds,
As if they vnderstood the power of words,
To bend their stately necks doe straight agree;
And honoring the name, so answer me.

Those being gone, I aske the christall brooke,
Since pert of it vnwillinglie had took
An euer leaue of that more happy place
Then pleasant Tempe, which the gods did grace;
The streame I ask'd, if when it lately left
Those daisyed banks, & grieu'd to be berefte
So sweet a channell, you did meane to stay
Still in that vale, whence they were forc'd away;
Hereat the waue a little murmur makes,
And then another waue that overtakes;
And then a third comes on, & then another,
Rowling themselues vp closely each to other—
(As little lads, to know their fellowes minde,
While he is talking, closely steale behinde;)
I aske them all, & each like murmur keepes;
I aske another, & that other weepes.

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What they should meane by this, I doe not know,
Except the mutterings & the teares they showe
Be from the dear remembrance of that scite
Where, when they left you, they forsooke delight.

That this the cause was, I perceiued plaine;
For going thence, I thither came againe,
What time it had bin flood, a pretty while;
And then the dimpled waters seem'd to smile;
As if they did reioice, & were full faine,
That they were turning back to Mole againe.

In such like thoughts, I spend the tedious day;
But when the night doth our half-Globe array
In mournfull black, I leaue the curled streame,
And by the kindnes of a happy dreame,
Enioy what most I wish; your selfe & such,
Whose worth, whose loue, could I as highly touch
As I conceiue, some houres should still be spent
To raise your more then earthly Monument.
In sleepe I walk with you, & doe obtayne
A seeming conference: but, alas, what paine
Endures that man, which euermore is taking
His ioyes in sleepe, & is most wretched waking?

To make me happy then, be you my Sun,
And with your presence cleere all clouds begun;
My mists of Melancholy will outweare,
By your appearing in our Hemispheare;
Till which, within a vale as full of woe,
As I haue euer sung, or eye can knowe,
Or you can but imagine, reading this,
Inthralled lyes the heart of him that is

Careles of all others' loue without your respect, W. B. From an Inner Temple, then ye Inner Temple, May the third 1615.

298

FIDO: AN EPISTLE TO FIDELIA.

Sittyng one day beside a siluer Brooke,
Whose sleepy waues vnwillingly forsooke
The strict imbraces of the flowry shore,
As loath to leaue what they should see no more:
I read (as Fate had turned it to my hand)
Among the famous Layes of faierie Land,
Bœlphæbes fond mistrust, when as she mett
Her gentle Squire with louely Amorett.
And laying by the booke, poore Lad, quoth I,
Must all thy ioyes, like Eues posterity,
Receiue a doome, not to be chang'd by Suite,
Onely for tasting the forbidden fruite?
Had faire Belphæbe licenc'd thee some tyme
To kysse her cherry lipp, thou didst a cryme;
But since she for thy thirst noe help would bring,
Thou lawfully mightst seeke another spring;
And had those kisses stolne bin melting sipps,
Tane by consent from Amoretts sweet lipps,
Thou mightst haue answer'd, if thy loue had spyde,
How others gladly gaue what she denyde;
But since they were not such, it did approue
A jealousie not meritinge thy loue,
And an iniustice offerd by the mayde
In giuing iudgment ere she heard thee pleade.
I haue a Loue, (and then I thought of you,
As heauen can witnesse I each minute doe,)
Soe well assurd of that once promised faith,
Which my vnmoud Loue still cherisheth,
That should she see me priuate with a dame,
Fair as her selfe, and of a house whose name,
From Phæbus' rise to Tagus where he setts,
Hath bin as famous as Plantagenetts.

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Whose eyes would thawe congealed harts of Ice,
And as we now dispute of Paradise,
And question where Faire Eden stood of olde,
Among so many sweet plots we beholde,
Which by the armes of those braue Riuers bin,
Inbraced which of yore did keepe it in:
So were she one, who did so much abounde
In graces, more then euer mortal crownde,
That it might fitly for a question passe,
Where or wherein her most of beauty was.
I surely could belieue, nay, I durst sweare,
That your sweet goodnesse would not stoope to feare,
Though she might be to any that should wyn it
A Paradise without a Serpent in it.

Such were my thoughts of you, and thynking soe,
Much lyke a man, who running in the Snowe
From the Surprisall of a murdrous Elfe,
Beates out a Path, and so betrayes him selfe.
I in securitie was further gone,
And made a Path for your Suspition
To finde me out. Tyme being nigh the same,
When thus I thought, and when your letters came.

But, oh, how farre I err'd, how much deceiu'd
Was my belief! your selfe, that haue bereau'd
Me of that confidence, my loue had got.
Judge if I were an Infidell or not;
And let me tell you, Faire, the Fault was thyne,
If I did misbelieue, and none of myne.

That man which sees, as he along doth passe
Some beaten way, a piece of sparklyng glasse,
And deemes far of that it a dyamond is,
Adds to the glasse by such a thought of his;
But when he findes it wants, to quit his paine,
The value soone returnes to him agayne.

If in the ruder North some country clowne,
That stands to see the kyng ride through the town,

300

Spyeing some gaye & gold belaced thyng,
Should cry, See, neighbors, yonder comes the Kyng:
And much mistaken both in state and age,
Points at some lord, and for a lord a page:
Is not that lord or page beholding much
To him that thynkes them worthy to be such
He tooke them for? And are not you to me
Indebted much, since my credulitie
Made you the same I thought you, and from thence
Rais'd an assurance of your confidence?
These were the thoughts of you I still was in,
Nor shall your Letters so much of me wynne;
I will not trust myne eyes so much to thynke
Your white hand wrote with such a stayning inke;
Or if I ever take yt for your hand,
I sure shall thinke I doe not vnderstand
In reading as you meant, and fall from thence
To doubt if points puerted not the sense!
For such a constant faith I haue in thee,
That I could dye euen in that heresye.

In this beliefe of you I stand as yet,
And thinke as those that followe Mahomet:
He merits much that doth continue still
In his first faith, although that faith be ill.

A vaine inconstant dame, that counts her loues
By this enamell'd ring, that paire of gloues,
And with her chamber-mayd when closely set,
Turning her Letters in her Cabinett,
Makes knowne what Tokens haue byn sent vnto her,
What man did bluntly, who did courtly wooe her;
Who hath the best face, neatest legg, most Lands,
Who for his Carriage in her fauour stands.
Opening a Paper then she shewes her wytt
In an Epistle that some foole had wrytt:
Then meeting with another which she lykes,
Her Chambermayds great readyng quickly strykes

301

That good opinyon dead, & sweares that this
Was stolne from Palmerin or Amadis.
Next come her Sonnetts, wch they spelling reade,
And say the man was very much afrayde
To haue his meaning knowne, since they from thence
(Saue Cupids darts) can picke no iot of sense;
And in conclusion, with discretion small,
Scoffe thys, scorne that, and so abuse them all.
If I had thought you such an empty prise,
I had not sought nowe to apologize,
Nor had these Lynes the virgin paper staynde
But, as my Loue, vnspotted had remayned;
And sure I thinke to what I am about,
My inke then it was wont goes slower out,
As if it told me I but vaguelye writt
To her that should, but will not, credyt it.

Yet goe, ye hopeless lines, and tell that faire,
Whose flaxen tresses with the wanton ayre
Intrappe the darling Boy, that daily flyes
To see his sweet face in her sweeter eyes;
Tell my Fidelia, if she doe averre
That I with borrowde phrases courted her,
Or sung to her the layes of other men;
And lyke the cag'd thrush of a cittizen,
Tyr'd with a Note contynually sung ore
The eares of one that knew that all before.
If this she thinke, (as I shall nere be wonne
Once to imagine she hath truly done,)
Let her then know, though now a many be
Parrots, which speak the tongue of Arcadye,
Yet in themselues not so much language knowe,
Nor wit sufficient for a Lord Maiors showe.
I neuer yet but scorn'd a tast to bring
Out of the Channell when I saw the Spring,
Or like a silent Organ been soe weake,
That others' fingers taught me how to speake.

302

The sacred Nyne, whose powrefull songs haue made
In way-les deserts trees of mightye shade
To bend in admiracōn, & alayde
The wrath of Tigers with the notes they plaide,
Were kind in some small measure at my birth,
And by the hand of Nature to my Earth
Lent their eternall heat, by whose bright flame
Succeeding time shall read & know your name,
And pine in envye of your praises writ,
Though now your brightnes strive to lessen it.
Thus haue I done, & like an Artist spent
My dayes to build another's Monument;
Yet you those paines so careles ouerslip,
That I am not allow'd the workmanship.
Some haue done lesse, and haue been more rewarded;
None hath lov'd more, & hath bin lesse regarded:
Yet the poore silkenworme & onely I
Like parallells run on to worke & dye.
Why write I then againe, since she will thinke
My heart is limned with anothers inke?
Or if she deeme these lines had birth from me,
Perhaps will thinke they but deceiuers be,
And, as our flattering painters doe impart,
A fair made Copy of a faithles heart,
O, my Fidelia, if thou canst be wonne
From that mistrust my absence hath begun,
Be now converted, kill those iealous feares,
Creddit my lines: if not, belieue my teares,
Which with each word, nay, euery letter, stroue
That in their number you might read my love.
And where (for one distracted needs must misse)
My language not enough persuasive is,
Be that supplyed with what each eye affords,
For teares haue often had the powre of words.
Grant this, faire saint, since their distilling rayne
permits me not to read it ore againe;

303

For as a Swan more white then Alpine Snow,
Wandring vpon the sands of siluer Po,
Hath his impression by a fuller sea
Not made so soone as quickly washt awaye.
Such in my writeing now the state hath been,
For scarce my pen goes of the inke yet green,
But flouds of teares fall on it in such store,
That I perceiue not what I writt before.
Can any man do thus, yet that man be
Without the fire of Loue & Loialtie?
Know then in breach of Natures constant Lawes,
There may be an effect & yet no cause.
Without the Sun we may haue Aprill showers,
And wanting moysture know no want of flowers;
Causeles the Elements could cease to war:
The seaman's needle to the Northern Starr
Without the Loadstone would for ever move.
If all these teares can be & yet no love:
If you still deeme I onelye am the man,
Which in the Maze of Loue yet never ranne:
Or if in love I surely did persue
The Favour of some other, not of you;
Or loving you, would not be strictly tyde
To you alone, but sought a Saint beside:
Know then by all the vertues we inthrone,
That I haue lov'd, lov'd you, & you alone.
Read ore my lines where truthful passion mov'd,
And hate it selfe will say that I have lov'd.
Thinke on my Vowes which have been ever true,
And know by them that I affected you.
Recount my tryalls, & they will impart
That none is partner with you in my heart.
Lines, vows, & tryalls will conclude in one,
That I haue lov'd, lov'd you, & you alone.
Lines, seeke no more then to that doubtfull faire,
And ye, my vowes, for euer more forbeare:

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Trialls, to her prove never true againe;
Since lines, vowes, tryalls striue all but in vaine.
Yet when I writt, the ready tongue of Truth
Did euer dictate not deceiving youth.
When I have sworn my tongue did never erre
To be my harts most true interpreter,
And proofe confirm'd when you examin'd both,
Love caused those lines, & Constancy that Oath;
And shall I write, protest (you proue) & then
Be left the most vnfortunate of men?
Must Truth be still neglected? Faith forgot?
And Constancy esteem'd as what is not?
Shall deare Regard and Love for euer be
Wrong'd with the name of lust & flatterie?
It must; for this your last suspicion tells,
That you intend to worke noe miracles.

W. B.

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IV. Elegies.

AN ELEGYE ON MR. WILLM. HOPTON.

When shall myne eyes be dry? I daily see
Proiects on foot; and some haue falne on mee:
Yet (with my fortune) had they tane awaye
The sense I haue to see a friend turne Claye;
They had done something worth the name of Spite;
And (as the grymme and vgly vayle of Night,
Which hydes both good and bad) their malyce then
Had made me worthlesse more the Loue of men
Then are their manners. I had dyde with those,
Who once intombde shall scarce be read in prose:
But whilst I haue a teare to shed for thee,
A Starr shall drop, and yet neglected bee,
For as a thrifty Pismire from the plaine
Busily dragging home some little graine
Is in the midway to her pretty chamber
Fatally wept on by some drop of Amber,
Which straight congealed (to recompence her doome)
The instrument to kill becomes her toombe;
And such a one, that she may well compare
With Egypts Monarchs for a Sepulcher.
Soe as I homewards wend to meet with dust,
Bearing this Griefe along, and it is iust,

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Each eye that knew, and knowing held thee deare,
On these sad lines shall shed so true a teare:
It shall beget a second: that, a third:
And propagate so many, that the Bird
Of Araby shall lacke a Sun to burne her,
Ere I shall want a Tombe, or thou a Morner.
For in those teares we will embalmed be,
And proue such Remora's to memorye,
That some malicious at our fame grown sick
Shall dye, and haue their dust made into brick;
And onleye serue to stop some prisons holes,
That hydes as wretched bodyes as their soules.
When (though the earth benight vs at our Noone,)
Wee there will lye like shadowes in the moone;
And euery dust within our graues shall be
A Star to light vs to posteritie.

But (haples Muse), admitt that this may come,
And men may reade I wept vpon his tombe;
What comfort brings it me? Princes haue tryde
To keep their Names, yet scarce are known they dyde,
So weake is brasse and Marble; & I pierce
His memorye, while that I write this verse;
Since I (his liuing Monument) endyte
And moulder into dust the whyle I write.
Such is the Griefe thy losse hath brought on mee,
I cut some lyfe of in each lyne on thee:
The cold stone that lyes on thee I suruaye,
And, looking on it, feele my selfe turne claye;
Yet grieue not but to thinke, when I am gone,
The Marble will shed teares, when I shed none.
This vexeth mee, that a dead stone shall be
My Riuall in thy Losse and memorye;
That it should both outweepe me and reherse,
When I am dust, thy Glory in my verse.

And much good may it do thee, thou dead stone,
Though not so dead as he thou lyst vpon.

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Thou mayst instruct some after age to saye
This was the last bed whereon Hopton laye;
Hopton that knew to chuse & keepe a friend:
That scorn'd as much to flatter as offend:
That had a soule as perfect as each Lymme,
That serud Learnd Pembroke, & did merit him;
And to name Hopton with his Master is
More then a Tombe, although a Pyramis.

AN ELEGIE ON THE COUNTESSE DOWAGER OF PEMBROOKE.

Time hath a long course run, since thou wert claye;
Yet had'st thou gone from vs but yesterdaie,
We in no neerer distance should haue stood,
Then if thy fate had call'd thee ere the flood;
And I that knewe thee, shall noe lesse cause haue
To sit me downe, & weepe beside thy Graue.
Many a yeare from hence then, in that howre,
When, all amazed, we had scarce the power
To say, that thou wert dead: my latest breath
Shall be a sigh for thee; & when cold death
Shall giue an end to my iust woes & mee,
I consecratt to thy deare memorie.
Soe many teares; if on thy Marble shed,
Each hand might write with them, who there lyes dead:
And so much griefe, that some from sicknes free
Would gladlye dye to be bewail'd like thee.

Yet (could I choose) I would not any knewe
That thou wert lost but as a pearle of dewe,
Which in a gentle Euening mildly cold
Fallne in the Bosome of a Marigold,

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Is in her golden leaues shut vp all night,
And seen againe, when next wee see the light.

For should the world but know that thou wert gone,
Our Age too prone to Irreligion,
Knoweing soe much divinitie in thee,
Might thence conclude noe immortalitye.
And I belieue the Puritans themselues
Would be seduc'd to thinke, that Ghostes & Elves
Doe haunt vs yet, in hope that thou would'st deigne
To visitt vs, as when thou liv'd'st againe.

But more, I feare, (since we are not of France,
Whose gentry would be knowne by Ignorance)
Such Witts & Noble as could merrit thee,
And should read this, spyght of all penaltye,
Might light vpon their studyes, would become
Magicians all, and raise the from thy Tombe.

Naye I believe, all are alreadye soe;
And now half madd or more with inward woe,
Doe thinke great Drake maliciously was hurl'd,
To cast a Circle round about the world,
Onley to hinder the Magicians lore,
And frustrate all our hopes to see thee more.

Pardon my sorrowe: is that man aliue,
Who for vs first found out a prospective
To search into the Moone, and hath not he
Yet found a further skill to looke on thee?

Thou goodman, whoe thou be'st that ere hast found
The meanes to looke on one so good, so crown'd,
For pitty find me out! & we will trace
Along together to that holye place
Which hides so much perfection; there will wee
Stand fixt & gaze on her Felicitye.
And should thy Glasse a burning one become,
And turne vs both to ashes on her Tombe;
Yet to our glorye, till the latter daye,
Our dust shall dance like atomes in her raye.

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And when the world shall in confusion burne,
And kings with peasants scramble at an vrne;
Like tapers new blowne out, wee, blessed then,
Will at her beames catch fire & live againe.

But this is sure, and some men (may be) glad
That I soe true a cause of sorrowe had,
Will wish all those whom I affect might dye,
So I might please him with an Elegye.

O let there neuer line of witt be read
To please the living, that doth speake thee dead;
Some tender-hearted mother, good & milde,
Who on the dear Grave of her onelye Child
So many sad teares hath been knowne to rayne,
As out of dust could molde him vp againe;
And with her plaints inforce the wormes to place
Themselues like veynes so neatly on his face
And euery limme; as if that they were striving
To flatter her with hope of his reviving.
She should read this; and her true teares alone
Should coppy forth these sad lines on the stone,
Which hydes thee dead. And every gentle heart
That passeth by should of his teares impart
So great a portion, that (if after times
Ruyne more churches for the clergyes crimes,)
When any shall remove thy Marble hence,
Which is lesse stone then he that takes it thence,
Thou shalt appeare within thy teareful cell,
Much like a faire Nymph bathing in a well:
But when they find thee dead so lovelie faire,
Pitty and Sorrow then shall streight repaire,
And weep beside thy graue with cypresse crown'd,
To see the second world of beauty drown'd;
And add sufficient teares, as they condole,
Would make thy body swim vp to thy soule.

Such eyes shall read the lines are writ on thee;
But such a losse should haue no Elegye

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To palliate the wound wee tooke in her.
Who rightly grieves, admits no comforter.

He that had tane to heart thy parting hence,
Should haue bin chain'd in Bethlem two howres thence;
And not a friend of his ere shed a teare,
To see him for thy sake distracted there;
But hugg'd himselfe for loveing such as he,
That could run mad with griefe for loseing thee.

I, haples soule, that never knew a friend
But to bewayle his too vntimelye end:
Whose hopes, cropt in the Bud, have neuer come,
But to sit weeping on a senseles tomb,
That hides not dust enough to count the teares,
Which I haue fruitles spent, in so fewe yeares.

I, that haue trusted those, that would haue given
For our deare Sauyor & the son of heauen,
Ten times the value Judas had of yore,
Onely to sell him for three pieces more:
I that haue lou'd & trusted thus in vayne,
Yet weepe for thee: and till the Clowds shall deigne
To showre on Egipt more then Nile ere swell'd,
These teares of mine shall be vnparalleld.

He that hath love enioy'd, & then been crost,
Hath teares at will to mourn for what he lost;
He that hath trusted, & his hope appeares
Wrong'd but by Death, may soon dissolue in teares;
But he, vnhappy man, whose love & trust
Nere met fruition, nor a promise iust:
For him, vnles (like thee) he deadly sleepe,
'Tis easyer to run mad then 'tis to weepe.

And yet I can! Fall then, ye mournfull showres;
And as old Time leads on the winged howres,
Be you their minutes: and let men forgett
To count their Ages from the playne of sweat:
From Eighty eight, the Powder Plot, or when
Men were afraid to talk of it agen;

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And in their Numeration, be it said,
Thus old was I, when such a Teare was shed,
And when that other fell, a Comet rose,
And all the world tooke notice of my woes.
Yet, finding them past cure, as doctors fly
Their patients past all hope of remedy,
Noe charitable soule will now impart
One word of comfort to soe sick a heart;
But as a hurt deare beaten from the heard,
Men of my shaddow almost now afeard,
Fly from my woes, that whilome wont to greet me,
And well nye think it ominous to meet me.

Sad lines, goe ye abroad: goe, saddest Muse:
And as some Nation formerly did vse
To lay their sick men in the streets, that those
Who of the same disease had scapt the throes,
Might minister reliefe as they went by,
To such as felt the selfe same Maladye;
So, haples lines, fly through the fairest Land;
And if ye light into some blessed hand,
That hath a heart as merry as the shyne
Of golden dayes, yet wrong'd as much as mine;
Pittye may lead that happy man to me,
And his experience worke a remedye
To those sad Fitts which (spight of Natures lawes)
Torture a poore heart that outlives the cause.

But this must never be, nor is it fit
An Ague or some sicknes lesse then it,
Should glorye in the death of such as he,
That had a heart of Flesh, & valued thee.

Brave Roman! I admire thee, that wouldst dye
At no lesse rate then for an emperie:
Some massye diamond from the center drawne,
For which all Europe were an equall pawne,

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Should (beaten into dust) be drunke by him,
That wanted courage good enough to swym
Through seas of woe for thee; & much despise
To meet with death at any lower prise.
Whilst Griefe alone workes that effect in me;
And yet no griefe but for the losse of thee.

Fortune, now doe thy worst, for I haue got
By this her death soe strong an antidote,
That all thy future crosses shall not have
More then an angry smile. Nor shall the grave
Glorye in my last daye. These lines shall give
To vs a second life, and we will live
To pull the distaffe from the hands of Fate;
And spin our owne thriedds for so long a date,
That Death shall never seize vpon our fame,
Till this shall perish in the whole worlds flame.

ON AN INFANT VNBORNE, & THE MOTHER DYEING IN TRAUELL.

Within this Graue there is a Graue intomb'd:
Heere lyes a Mother & a Child inwomb'd;
'Twas strange that Nature so much vigour gaue
To one that nere was borne to make a Graue.
Yet, an iniunction stranger, Nature will'd her
Poore Mother, to be Tombe to that which kill'd her;
And not with soe much crueltye content,
Buryes the Childe, the Graue, & Monument.
Where shall we write the Epitaph? whereon?
The Childe, the Graue, the Monument is gone;
Or if vpon the Child we write a staff,
Where shall we cut the Tombs owne Epitaph?

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Onely this way is left; & now we must,
As on a Table carpetted with dust,
Make chisells of our fingers, & ingraue
An Epitaph both on the Child & Graue
Within the dust: but when some dayes are gone,
Will not that Epitaph haue need of one?
I know it will; yet graue it there so deepe,
That those which know the lesse, & truly weepe,
May shedde their teares so iustly in that place,
Which we before did with a finger trace,
That filling vp the letters, they shall lye
As inlayde christall to posteritye:
Where (as on glass) if any write another,
Let him say thus: Heere lyes a haples Mother,
Whom cruell Fate hath made to be a Tombe,
And keepes in travell till the day of Doome.

ON THE R: H: CHARLES LORD HERBERT OF CARRDIFF & SHERLAND.

If there be a teare vnshedd,
On friend or child or parent dead,
Bestowe it here; for this sad stone
Is capable of such alone.
Custome showres swell not our deepes,
Such as those his Marble weepes;
Onely they bewaile his herse,
Whoe vnskill'd in powreful verse,
To bemoane him slight their eyes,
And let them fall for Elegyes.

All that Sweetnesse, all that Youth,
All that Vertue, all that Truth
Can, or speake, or wishe, or praise,

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Was in him in his few dayes.
His blood of Herbert, Sydney, Vere
(Names great in either Hemispheare,)
Need not to lend him of their Fame:
He had enough to make a name;
And to their Gloryes he had come,
Had heauen but giuen a Later Tombe.
But the Fates his thred did spinne
Of a sleaue so fine & thinne
Mending still a Piece of wonder,
It vntimely broake in sunder;
And we of their Labours meet,
Nothing but a Winding Sheet.

What his mighty prince hath lost:
What his fathers hope & cost:
What his Sister, what his Kin,
Take to[o] all the Kingdome in:
'Tis a Sea wherein to Swimme,
Weary faint, & dye with him.

O let my priuate griefe haue roome,
Deare Lord, to wayte vpon thy Toombe;
And since my weake & saddest verse,
Was worthy thought thy Grandams Herse;
Accept of this! Just teares my sight,
Haue shut for thee—deare Lord—Good night.

Et, longum, formose vale vale, inquit, Iolla.

AN EPICED ON MR. FISHBOURNE.

As some, to farre inquisitiue, would fayne
Know how the Arke could so much lyfe contayne;
Where the Ewe fed, and where the Lyon lay,
Both hauing den & pasture, yet all Sea:

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When fishes had our constellations true,
And how the hauke and partridge had one mewe;
So do I wonder, in these looser tymes,
When men commit more villanies then rymes,
How honord Fishbourne, in his lesser Arke,
Could so much immortality imbarke;

He gaue 20,000l. to pious vses.

And take in man too. How his good thoughts lay
With wealth & hazard both of them at sea:
Howe when his debtors thought of longer oweing,
His chiefest care was of that summes bestowing
In pious vses. But to question all;
Did this Rich man come to an Hospitall
To curbe the Incomes, or to beg the Leades,
Or turn to straw more charitable bedds?
Or gaz'd he on a prison with pretence,
More to inthrall then for a prayer thence?
Or on the Leuites part the churches living
Did he ere look wthout the thought of giuing?
Noe: (as the Angell at Bethesda) he
Came neuer in the Cells of Charitye,
Vnlesse his mynde by heauen had fraughted byn,
To helpe the next poore cripple that came in;
And he came often to them; and withall
Left there such vertue since his funerall,
That, as the Ancient Prophetts buryed bones,
Made one to knowe two Resurrections:
So after death it will be said of hym,
Fyshborne reuiued this man, gaue that a Lymme:
Such myracles are done in this sad age,
And yet we doe not goe in Pilgrimage.

When by the Graues of men alyue he trode,
Prisons where soules and bodyes haue abode
Before a judgment; and, as (there they lye,)
Speake their owne Epitaphs and Elogye:
Had he a deafe eare then? threw he on more
Irons or actions then they had before?

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Nay: wish'd he not, he had sufficient worth
To bid these men (dead to the world) come forth?
Or since he had not, did not he anone
Prouide to keepe them from corruption?
Made them new shrowds (their cloths are sure no more,
Such had the desert wanderers heretofore)
Imbalmed them, not with spice and gums, whereby
We may lesse noysome, not more deadly lye;
But with a charitable food, and then
Hid him from thanckes to doe the like agen.
Me thinkes I see him in a sweet repaire,
Some walke (not yet infected wth the ayre
Of newes or Lybell) weighing what may be
(After all these) his next good Legacie;
Whither the Church that lyes wthin his ken,
With her Revenews feeds or beasts or men,
Whither (though it equiuocally keepe
A carefull shepherd and a flock of sheepe)
The patron haue a Soule, & doth intreate
His friends more to a Sermon then his meate.
In fine, if Church or Steeple haue a Tongue,
Bells by a Sexton or a Weather rung?
Or where depopulations were begun,
An almeshouse were for men by it vndone?
Those (Fishbourne) were thy thoughts: the pulse of these
Thou felt'st, and hast prescrib'd for the disease.
Some thou hast curd, and this thy Gilead Balme
Hath my præludium to thy Angells Psalme.

And now ye Oracles of Heauen for whome
He hath preparde a candle, stoole, and Roome,
That to St. Mary's, Pauls, or else where come,
To send vs sighing, and not laughing home.
Ye, that the howre may run away more free,
Bribe not the clerk, but wth your doctrine mee;
Keep ye on wing his euer honord fame,
And though our Learned Mother want his name,

317

'Twas modesty in him that his deare Browne

His partner.

Might haue place for his charity, and crowne
Their memoryes together. And though his
The Citty got, the Vniversityes
Might haue the others name. You need not call
A Herald to proclaime your funeral,
Nor load your graues with marble, nor expend
Vpon a Statue more then on a friend;
Or make Stones tell a Lye to after tymes,
In prose inscryptions, or in hyred rymes.
For whilst there shall a church vnruinde stand,
And fiue blest soules as yours preserue the Land;
Whilst a good preacher in them hath a Roome,
You liue, and need nor Epitaph, nor Tombe.

AN ELEGYE ON SR THOMAS OVERBVRYE,

POISONED IN THE TOWRE OF LONDON.

Had not thy wrong, like to a wound ill cur'd,
Broke forth in death, I had not bin assured
Of griefe enough to finish what I write;
These lynes, as those which doe in cold blood fight,
Had come but faintly on; for euer he
That shrines a name within an Elegye.
(Vnles some neerer cause doe him inspire,)
Kindles his bright flame at the Funeral fire.
For passion (after less'ning her extent,)
Is then more strong, & soe more eloquent.

How powerfull is the hand of Murther now!

318

Was't not enough to see his deare life bowe
Beneath her hate? but crushing that faire frame,
Attempt the like on his vnspotted Fame?
O base reuenge! more then inhumane fact!
Which (as the Romanes sometime would enact
No doome for Patricide, supposing none
Could euer so offend) the vpright Throne
Of Iustice salues not: leauing that intent
Without a Name, without a Punishment.

Yet through thy wounded Fame, as thorow these
Glasses which multiply the Species,
We see thy vertues more; and they become
So many Statues sleeping on thy Tombe.

Wherein confinement new thou shalt endure,
But so as, when to make a Pearle more pure
We giue it to a Doue, in whose wombe pent
Sometime, we haue it forth most orient.

Such is thy lustre now that venom'd Spight
With her blacke Soule dares not behold thy light,
But banning it, a course beginnes to runne
With those that curse the rising of the Sunne.
The poyson that workes vpwards now, shall striue
To be thy faire Fames true Preseruatiue.
And witch-craft that can maske the vpper shine,
With no one cloud shall blinde a ray of thine.

And as the Hebrewes in an obscure pit
Their holy Fire hid, not extinguish'd it,
And after time, that broke their bondage chaine,
Found it, to fire their sacrifice againe:
So lay thy Worth some while, but being found,
The Muses altars plentifully crownd
With sweete perfumes by it new kindled be,
And offer all to thy deare Memorie.

Nor haue we lost thee long: thou art not gone,
Nor canst descend into Obliuion.
But twice the Sunne went round since thy soule fled,

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And onely that time men shall terme thee dead:
Hereafter (raisd to life) thou still shalt haue
An antidote against the silent Graue.

W. B. Int. Temp.

AN ELEGIE

ON THE UNTIMELYE DEATH OF HIS EUER HONOR'D AS MUCH BELOUED AS LAMENTED FRIEND, MR. THOMAS AYLEWORTH OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, SLAYNE AT CROYDEN, & THERE BURYED.

Is Goodnes shortest liu'd? doth Nature bring
Her choicest flowres but to adorne the Spring?
Are all men but as Tarryers? first begun,
Made & together put to be vndone?
Will all the ranke of friends in whom I trust,
Like Sodome trees, yield me no fruit but dust?
Must all I love, as careles sparkes that flye
Out of a flint, but shew their worth & dye?
Will nature euer to things fleeting bowe?
Doth she but like the toyling Hine at plough
Sow to be in'd? then Ile begin a lore
Hard to be learn'd, loue still to wayle no more;
I euer will affect that good, which he
Made the firme steps to his eternitye.
I will adore no other light then shynes
From my best thoughts, to read his life; the mynes
Of richest India shall not buy from me
That booke one howre wherein I studye thee.
A booke, wherin mens lives so taxed bin,

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That all men labour'd death to call it in.
What now as licens'd is dispers'd about,
Is no true coppy, or the best left out.
Noe ornaments Ile love brought from the Change,
But what's in it, & in the Court more strange,
Vertue; which clad thee well, [and] I may haue,
Without the danger of a living graue.
I will not wish fortune should make of me
A worshipp'd golden Calfe (as most rich be);
But let her (for all Lands else) grant me this,
To be an Inmate in that house now his.
One stone will serue, one Epitaph aboue,
So one shall be our dust, as was our loue.

O, if priuatōn be the greatest paine,
Which wretched soules in endles night susteyne,
What mortall torment can be worse then his,
That by enioyeing, knowes what loseing is?
Yet such is mine. Then if with sacred fire
A passion euer did a Muse inspire;
Or if a grief sick heart hath writt a lyne,
Then Art or Nature could more genuyne,
More full of Accents sad; Let it appeare
In what I write, if any drop a teare,
To this small payment of my latest debt
He witnes is, that 'twas not counterfet.

Maye this be neuer knowne to harts of stone,
That measure all mens sorrowes by their owne;
And thinke noe flood should euer drowne an Eye,
That hath not issue from an iniurye
Of some misfortune, tending more the losse
Of goods then goodnes. Let this haples crosse
Alone be read, & knowne by such as be
Apt to receiue that seale of miserie,
Which his vntimely death prints on my heart.

And if that Fatall hand (which did the part
That Fate should haue perform'd) shall euer chance

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(Either of purpose or through ignorance)
To touch this paper may it rose-like wither.
Or as the plant Sentida shrink together!
Let him not read it; be the Letters dym,
Although the Ordinarie giue it him!
Or let the words transpose them & impart
A Crying Anagram for his desert.
Or maye the inke (now drye) grow green againe,
As wounds (before the Murdrer) of the slayne.
So these sad lynes shall (in the Judges Eye)
Be his accuser & mine Elegie.

But vayne are imprecations. And I feare
Almost to shew him in a Character,
Least some accursed hand the same should stayne,
Or by depraving murther him againe.

Sleepe then, sweet soule; and if thy vertues be
In any breast, by him wee'le portraict thee.
If thou hadst liv'd where heathen gods haue reign'd,
Thy vertues thee a Deitie had gain'd.
But now more blest! And though thy honord shryne
Be vnaddorn'd by stone, or Indyan mine:
Yet whilst that any good to Earth is lent,
Thou canst not lye without a Monument.

AN ELEGYE.

Is Death so great a gamester, that he throwes
Still at the fairest, & must I still loose?
Are we all but as tarryers first begunne,
Made & together put to be vndone?
Will all the ranke of friends, in whom I trust,
Like Sodomes Trees yeeld me no fruit but dust?
Must all I loue, as careles sparkes that fly
Out of a flint, but shew their worth & dye?

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O, where do my for euer losses tend?
I could already by some buryed friend
Count my vnhappy yeares; & should the sun
Leaue me in darknes, as her losse hath done,
(By those few friends I haue yet to intombe)
I might, I feare, account my yeares to come.
What need our Cannons then be so precise
In Registers for our Natiuityes?
They keep vs but in bonds, & strike with feares
Rich parents, till their children be of yeares;
For should they loose & mourne, they might, as I,
Number their yeares by euery elegie.
These Bookes to sum our dayes might well haue stood
In vse with those that liued before ye flood,
When she indeed that forceth me to write,
Should haue byn borne, had Nature done her right;
And at fiue hundred yeares been lesse decayed,
Then now at fifteen is the fairest mayde.
But Nature had not her perfection then,
Or being lothe for such long liuing men,
To spend the treasure wch she held most pure,
She gaue them women apter to endure;
Or prouidently knowing there were more
Countryes & islands which she was to store,
Nature was thrifty, & did thinke it well,
If for some one pert each one did excell:
As this for her neat hand, that for her hayre,
A third for her sweet eyes, a fourth was faire:
And 'tis approu'd by him, who could not drawe
The Queen of Loue, till he a hundred sawe.
Seldom all beautyes met in one, till She
(All other Lands else storde) came finally
To people our sweet Isle: & seeing now
Her substance infinite, she gan to bowe
To lauishnes in euery Nuptiall bed,
And she her fairest was that now is dead;

323

Dead as a blossome forced from the tree,
And if a Mayden, faire & good as shee,
Tread on thy graue, O let her there professe
Her selfe for euermore an Anchoresse.
Let her be deathles! let her still be yong!
Without this meanes we haue no verse nor tongue.
To say how much I lou'd, or let vs see
How great our losse was in the losse of thee.
Or let the purple Violett grow there,
And feel noe reuolution of the yeare;
But full of dew with euer drooping head,
Shew how I liue, since my best hopes are dead.

Dead as the world to vertue! Murd'rers, Thieues
Can haue their Pardons, or at least Reprieues.
The Sword of Justice hath been often wonne
By letters from an Execution.
Yet vowes nor prayers could not keepe thee here,
Nor shall I see, the next returning yeare,
Thee with the Roses spring & liue againe.
Th' art lost for euer, as a drop of raine
Falne in a Riuer! for as soone I may
Take vp that drop, or meet the same at Sea,
And know it there, as ere redeeme thee gone,
Or know thee in the graue, when I haue one.

O! had that hollow Vault, where thou dost lye,
An Eccho in it, my strong phantasye
Would draw me soone to thinke her words were thine,
And I would hourely come, & to thy shrine
Talke as I often vsed to talke with thee,
And frame my words that thou mightst answer me
As when thou liuedst: Ide sigh, & say I loue,
And thou shouldst do so to, till we had moued
(With our complts) to teares each marble cell
Of those dead Neighbors which about thee dwell.

And when the holy father came to saye
His Orisons, Ide aske him if the daye

324

Of Miracles were past, or whether he
Knew any one whose faith & pietye
Could raise the dead; but he would answer, none
Can bring thee back to life; though many one
Our cursed days afford, that dare to thrust
Their hands prophane to raise the sacred dust
Of holy saints out of their beds of Rest.

Abhorred dayes! O maye there none molest
Thy quiet peace! but in thy Arke remayne
Vntouch'd, as those the old one did contayne,
Till he that can reward thy greatest worth,
Shall send the peacefull Doue to call thee forth.

ON A TWIN AT TWO YEARES OLD,

DEAD OF A CONSUMPTION.

Death! thou such a one hast smit,
Any stone can couer it;
'Twas an enuye more then sin,
If he had not been a Twin,
To haue kill'd him, when his herse
Hardly could contayne a verse.
Two faire Sisters, sweet and yong,
Minded as a prophets tongue,
Thou hadst kill'd, & since with thee
Goodnes had noe Amitie:
Nor could teares of Parents saue,
So much sweetnes from ye Graue;
Sicknes seem'd so small to fit him,
That thou shouldst not see to hit him;
And thou canst not truely saye,
If he be dead or flowne awaye.

325

AN ELEGIE

ON THE BEWAILED DEATH OF THE TRUELY-BELOVED AND MOST VERTUOUS HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES.

What time the world, clad in a mourning robe,
A stage made for a woefull tragedie,
When showres of teares from the celestiall globe,
Bewail'd the fate of sea-lov'd Brittanie;
When sighes as frequent were as various sights,
When Hope lay bed-rid, and all pleasures dying,
When Envie wept,
And Comfort slept,
When Cruelty itselfe sat almost crying;
Nought being heard but what the minde affrights:
When Autumn had disrob'd the Summer's pride,
Then England's honour, Europe's wonder dide.

O saddest straine that ere the Muses sung!
A text of woe for griefe to comment on;
Teares, sighs and sobs, give passage to my tongue,
Or I shall spend you till the last is gone.
And then my hart, in flames of burning love,
Wanting his moisture, shall to cinders turne,
But first by me,
Bequeathed be,
To strew the place, wherein his sacred urne
Shall be enclos'd. This might in many move
The like effect: (who would not doe it?) when
No grave befits him, but the harts of men.

326

The man whose masse of sorrowes have been such,
That, by their weight, laid on each severall part,
His fountaines are so drie, he but as much
As one poore drop hath left, to ease his hart:
Why should he keepe it? since the time doth call
That he n'ere better can bestow it in?
If so he feares,
That other teares
In greater number greatest prizes winne,
Know, none gives more then He who giveth all:
Then he which hath but one poore teare in store,
Oh let him spend that drop and weepe no more!

Why flowes not Hellicon beyond her strands?
Is Henrie 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 displey
To men so cloide 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 never speake that's silent now!

Is Henrie dead? alas! and doe I live
To sing a scrich-owles note that he is dead?
If any one a fitter theame can give,
Come, give it now, or never to be read:
But let him see it doe of Horror taste,
Anguish, Distraction; could it rend in sunder
With fearefull grones
The fencelesse stones,

327

Yet should we hardly be inforc'd to wonder,
Our former griefes would so exceed their last:
Time cannot make our sorrowes ought compleater,
Nor add one griefe to make our mourning greater.

England stood ne're engirt with waves till now,
Till now it held part with the Continent;
Aye me! some one, in pittie show me how
I might in dolefull numbers so lament,
That any one, which lov'd him, hated me,
Might dearly love me for lamenting him;
Alas my plaint
In such constraint
Breakes forth in rage, that thoughe my passions swimme,
Yet are they drowned ere they landed be.
Imperfect lines: oh happy were I, hurl'd
And cut from life as England from the world.

O! happier had we beene, if we had beene
Never made happie by enjoying thee;
Where hath the glorious Eye of Heaven seene
A spectacle of greater miserie?
Time, turn thy course, and bring againe the spring!
Breake Nature's lawes! search the records of old!
If ought e're fell
Might paralel
Sad Albion's case: then note when I unfold
What seas of sorrow she is plunged in:
Where stormes of woe so mainly have beset her,
She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better.

Brittaine was whilome knowne (by more then fame)
To be one of the Islands Fortunate:
What franticke man would give her now that name,
Lying so ruefull and disconsolate?

328

Hath not her watrie zone in murmuring,
Fil'd every shoare with eccho's of her crie?
Yes, Thetis raves,
And bids her waves
Bring all the nimphes within her Emperie,
To be assistant in her sorrowing.
See where they sadly sit on Isis' shore,
And rend their haires as they would joy no more.

329

V. Visions.

[_]

The original numbering of poems in this section has been followed.

1. [Sitting one day beside the bankes of Mole]

Sitting one day beside the bankes of Mole,
Whose sleepy streame by passages vnknowne
Conuayes the fry of all her finny shole;
(As of the fisher she were feareful growne;)
I thought vpon the various turnes of Time,
And suddaine changes of all humane state;
The Feare-mixt pleasvres of all such as clyme
To Fortunes merely by the hand of Fate,
Without desert. Then weighing inly deepe
The griefes of some whose neernes makes him myne;
(Wearyed with thoughts) the leaden god of sleepe
With silken armes of rest did me entwyne:
While such strange apparitions girt me round,
As need another Joseph to expovnd.

330

3. [I saw a silver swan swim downe the Lee]

I saw a silver swan swim downe the Lee,
Singing a sad Farwell vnto the Vale,
While fishes leapt to hear her melodie,
And on each thorne a gentle Nightingale;
And many other Birds forbore their notes,
Leaping from tree to tree, as she along
The panting bosome of the torrent floates,
Rapt with the musick of her dyeing Song:
When from a thick & all-entangled spring
A neatheard rude came with noe small adoe,
(Dreading an ill presage to heare her sing,)
And quickly strooke her slender neck in t[w]oo;
Whereat the Birds (me thought) flew thence with speed,
And inly griev'd for such a cruell deed.

4. [Within the compasse of a shadye grove]

Within the compasse of a shadye grove
I long time sawe a loving Turtle flye,
And lastlye pitching by her gentle Love,
Sit kindelie billing in his company:
Till (haples soules) a faulcon sharply bent,
Flew towards the place where these kind wretches stood,
And sev'ring them, a fatall accident,
She from her mate flung speedie through the wood;
And scapeing from the hawke, a fowler sett
Close & with cunning vnderneath the shade,
Entrapt the harmles creature in his net,
And nothing moved with the plaint she made,
Restraynde her from the groves & deserts wide,
Where overgone with griefe, poore Bird, she dyde.

331

5. [A rose, as faire as euer saw the North]

A rose, as faire as euer saw the North,
Grew in a little Garden all alone;
A sweeter flowre did Nature ne're put forth,
Nor fairer Garden yet was never knowne:
The Maydens danc't about it more & more,
And learned Bards of it their ditties made;
The Nimble Fairyes, by the palefac'd moone,
Wattr'd the roote, & kiss'd her pretty shade.
But welladaye, the Gardner careles grewe;
The maids & Fairyes both were kept awaye,
And in a drought the caterpillers threw
Themselues vpon the Bird & euery spraye.
God shield the stock! if heaven send noe supplyes,
The fairest Blossom of the Garden dyes.

6. [Downe in a vallye, by a Forestt side]

Downe in a vallye, by a Forestt side,
Neere where the christall Thames roules on her waves,
I saw a Mushrome stand in haughty pride,
As if the Lillyes grew to be his slaves;
The gentle daisye, with her silver crowne,
Worne in the brest of many a shepheards lasse;
The humble violett, that lowly downe
Salutes the gaye Nimphes as they trimly passe:
Those, with a many more, me thoughte complaind
That Nature should those needles things produce,
Which not alone the Sun from others gain'd,
But turne it wholy to their proper vse:
I could not chuse but grieve, that Nature made
So glorious flowers to live in such a shade.

332

7. [A gentle shepherd, borne in Arcadye]

A gentle shepherd, borne in Arcadye,
That well could tune his pipe, and deftly playe
The Nimphs asleepe with rurall minstralsye,
Me thought I saw, vpon a summer's daye,
Take up a little Satyre in a wood,
All masterlesse forlorne as none did know him,
And nursing him with those of his owne blood,
On mightye Pan he lastlie did bestowe him;
But with the god he long time had not been,
Ere he the shepherd and himselfe forgott,
And most ingratefull, ever stept between
Pan and all good befell the poore mans lott:
Whereat all good men griev'd, [and] strongly swore,
They never would be fosterfathers more.

333

VI. Epigrams.

[It hapned lately at a Fair, or Wake]

It hapned lately at a Fair, or Wake,
(After a pott or two or such mistake)
Two iron-soled Clownes, and bacon-sided,
Grumbled: then left the formes wch they bestrided,
And with their crabb tree cudgels, as appeares,
Threshd (as they vse) at one anothers' eares:
A neighbor nere, both to their house and drinke,
(Who though he slept at sermons) could not winke
At this dissention, with a Spiritt bold
As was the ale that arm'd them, strong & old,
Stept in & parted them; but Fortunes frowne
Was such, that there our neighbor was knockdt downe.
For they, to recompence his paines at full,
Since he had broke their quarrell, broke his Scull.
People came in, & raise[d] him from his swound;
A Chirurgeon then was calld to search the wound,
Who op'ning it, more to endeare his paynes,
Cryde out, Allas, Looke, you may see his Braynes.
Nay, quoth the Wounded man, I tell you free,
Good Mr Surgeon, that can neuer bee;
For I should nere haue medled with ye Brall,
If I had had but any Braynes at all.

334

ON AN HOURE GLASSE.

The truest houre glasse lyes; for youle confes,
All holes grow bigger, and the sand growes lesse.

ON THE COUNTESSE OF SOMERSETS PICTURE.

The pitty'd fortune most men chiefly hate;
And rather thinke the envyde fortunate:
Yet I, if Miserie did looke as She,
Should quicklie fall in loue with Miserie.

ON JOHN TOOTH.

Heere lyeth in sooth
Honest John Tooth;
Whom Death on a daye
From vs drew awaye.

TO DON ANTONIO, KING OF PORTUGALL.

Between thee & thy kingdome, late with force,
Spaine happily hath sued a divorce;
And now thou maist, as Christ did once of his,
Say, that thy kingdome not of this world is.

335

[MAN.]

Like to a Silkeworme of one yeare,
Or like a wronged Louers Teare,
Or on the Waues a Rudders Dynt,
Or like the Sparkles of a Flint,
Or like to little Cakes perfum'd,
Or Fireworkes made to be consum'd;
Even such is Man, and all that trust
In weake and animated dust.
The Silkeworme droopes; the teares soon shed;
The Shipps waye lost; the Sparkle dead;
The Cake is burnt; the Fireworke done;
And Man as these as quickly gone.

[Give me three kisses, Phillis; if not three]

Give me three kisses, Phillis; if not three,
Giue me as many as thy sweet lips be;
You gave & tooke one, yet deny me twaine,
Then take back yours, or give me mine againe.

ON ONE BORNE BLYNDE, AND SOE DEAD.

Who (but some one like thee) could euer saye,
He master'd Death, from robbing him a day?
Or was Death euer yet soe kinde to any?
One Night she took from thee, from others many,
And yet, to recompence it, in thy Tombe,
Giues the a longer, till the daye of doome.

336

ON A ROPE-MAKER HANG'D.

Heere lyes a man, much wrong'd in his hopes,
Who got his wealth backwards by making of Ropes;
It was his hard chance in his fortunes to falter,
For he liv'd by the Rope, & dyde by the halter.

337

VII. Epitaphs.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. JOHN SMYTH, CHAPLAYNE TO THE RIGHT HOBLE THE EARLE OF PEMBROOKE.

Know thou, that treadst on learned Smyth invrn'd,
Man is an Houre-glasse that is neuer turn'd;
He is gone through; & we that stay behinde,
Are in the vpper Glasse, yet vnrefynde.
When we are fit, with him soe truely iust,
We shall fall downe, and sleepe with him in dust.

ON MRS. ANNE PRIDEAUX, DAUGHTER OF MR. DOCTOR PRIDEAUX, REGIUS PROFESSOR.

SHE DYDE AT THE AGE OF 6 YEARES.

Nature in this small Volume was about
To perfect what in woman was left out;
Yet fearefull least a Piece soe well begun
Might want Preseruatiues, when she had done;
Ere she could finish what she vndertooke,
Threw dust vpon yt, & shut vp the Booke.

338

AN EPITAPH ON MR. WM. HOPTON.

Reader, stay, & read a Truth:
Heere lyes Hopton, Goodnes, Youth.
Drop a teare, & let it be
True as thou would'st wish for thee;
Shed one more, thou best of soules;
Those two teares shall be new Poles:
By the first wee'le sayle & find
Those lost Jewells of his mynde;
By the Latter we will swymme
Back againe, & sleep with him.

AN EPITAPH ON SR. JOHN PROWDE.

(LIEUTENANT COLLONELL TO SR. CHARLES MORGAN), SLAYNE AT THE SIEDGE OF GROLL, & BURYED AT ZUTPHEN, 1627.

After a March of twenty yeares, & more,
I got me downe on Yssells warlike shore;
There now I lye intrench'd, where none can seize me,
Vntill an Hoste of Angells come to raise me:
Warre was my Mistresse, & I courted her,
As Semele was by the Thunderer;
The mutuall Tokens 'twixt vs two allow'd,
Were Bullets wrapt in fire, sent in a Clowd;
One I receiued, which made me passe so farre,
That Honor layde me in the Bed of Warre.

IN OBITUM M. S. xo MAIJ, 1614.

May! Be thou neuer grac'd with birds that sing,
Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers & Roses spring.
Mine onely dide.

339

ON MR. VAUX, THE PHYSITIAN.

Stay! this Graue deserues a Teare;
'Tis not a Coarse, but life lyes here:
May be thine owne, at least some part,
And thou the Walking Marble art.

'Tis Vaux! whom Art & Nature gaue
A powre to plucke men from the Graue;
When others druggs made Ghostes of men,
His gaue them back their flesh agen;
'Tis he lyes heere, & thou & I
May wonder he found time to dye;
So busyed was he, & so rife,
Distributing both health & life.

Honor his Marble with your Teares,
You, to whom he hath added yeares;
You, whose lifes light he was about
Soe carefull, that his owne went out.
Be you his liuing Monument! or we
Will rather thinke you in the Graue then he.

ON ONE DROWNED IN THE SNOWE.

Within a fleece of Silent waters drown'd,
Before I met with death a graue I found;
That which exilde my life from her sweet home,
For griefe streight froze it selfe into a Tombe.
One onely element my fate thought meet
To be my Death, Graue, Tombe, & Winding Sheet;
Phœbus himselfe my Epitaph had writ;
But blotting many, ere he thought one fit,
He wrote vntill my Tombe & Graue were gone,
And 'twas an Epitaph, that I had none;

340

For euery man that past along the waye
Without a Sculpture read, that there I laye.

Here now, the second time, entomb'd I lie,
And thus much haue the best of Destinye:
Corruption (from which onely one was free)
Deuour'd my grave, but did not feed on me.
My first Graue tooke me from the race of men;
My last shall giue me back to life agen.

ON MR. JOHN DEANE, OF NEW COLLEDGE.

Let no man walke neere this Tombe,
That hath left his Griefe at home.
Heere so much of Goodnesse lyes,
We should not weepe teares, but eyes,
And grope homeward from this stone
Blinde for contemplation
How to liue & dye as he.
Deane, to thy deare memorye
With this I would offer more,
Could I be secur'd before
They should not be frown'd vpon
At thy Resurrection.

Yet accept upon thy hearse
My Teares, far better then my Verse.
They may turne to eyes, & keepe
Thy bed vntouch'd, whilst thou dost sleepe.

AN EPITAPH.

Faire Canace this little Tombe doth hyde,
Whoe onely seuen Decembers told and dyde.
O Crueltie! O synne! yet no man heere
Must for so short a life let fall a Teare;

341

Then death the kind was worse, what did infect,
First seas'd her mouth, & spoil'd her sweet aspect:
A horrid Ill her kisses bitt away,
And gaue her almost liples to the Clay.
Is Destinye so swift a flight did will her,
It might haue found some other way to kill her;
But Death first strooke her dumb, in hast to haue her,
Lest her sweete tongue should force the Fates to save her.

ON MR. FRANCIS LEE OF THE TEMPLE, GENT.

Nature haueing seen the Fates
Give some births vntimely dates,
And cut of those threds (before
Halfe their web was twisted ore)
Which she chiefly had intended
With iust story should be friended,
Vnderhand shee had begun,
From those distaffes half-way-spun,
To haue made a piece to tarry,
As our Edward should, or Harry.

But the fatall Sisters spyeing
What a fair worke she was plying,
Curstly cut it from the Loome,
And hid it vnderneath this Tombe.

MY OWNE EPITAPH.

Loaden with earth, as earth by such as I,
In hopes of life, in Deaths cold arme I lye;
Laid vp there, whence I came, as shipps nere spilt
Are in the dock vndone to be new built.

342

Short was my course, & had it longer bin,
I had return'd but burthen'd more with Sin.
Tread on me he that list; but learne withall,
As we make but one crosse, so thou must fall,
To be made one to some deare friend of thine,
That shall surueigh thy graue, as thou dost myne.

Teares aske I none, for those in death are vayne,
The true repentant showres which I did rayne
From my sad soule, in time to come will bring,
To this dead roote an euerlasting spring.
Till then my soule with her Creator keepes,
To waken in fit time what herein sleepes.

Wm. Browne. 1614.

ON HIS WIFE, AN EPITAPH.

Thou needst no Tomb (my Wife) for thou hast one,
To which all Marble is but Pumix Stone.
Thou art engrau'd so deeply in my heart,
It shall out-last the strongest hand of Art.
Death shall not blott the thence, although I must
In all my other parts dissolue to dust;
For thy Deare Name, thy happy Memorie,
May so embalme it for Eternity,
That when I rise, the name of my deare Wife
Shall there be seen, as in the booke of life.

ON THE COUNTESSE DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE

Vnderneath this sable Herse
Lyes the subiect of all verse:
Sydneyes sister, Pembroke's Mother:
Death, ere thou hast slaine another,
Faire, & Learn'd, & good as she,
Tyme shall throw a dart at thee.”

343

ON THE R. H. SUSAN, COUNTESSE OF MONTGOMERIE.

Though we trust the earth with thee,
We will not with thy memorie;
Mines of Brasse or Marble shall
Speake nought of thy funerall;
They are veryer dust then we,
And do begg a Historye:
In thy Name there is a Tombe,
If the world can giue it Roome;
For a Vere, & Herberts wyfe
Outspeakes Tombes, out-liues all lyfe.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. THOMAS AYLEWORTH.

Heere wither'd lyes a flowre, which blowne,
Was cropt assone as it was knowne;
The loss was greate, & the offence,
Since one vnworthie took it hence.

W. Browne.

AN EPITAPH ON MRS. EL: Y.

Vnderneath this stone there lyes
More of Beauty then are eyes;
Or to read that she is gone,
Or alyue to gaze vpon.

She in so much fairenes clad,
To each Grace a Vertue had;
All her Goodnes cannot be
Cut in Marble. Memorie
Would be vseles, ere we tell
In a Stone her worth. Farewell.

344

ON MR TURNER OF ST. MARY-HALL.

I Rose, and coming downe to dyne,
I Turner met, a learn'd diuyne;
'Twas the first tyme that I was blest
With sight of him, & had possest
His company not three houres space,
But Oxford call'd him from that place.
Our friendship was begun (for Arts,
Or loue of them, cann marry hearts).
But see whereon we trust: eight dayes
From thence, a friend of mine thus sayes:
Turner is dead; (amaz'd) thought I,
Could so much health so quickly dye?
And haue I lost my hopes to be
Endear'd to so much industry?
O man! behold thy strength, and knowe
Like our first sight and parting, soe
Are all our liues, which I must say,
Was but a dinner, and away.

ON GOODMAN HURST OF THE GEORGE AT HORSHAM,

DYEING SUDDAINELY WHILE YE E. OF NOTTINGHAM LAYE THERE, 26 AUGUST, 1637.

See what we are: for though we often saye,
Wee are like guests that ride vpon the waye,
Trauell and lodge, & when the Morne comes on,
Call for a reck'ning, paye, & so are gone—
Wee err; and haue lesse time to be possest,
For see! the Hoste is gone before the guest.

345

[Heere lyes kind Tom, thrust out of dore]

Heere lyes kind Tom, thrust out of dore,
Nor hye nor low, nor rich nor poore;
He left the world with heauy cheere,
And neuer knew what he made heere.

346

VIII. Paraphrases, &c.

[Tell me, Pyrrha, what fine youth]

1

Tell me, Pyrrha, what fine youth,
All pfum'd and crown'd with Roses,
To thy chamber thee pursu'th,
And thy wanton Arme incloses?

2

What is he thou now hast got,
Whose more long & golden Tresses
Into many a curious knott
Thy more curious fingers dresses?

3

How much will he wayle his trust,
And (forsooke) begin to wonder,
When black wyndos shall billowes thrust,
And breake all his hopes in sunder?

347

4

Ficklenes of wyndes he knows
Very little that doth loue thee;
Miserable are all those,
That affect thee ere they proue thee.

5

I as one from shipwrack freed
To the Oceans mighty Ranger,
Consecrate my dropping weed,
And in freedome thinke of danger.

THE HAPPY LIFE.

O blessed man! who, homely bredd,
In lowly Cell can passe his dayes,
Feeding on his well gotten bread;
And hath his Gods, not others wayes.

That doth into a prayer wake,
And Riseing (not to bribes or bands)
The powre that doth him happy make,
Hath both his knees, as well as hands.

His Threshold he doth not forsake,
Or for the Cittyes Cates, or Trymme;
His plough, his flock, his Sythe, and Rake,
Doe physicke, Clothe, and nourish him.

By some sweet streame, cleere as his thought,
He seates him wth his Booke & lyne;
And though his hand haue nothing caught,
His mynde hath wherevpon to dyne:

348

He hath a Table furnisht strong,
To Feast a friend, no flattering Snare,
And hath a iudgment & a Tongue,
That know to wellcome & beware.

His afternoone spent as the prime
Inviting where he mirthfull supps;
Labour, & seasonable time,
Brings him to bedd & not his cupps.

Yet, ere he take him to his rest,
For this & for their last repayre,
He, with his houshold meek addrest,
Offer their sacrifice of prayer.

If then a louing wife he meets,
Such as A Good Man should lye by;
Blest Eden is, betwixt these sheets.
Thus would I liue, thus Would I Dye.

349

IN URBEM ROMAM QUALIS EST HODIE.

[THE TRANSLATION.]

Thou, who to looke for Rome, to Rome art come,
And in ye midst of Rome find'st nought of Rome;
Behold her heapes of walls, her structures rent,
Her theatres orewhelm'd, of vast extent;
Those nowe are Rome. See how those Ruynes frowne,
And speak the threats yet of so braue a town.
By Rome (as once the world) is Rome orecome,
Least ought on Earth should not be quelld by Rome:
Now conqu'ring Rome, doth conquerd Rome interre;
And she the vanquisht is, and vanquisher.
To shew vs where she stood, there rests alone
Tiber; yet that too hastens to be gone.
Learne hence what fortune can: Townes glyde away;
And Rivers, wch are still in motion, stay.

350

IX. Miscellaneous Pieces.

ON A DREAME.

Vaine dreames, forbeare, ye but deceiuers be;
For as, in flattering glasses, women see
More beauty then possesse, so I in you
Haue all I can desire, but no thing true.
Who would be rich, to be soe but an howre,
Eates a sweet fruite, to rellish more the soure;
If, but to lose againe, we things possesse,
Nere to be happy is a happines.
Men walking in the pitchye shades of night
Can keepe their certeyne way, but if a light
Oretake, & leaue them, they are blinded more,
And doubtfull goe, that went secure before:
For this (though hardly) I haue ofte forborne
To see her face faire as the rosye Morne;
Yet mine owne thoughts in night such Traytors be,
That they betray me to that miserie.

Then thinke no more of her! as soon I may
Command the sun to robbe vs of a day;
Or with a sive repell a liquid streame,
As lose such thoughts or hinder but a Dreame.

The lightsome ayre as easye hinder can
A glasse to take the forme of any man

351

That stands before it, as or time or place
Can draw a vayle betweene me & her face;
Yet by such thoughts my Torments howrely strive;
For, as a prisoner by his prospective,
By them I am inform'd of what I want:
I envy none now but the ignorant.
He that nere saw of whom I dream'd last night,
Is one borne blynd, that knowes no want of light;
He that nere kist these lipps, yet saw her eyes,
Is Adam living still in Paradise.
But if he taste those sweets (as haples I)
He knowes his want & meets his miserie:
An Indian rude that neuer heard one sing
A heauenly sonnet to a siluer string,
Nor other sounds, but what confused heards
In pathles deserts make, or brooks, or Birds,
Should he heare Syms the sweet pandora touch
And loose his heareing, streight he would as much
Lament his knowledge, as doe I my chance,
And wish he still had liv'd in ignorance.
I am that Indian, and my soothing Dreames
In thirst haue brought me but to painted streames,
Which not allaye, but more increase desire.
A man, nere frozen with December's ire,
Hath from a heape of glowwormes as much ease,
As I can euer haue by such as these.

O leave me then! & strongest Memorie,
Keepe still with those that promise breakers be:
Goe! bid the Debtor mind his payment day,
Or helpe the ignorant-deuout to saye
Prayers they vnderstand not. Leade the Blynde,
And bid ingratefull wretches call to minde
Their Benefactors. And if vertue be
(As still she is) trod downe with miserie,
Shew her the Rich that they may free her want,
And leaue to nurse the fawning sycophant:

352

Or if thou seest faire honor careles lye
Without a Tombe, for after memorye,
Dwell by the graue, & teach all those that passe
To imitate, by shewing who it was.

This way, remembrance, thou mayest doe some good,
And haue due thankes; but he that vnderstood
What throes thou bringst on me, would say I misse
The sleepe of him that did the pale moone kisse,
And that it were a blessing throwne on mee,
Somtimes to haue the hated Lethargie.

Then, darke forgetfulnes, that onely art
The friend of Lunatiques, seize on that part
Of Memorie which nightly shewes her me,
Or suffer still her wakeing Fantasie,
Euen at the instant that I dreame of her,
To dreame the like of me, that we may err
In pleasures endles Maze without offence;
And both connex, as soules in Innocence.

LIDFORD JOURNEY.

I ofte haue heard of Lidford Lawe,
How in the Morne they hang & drawe,
And sitt in iudgment after:
At first I wonderd at it much;
But now I find their reason such,
That it deserues no laughter.

They haue a Castle on a hill;
I tooke it for an old Windmill,
The Vanes blowne of by weather;
Then lye therein one night, 'tis guessd,
'Tis better to be stond and prest,
Or hang'd, now chuse you whether.

353

Ten men lesse room wthin this Caue,
Then fiue Mice in a Lanthorne haue,
The Keepers they are sly ones:
If any could deuise by Art,
To gett it vpp into a Cart,
Twere fitt to carry Lyons.

When I beheld it, Lord! thought I,
What Justice & what Clemency
Hath Lidford, when I spy all!
They know none there gladly would stay,
But rather hang out of the way,
Then tarry for the tryall.

The Prince a hundred pounds hath sent,
To mend the leades & planthings rent,
Within this liuinge Tombe:
Some forty fiue pounds more had paide
The debts of all that shalbe layde
There 'till the day of Dome.

One lyes there for a seame of Malt,
Another for three pecks of Salt,
Two Suretyes for a Noble;
If this be true, or else false newes,
You may goe aske of Mr Crewes,
John Vaughan, or John Doble.

Neere to the men that lye in lurch,
There is a Bridge, there is a Church,
Seuen Ashes, & an Oake;
Three houses standing, and ten downe;
They say the Parson hath a Gowne,
But I saw nere a Cloake.

354

Whereby you may consider well,
That plaine Simplicity doth dwell
At Lidford without brauery;
For in that towne, both yong & graue
Do loue the Naked truth, and have
No Cloakes to hide theyr knauerye.

The people all, within this clyme,
Are frozen yn all Winter time,
Be sure I doe not faine;
And when the Summer is begun,
They lye like silkewormes in ye Sun,
And come to lyfe againe.

One told me in King Cæsars tyme,
The towne was built of Stone & Lyme,
But sure the walls were Claye:
For they are falne, for ought I see,
And since the howses were got free,
The Towne is Run away.

O Cæsar, if thou there didst Raigne,
Whilst one house stands, come there againe;
Come quickly, while there is One:
If thou but stay a little fitt,
But fiue yeares more, they may cōmitt
The whole Towne into Prison.

To see it thus, much grieued was I,
The prouerbe says, Sorrow is dry;
So was I at this matter:
When by great chance, I know not how,
There thither came a strange strayde Cow,
And we had Milke and Water.

355

Sure I belieue it then did rayne
A Cow or two from Charles his Wayne,
For none aliue did see
Such kynde of Creatures there before,
Nor shall from hence for euermore,
Saue Pris'ners, Geese, and we.

To Nyne good Stomacks (with our Whigg)
At last we got a Tything Pigg;
This Dyet was our bounds:
And that was iust as if 'twere knowne,
One pound of Butter had byn throwne
Amongst a pack of Hounds.

One Glasse of Drinke I gott by Chance,
'Twas Clarett when yt was in France;
But now from that nought wyder:
I thinke a man might make as good
With Green Crabs, boyled with Brasil Wood,
And halfe a pynte of Syder.

I kist the Mayors hand of the Towne,
Who though he weare no scarlett Gowne
Honors the ROSE & THISTLE:
A peece of Corrall to the Mace,
Which there I Saw to serue the place,
Would make a good Childes Whistle.

At sixe a Clock I came away,
And prayde for those that were to stay,
Within a place so Arrant:
Wild and ope to windes that rore,
By Gods Grace Ile come there no more,
Vnlesse by Some Tin Warrant.

W. B.

356

[RELIGIOUS VERSES.]

Behold, O God, IN RIvers of my teares
I come to the: bow downe thy blessed eares
To heare me wretch, and let thine eyes (wth sleepe
Did neuer close) behold a Sinner weepe:
Let not, O God, My God, my faults though Great
And numberlesse, betw Ween thy mercyes Seat
And my poore soule be tHrown! since we are taught
Thou, Lord, Remember'st thyne, IF Thou be Sought.
I coME not, Lord, witH any o Ther meritt
Then What I by my SAviour Christ inheritt:
Be thEN his woundS my balm; his sTRIpes my blisse;
My crowne his Thornes; my deaTh be loSt in his.
And thOU, my blesT Redeemer, SAviour, God,
Quitt my AcCOMpts, withHold the vengefull rod.
O beg for ME! my hOpes on Thee are sett;
And ChriSt forgiVe, aswell as pay tHe debt.
The liviNg fount, the liFe, the waYe, I know,
And but To thee, O whither Should I goe?
All oTher helps aRe vaine: grantE thine to mee,
For in tHy Crosse my Sauing heaLth must bee.
O hearKen then whAt I with Faith implore,
Least Sin & Death sincke me for Evermore.
Lastly, O God, my wayes direct And guide;
In Death defeNd me, that I neuer slyde;
And at the dooME Let Me be raisd O then,
To liuE with theE; sweet JesVS, say Amen.

357

X. Commendatory Verses.

TO HIS WORTHY AND INGENIOUS FRIEND THE AUTHOR.

So farre as can a swayne (who then a rounde
On oaten-pipe no further boasts his skill)
I dare to censure the shrill trumpets sound,
Or other musick of the Sacred Hil:
The popular applause hath not so fell
(Like Nile's lowd cataract) possest mine eares
But others songs I can distinguish well
And chant their praise, despis'd vertue reares:
Nor shall thy buskind muse be heard alone
In stately pallaces; the shady woods
By me shall learn't, and eccho's one by one
Teach it the hils, and they the silver floods.
Our learned shepheards that have us'd tofore
Their happy gifts in notes that wooe the plaines,
By rural ditties will be knowne no more;
But reach at fame by such as are thy straines.
And I would gladly (if the Sisters spring
Had me inabled) beare a part with thee,

358

And for sweet groves, of brave heroës sing,
But since it fits not my weake melodie,
It shall suffice that thou such means do'st give,
That my harsh lines among the best may live.

W. Browne, Int. Temp.

TO MY HONOR'D FRIEND MR. DRAYTON.

Englands braue Genius, raise thy head, and see,
We haue a Muse in this mortalitie
Of Vertue yet suruiues; All met not Death,
When wee intoomb'd our deare Elizabeth.
Immortall Sydney, honoured Colin Clout,
Presaging what wee feele, went timely out.
Then why liues Drayton, when the Times refuse,
Both Meanes to liue, and Matter sor a Muse?
Onely without Excuse to leaue vs quite,
And tell vs, Durst we act, he durst to write.

Now, as the people of a famish'd Towne,
Receiuing no Supply, seeke vp and downe
For mouldy Corne, and Bones long cast aside,
Wherewith their hunger may bee satisfide.
(Small store now left) we are inforc'd to prie
And search the darke Leaues of Antiquitie
For some good Name, to raise our Muse againe,
In this her Crisis, whose harmonious straine
Was of such compasse, that no other Nation
Durst euer venture on a sole Translation;
Whilst our full language, Musicall and hie,
Speakes as themselues their best of Poesie.

359

Drayton, amongst the worthi'st of all those,
The glorious Laurell, or the Cyprian Rose,
Haue euer crown'd, doth claime in euery Lyne,
An equall honor from the sacred Nyne:
For if old Time could like the restlesse Maine
Rock himselfe backe into his Spring againe,
And on his wings beare this admired Muse,
For Ovid, Virgil, Homer, to peruse,
They would confesse, that neuer happier Pen
Sung of his Loues, the Countrey, and the Men.

William Browne.

VPON THIS WORKE OF HIS BELOUED FRIEND THE AVTHOR.

I am snap't already, and may goe my way;
The Poet Critick's cane; I heare him say,
This Towne's mistooke, the Authors Worke's a Play.

He could not misse it; he will strait appeare
At such a baite; 'twas laid on purpose there
To take the vermine, and I haue him here.

Sirra, you wilbe nibling; a small bitt
(A sillable), when yo' are i' the hungry fitt,
Will serue to stay the stomacke of your witt.

360

Foole; Knaue; what's worse? for worse cannot depraue thee.
And were the diuell now instantly to haue thee,
Thou canst not instance such a worke to saue thee,

'Mongst all the ballets which thou dost compose,
And what thou stil'st thy Poems, ill as those,
And, void of rime and reason, thy worse Prose.

Yet like a rude Iack-sauce in Poesie,
With thoughts vnblest and hand vnmanerly,
Rauishing branches from Apollo's tree:

Thou mak'st a garland (for thy touch vnfit)
And boldly deck'st thy pig-brain'd sconce with it,
As if it were the Supreme Head of wit.

The blameles Muses blush, who not allow
That reuerend Order to each vulgar brow;
Whose sinfull touch prophanes the holy Bough.

Hence (shallow Prophet) and admire the straine
Of thine owne Pen, or thy poore Copesmat's veine:
This Piece too curious is for thy coarse braine.

Here witt (more fortvnate) is ioyn'd with Art,
And that most sacred Frenzie beares a part,
Infus'd by Nature in the Poet's heart.

Here may the Puny-wits themselues direct;
Here may the Vilest find what to affect;
And Kings may learne their proper Dialect.

On, then, deare friend: thy Pen thy Name shall spread,
And shal'st thou write, while thou shall not be read,
Thy Muse must labour, when thy Hand is dead.

361

THE AUTHORS FRIEND TO THE READER.

The Printers haste calls on; I must not driue
My time past Sixe, though I begin at Fiue.
One houre I haue entire; and 'tis enough.
Here are no Gipsie Iigges, or Drumming stuffe,
Dances, or other Trumpery to delight,
Or take, by common way, the common sight.
The Avthor of this Poem, as he dares
To stand th' austerest censure, so he cares
As little what it is. His owne best way
Is to be Iudge and Avthor of his Play.
It is his knowledge makes him thus secure;
Nor do's he write to please, but to endure.
And (Reader) if you haue disburs'd a shilling,
To see this worthy Story, and are willing
To haue a large encrease; (if rul'd by me)
You may a Marchant and a Poet be.
'Tis granted for your twelue-pence you did sit,
And See, and Heare, and Vnderstand not yet.
The Avthor (in a Christian pitty) takes
Care of your good, and prints it for your sakes.
That such as will but venter but Six-pence more,
May Know, what they but Saw, and Heard before;
'Twill not be money lost, if you can read,
(Ther's all the doubt now) but your gaines exceed,

362

If you can Vnderstand, and you are made
Free of the freest, and the noblest, Trade.
And in the way of Poetry, now adayes,
Of all that are call'd Workes, the best are Playes.

University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS [_] FROM LANSDOWNE MS. 777 AND OTHER SOURCES.

I. Love Poems.

[Loue who will, for Ile loue none]

1

2

3

ON A FAIRE LADYES YELLOW HAIRE POWDRED WITH WHITE.

WRITTEN IN THE DISSOLUING OF A SNOW.

[Not longe agone a youthfull swayne]

[Shall I loue againe, & try]

1

2

3

[Deepe are the wounds which strike a vertuous name]

[Poore silly foole! thou striv'st in vaine to knowe]

1

2

3

4

5

[Wellcome, wellcome, doe I sing]

[Ye merry birds, leaue of to sing]

A SIGH FROM OXFORD.

[A haples shepherd on a daye]

[Coelia is gone, & now sit I]

II. Odes, Songs, and Sonnets.

An Ode.

I

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

A ROUNDE.

[Vnhappy Muse, that nothing pleasest me]

THIRSIS' PRAISE OF HIS MISTRESSE.

CŒLIA.

SONNETS.

1.

[Loe, I the man, that whilome lou'd & lost]

2.

[Why might I not for once be of that Sect]

3.

[Fairest, when by ye rules of palmistrye]

4.

[Soe sat the Muses on the Bankes of Thames]

5.

[Wer't not for you, here should my pen haue rest]

6.

[Sing soft, ye pretty Birds, while Cælia sleepes]

7.

[Fairest, when I am gone, as now the Glasse]

8.

[As oft as I meet one that comes from you]

9.

[Tell me, my thoughts (for you each Minute fly]

10.

[To gett a Love & Beauty so devine]

11.

[Fair Laurell, that the onelye witnes art]

12.

[Had not the soyle, that bred me, further donne]

13.

[Night, steale not on too fast: wee haue not yet]

14.

[Divinest Cælia, send no more to aske]

III. Epistles.

AN EPISTLE.

AN EPISTLE

OCCASIONED BY THE MOST INTOLLERABLE JANGLING OF THE PAPISTS' BELLS ON ALL SAINTS' NIGHT, THE EVE OF ALL SOULES' DAYE, BEING THEN VSED TO BE RUNG ALL NIGHT (AND ALL AS IF THE TOWNE WERE ON FIRE) FOR THE SOULES OF THOSE IN PURGATORYE. WRITTEN FROM THOUARS TO SAUMUR, TO MR. BRYAN PALMES.

AN EPISTLE THROWNE INTO A RIUER, IN A BALL OF WAX.

AN EPISTLE.

FIDO: AN EPISTLE TO FIDELIA.

IV. Elegies.

AN ELEGYE ON MR. WILLM. HOPTON.

AN ELEGIE ON THE COUNTESSE DOWAGER OF PEMBROOKE.

ON AN INFANT VNBORNE, & THE MOTHER DYEING IN TRAUELL.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
[_]

FROM LANSDOWNE MS. 777 AND OTHER SOURCES.