The Whole Works of William Browne of Tavistock ... Now first collected and edited, with a memoir of the poet, and notes, by W. Carew Hazlitt, of the Inner Temple |
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 | The Whole Works of William Browne |  |
305
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,
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.
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,
306
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 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.
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.
Though not so dead as he thou lyst vpon.
307
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 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,
Is in her golden leaues shut vp all night,
And seen againe, when next wee see the light.
That thou wert lost but as a pearle of dewe,
Which in a gentle Euening mildly cold
Fallne in the Bosome of a Marigold,
308
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
309
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.
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.
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.
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
To palliate the wound wee tooke in her.
Who rightly grieves, admits no comforter.
But such a losse should haue no Elegye
310
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.
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.
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.
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.
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;
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.
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;
311
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.
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.
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,
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.
At no lesse rate then for an emperie:
Some massye diamond from the center drawne,
For which all Europe were an equall pawne,
312
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.
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?
313
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.
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,
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.
All that Vertue, all that Truth
Can, or speake, or wishe, or praise,
314
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.
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.
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:
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;
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.
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:
315
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;
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?
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.
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?
316
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,
'Twas modesty in him that his deare Browne
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.
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
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.
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!
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.
318
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
And onely that time men shall terme thee dead:
Hereafter (raisd to life) thou still shalt haue
An antidote against the silent Graue.
Nor canst descend into Obliuion.
But twice the Sunne went round since thy soule fled,
319
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,
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.
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,
320
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.
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.
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
(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.
That Fate should haue perform'd) shall euer chance
321
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.
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.
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?
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?
322
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;
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
His Orisons, Ide aske him if the daye
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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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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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!
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, 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,
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.
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,
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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.
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.
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?
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.
To be one of the Islands Fortunate:
What franticke man would give her now that name,
Lying so ruefull and disconsolate?
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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.
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