Thestylis atrata Or A Funeral Elegie Vpon the Death of the Right Honourable, most religious and noble Lady, Frances, Late Countesse of Warwick, who departed this life at her house in Hackney neere unto London, In the Moneth of June last past. 1634: By Henrie Peacham |
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 | Thestylis atrata |  |
A Funerall Elegie.
Pure Soule, keep'st thou thy happie residence,
That thither our swift-winged Zeale may flie,
To gratulate thy full felicitie:
Not bring thee back with teares, our prayers, or vowes
Accuse the Fates, or call for Cypresse boughes
To veile thee sleeping (borne to bed by Death)
When thou in vaine art sought of us beneath:
Heavens glorious Palace more adorning farre,
Than Cassiopeia, or bright Cæsars starre.
No, honour'd Lady, be it farre from me,
These ill-tun'd accents should solicite thee,
Bewaile thy state or fate, who do'st possesse
A Crowne and Kingdome with that happinesse,
Tongue never yet hath uttered, nor can
Pierce the dull thought of fraile and mortall man.
I take but time and leave a while to summe
The parcels of our losses in her tomb,
As in an Ocean, that are sunk and fled,
And never more shall be recovered.
A losse wherein so many had a share,
That Townes and Tenants well-nigh undone are:
A losse for which faire Lincolne from her hill,
Doth to her Citie streames of teares distill;
It weepes, and by her River doth convay
Her salt-abundant sorrow everie way;
Her dearest daughter, whom with care and cost,
She from her tender infancie hath bred,
And in all goodly Science nurtured:
With bitter teares, and wringing oft her hands,
Amidst her neighbours dumb and sobbing stands,
Incapable of comfort, and would faine,
Even with her fingers dig her up againe:
Such griefe (and if not greater) doe I ghesse
The heart of all this Countie doth possesse:
Lincolne, whose soile hath ever fertile beene
Of such Heroique Spirits, that betweene
Earth-bounding Orkney, and the {Gades} of Spaine,
They may for merit scarce be matcht againe:
Who, while a time I leave her Honours herse,
Embellish with your glorious names my verse,
Her name to Fame I may the more endeare,
Withall advance the honour of the Shire.
Lincolne anciently by Bede and others called Lindecollinum (from the situation upon the top of an hill,) and also Lindum, whence that part of the Shire beyond the River of Witham was called Lindeseia, or Lindsey. By the Normans it was called Nico{l}-shire, by a Metathesis or transposition of a letter, as wee finde in a certaine deed made by John of Gaunt, beginning thus: John filz du Roy d' Engleterre, Duc de Guyenne, & de Lancistre [illeg.] de Derby, de Nicol, & Leycestre, Se{uersebald} Engleterre.
I will not turne the Annals (as I might)
Of antique ages, bring againe to light
Those warlike natives, who by Humber floud
So oft imbru'd their swords in Danish bloud,
Nor that religious King of Mercia, who
Here kept his Court eight hundred yeares agoe.
Offa King of Mercia, who kept his Court in the Castle of Stallingburgh in the Countie of Lincolne, now being part of the inheritance of that Noble and right worthy Gentle-man, Sir Edward Aiscough Knight: here also was Saint Erkenwald (sometime Bishop of London) borne,
With many a learned, many an holy man,
Wherewith this spacious Shire abounded than
Rest they in peace, some few Ile onely name
Of later times, deserving equall fame:
Then for her home-borne; first, this soile may vaunt
Great Bollingbrooke, the son of John of Gaunt.
Henrie Plantagenet (who was Henrie the fourth) borne at Bollingbrooke in Lincolnshire, son and heire of John of Gaunt, by Blanch daughter and co-heire of Henrie, the first Duke of Lancaster, who tooke to wife Marie, daughter, and one of the two heires of Humphrey de Belnoi, Earle of Heteford, Essex, and Northampton, and Constable of England. He lieth buried by Marie his wife, in the Monasterie of Christs Church in Cantuarburie, under a pillar in the North Ile. To this Church King Henrie, with Thomas Arundell, Arch-Bishop of Cantuarburie, were great benefactors: he died, Anno 1412.
Who wily Parma, did so soundly beat
From Bergen, with his ever honour'd Son,
Earle Lindsey living, lov'd of everie one.
It was in the yeare 1588. Parma lying before Bergen two whole moneths together, was beaten thence by the valour of the L. Willoughbie Governour, Sir William Deurie, Colonell Morgan, and many other resolute and brave Commanders being then in the Towne, at what time were knighted for their valour, Sir Francis Vere, Sir Thomas Knolles, Sir Nicholas Parker, and Sir John Poolie, &c.
Great President of honour and renowne,
Thrice-Noble Sheffeild, the surviving glory
Of Eightie eight, and subject of that storie,
When thy enraged thunder-belching Beare
Spaines floting Castles did to peeces teare.
Whose fear'd black lances their great honour won,
When th'row the heart of Belgia they ran,
Conducted by the silver Pellican.
Sir
William Pelham, who being of that time Generall of the Horse, over-ran (saith Cambden) all Brabant, Anno 1586. As he was an absolute Souldier, so his son was also a great Souldier and Scholler, as any Gentleman in the Shire, having left behind him a sufficient testimonie hereof; whose son is Sir William Pelham (a verie worthy and noble Gentleman) now living, of Brocklesbie in Lincolnshire.A Xerxes Armie, if that need should stand.
Sir John Ogle borne at Pinchbeck in Holland, a verie honourable Gentleman, and my especiall friend, with whom I lived in Utrecht, when he was L. Governour thereof, whom (as well for Honours sake, as his owne especiall deserts, having done great service to the States in the Netherlands) I could not but (in this place) remember.
Too late their errours, who attempted Ree.
Dread Soveraigne Charles, this Countie doth agen
Send thee thy Champion, hopefull Dimok, hee
Whose Care Holds Kim, whom time shall shortly see
(Such is his towardnesse, vertuous education)
The flower not of the Shire, but of the Nation.
Whose father Sir Edward Dimok (not here to be forgotten) was a Gentleman as well deserving in his time, as any other; for he was of a noble and couragious spirit, learned, and had travelled the most parts of Europe.
With Harwood, Smith, and numbers unnam'd here, All children of their mother Lincolnshire.
Sir Edward Harwood borne at Bourne, and a Colonell in the Netherlands, slaine (as it was reported) before Mastrecht, hee was by his last will and testament a great benefactor to the towne of Bourne. Captaine Iohn Smith borne at Alford in the Marsh of Lincolnshire, who served under the Prince of Transylvania, and made a great discoverie in the North parts of America.
These ablest men of Armes from those of Art,
Shee here againe produc'd for tongue and pen,
Great Statesmen, many grave and learned men:
The wisest Burghley, Atlas of our State,
Our Englands Palinure (whose care of late
In greatest stormes of danger, steer'd the helme,
And sav'd from wreck our farre engaged Realme)
His birth acknowledg'd unto fennie Bourne,
Though Stamford holds his ashes and his urne.
Sir William Cecill Knight, Lord Burghley, and Treasurer of England, was borne at Bourne in Lincolnshire, Anno 1521. His fathers name was Richard Cecill, one of the Ward-robe to King Henrie the eighth, of the house of Alterynnis in Wales, his mothers name was Iane, heire of the noble house of Ekington, and of the Walcots: Hee died 1598. and was buried at Saint Martins in Stamford. Of this ancient family of the Walcots is Master Anthony Walcot of Lincolne, my loving friend, discended.
Of Haynton, here take your deserved place,
So true a servant to Elizabeth,
And by King James even honour'd after death.
Sir Thomas Henneage Knight, borne in Lincolnshire, hee served Queene Elizabeth 35. yeares a privie Councellor, Vice-Chamberlaine and Chancellor of the Dutchie of Lancaster. Hee had onely one daughter Elizabeth, married to Sir Moile Finch of Eastwell in Kent, who brought him a great estate, who after her fathers death (in regard of his former deserts) was by King James created Viscountesse Maidstone, and Countesse of Winchelsea: He died October
Whose memorie shall never Time deface:
And Fox, who did so painfully compile
His Martyrs, breath'd first, Boston, in thy soile:
Then those grave Judges, Mounson, Dallison,
With Stamford (Linwood) and late Anderson,
Here borne, shall live while awfull Justice raignes,
And (her Tribunall) Westminster remaines:
Now Wainflet borne at Wainflet, (who did found
And build that goodly Structure from the ground
Of Magdalen in Oxford) place we here,
A Benefactor unto all the Shire.
William de Wainflet, sometimes Bishop of Winchester: His fathers name was Patten, and lyeth buried in Wainflet All-Saints, under a faire monument of Alabaster, erected at the charge of this Bishop his son, who in his Episcopall ornaments (with another brother, who by his habit seemeth to have beene a Deane or an Abbot,) support the pillow under their fathers head.
For that great work his charitie hath done,
Mr. Sutton was borne at Knach by Gainsburgh, his father was sometime Towne-Clerk of the Citie of Lincolne.
Deserves be stiled the Magnificent.
And prudent Wray, chiefe Justice of our Land,
To whom the subject which we have in hand
Hath more relation, than unto the rest,
Far bee't thy bountie should be here supprest,
And that the Muse should so ingratefull bee,
As (with the chiefe) not to remember thee;
To whom our Cambridge is obliged more,
For her faire Magdalen, enlarged so
By his great gift, which that the world may know
A Wray did raise her to a faire estate,
She weares his Armes and liverie on her gate.
This College was first an Hostell of Monks, afterward repaired by the Prior of Ely, and the Abbot of Ramsey and Walden, and at length made a College by the Lord Thomas Audley Baron of Walden, and Lord Chancellor of England, and endowed it with possessions, Anno 1542. what hee left undone, was finished by the Honourable Sir Christopher Wray Knight, Lord chiefe Justice of the Common Pleas, and father of this deceased Countesse.
His Image in these works of Pietie:
His name no lesse shall be belov'd hereafter,
As being father to so good a daughter.
Thus from the nature of the tree and root,
We easly ghesse the goodnesse of the fruit.
Now should I first (as is the common use)
This Ladies linage, and allies produce)
So honourable, many, or declare
Of bloud, of rank how high her husbands were,
S. Paul the first, who drew his pedigree
From those of France, and bare their Armorie.
And many a noble family beside:
Next honour'd Warwick, who did with his name
Impart his Honour, gave her halfe the same:
A fitter better match there could not be,
He was right noble, good, and so was she.
Robert Lord Rich, created Earle of Warwick, in the yeare 1618. August 6. His first wife was Penelope, daughter to Walter Earle of Essex; this Lady, widdow to Sir George St. Paul, was the second, hee died at his house in Holborne, March 24. 1618. and was buried at Felsted in Essex with his Ancestors.
Alliance, Honours, Fortunes make us good:
These are but rind, or out-side seeming faire,
Which toucht, will turne to ashes or to aire:
Bloud, honour, riches, though she had them all
In full abundance; yet I cannot call
The same her glorie, which indeed but are
The foiles of Fortune, Goodnesse well may spare,
Which as Parerga's passe we by and see
Of her owne selfe, how great, how good was shee.
I passe her child-hood and those tender yeares,
Wherein, best, simple Innocence appeares.
(Yet those same yeares doe oftentimes presage
An hopefull harvest in a riper age)
And with her youth begin, which Parents care
Inform'd, in everie Science that was rare,
And commendable Art, that might concerne,
Or suited with Nobilitie to learne.
But first Religion, they the ground-work laid,
Whereon as Basis all the other staid;
And hence that goodly structure of her minde
Proceeded, wherein with more state she shin'd,
And glorious lustre, than in that array
Of gold and jewels on her wedding day.
Her greatnesse, first of all she taught to know,
It was the greater while it kept below;
Pyramid-like the higher reared up,
The lesse it seem'd, and waxed at the top:
No over-weening scorne her brow did cloud,
Additament of honour made her proud,
That well she might that Royall Motto claime
Of great Eliza, Euermore the same.
The Court and Citie seld frequented she,
Where all brave Dames and Beauties love to be;
Her owne faire Snarford, second unto none,
For site, delight, sweet contemplation,
At home detain'd her, keeping open dore
To neighbours, strangers, and the needie poore.
The fragrant fields, the healthfull Countrey aire,
Your walks, your woods, your flowrie gardens sweet.
To live immur'd within a stinking street,
Exchanging your all-welcome giving gates
For some small wicker, fit to breake our pates
T'avoid expences, spending, and to flie
Your Countries, but for hospitalitie:
Or learne what fashion most is in request,
How is this Countesse, that Court Ladie drest;
While yee, your beauteous faces so disguise,
We neither see your foreheads, nor your eyes:
(Like Dutch Boores houses, where the straw hangs over
Shee allowed twentie pounds yearely to a Preacher at Welton, a towne by her. Also twentie pounds yearely toward a Sermon in Ancaster. Beside she gave exhibition to many Schollers in the Vniversitie of Cambridge in Magdalen College, and was a Benesakor to other places there. She allowed twentie pounds a yeare to a Preacher, to preach unto the prisoners at Lincolne.
The low-thatcht eaves, and doth the windowes cover)
That wont the seats and Indices to be
Of Spirit, Love, and Ingenuitie:
Nor did her private house her bountie bound,
That but the center was, from whence, around
It did disperse it selfe, in golden streames,
(As Phœbus wont his bright and burnisht beames
Betime, when as Aurora's cheekes are red,
To see him creepe from Thetis silver bed.)
For as she was Religous, so did shee
Promote all works of Christian Pietie.
Where Preachers wanted (as alas they want)
Were livings small, and their allowance scant;
Her Honour bounteous stipends did afford
To painfull Teachers of the Sacred Word:
Nor did she this in places one or two,
For her owne glorie, (as be some that doe)
But wheresoever she of want did heare;
(No matter where) within, without the Shire.
And (like her Maker) she did heare the crie
Of poorest prisoners, that condemn'd did lie.
When on there waters the did cast her bread,
And even their soules at her owne charges fed.
I need nor here relate (so knowne to all)
Her bountie Raison to thine Hospitall,
She cloath'd, and in their sicknesse nourished:
Her bountie to her servants in her life,
Her love of peace, still hating suits and strife:
Her favour to her Tenants round about,
Of whom she never turned any out,
Or rais'd their rents, or failing at their day,
Tooke re-possession: no, she tooke their pay,
As they could best provide it for her, then,
Perhaps, if need, gave something back agen.
To make her way to Heaven at her end,
For if cold water given, finde regard,
Imagine we, what then is her reward.
And that againe enclos'd with sundrie locks
From theevish hands, but up to Heaven before
She sent it, borne by prayers of the poore:
She knew how here from basest covetise,
All evils, with contempt of God arise:
With love of riches who intangled are,
Doe easly fall into the Tempters snare;
How poyson in this Idoll Gold doth lie,
That take away the life of Charitie
Parts father and the childe, then sets the mother
At odds with husband, daughter with the brother.
Yet did she nought profusedly bestow
For ostentation, or a trumpet blow
When she gave almes, but ever did impart
Them secretly to need, or due desert.
Nor thought it she disparagement by stealth,
Sometimes in sicknesse and their perfect health,
To lay by state, and conversant to be
With Tenants, parling of good husbandrie.
So would Augustus leave his Roman Court,
And to the meanest Citizens resort,
And with them in their houses drinke and eat
Familiarly, for Majestie so great,
Not (like a bow) can alway stand extent,
But must sometime have its relaxament.
Thus was she truly humble, courteous, milde,
And nobly gracious to the poorest childe.
But she, and we, and all of flesh must passe:
We follow fast as Pilgrims, thou dost die,
Even reading this, and writing so doe I.
How vaine a thing, alas, is wretched ne in?
By holy Scripture termed well a span,
A Leafe, a Bubble, Froth, the Downe that flies,
A wasting Vapor, Smoake, a Cloud in skies,
A Post that hasting makes not any stay,
A Shadow swiftly vanishing aw
Where it hath past, a Morning Dreame, a Wind,
He, Grasse, a Flower (from whose faire golden cup,
The early Sun doth pearly Nectar sup,
Upbraiding with her blush the crimson morne,
But ere the evening downe with sith is shorne)
A Bird, an Arrow, and a Shepherds tent,
A Weavers web cut off, a Vestiment,
Snow water that dissolveth with a drought,
A short told Tale, a Candle quickly out.
That we no sooner from our mothers womb
Do draw this aire, but hasten to our tomb:
The Rich, the Poore, the Little and the Great,
Unlearned, Learned, Wise, and wanting wit,
Death keepes no rank, or will be woo'd to stay,
Brookes no excuse, intreatie, or delay,
For Age ne Sex he careth, all is one,
They as all Waters to their Seas must run:
If Infancie might have excused beene,
Sure Davids son a longer date had seene:
Or if old Age might passe with Death for plea,
He likely would have spar'd Methuselah:
Or if a Kingdome could preserve from death,
Sweet Israels Singer had not wanted breath:
If Pietie, that bloud-imbrued Cain
His righteous Brother never should have slaine:
If Wisdome, Learning, and a boundlesse wit,
As ever Heaven vouchsafd to mortall yet,
Then Salomon had lived still to write,
And store us with his knowledge infinite.
Nor could his Nimblenesse Ahazael save,
Or Strength the strongest Sampson from his grave:
No more did Beautie Absalon the faire,
When death did hide him in his golden haire.
If Beautie could, what could more beauteous be,
Than sometime (in her younger yeares) was she;
Before that Time did turne to silver wire
The tresses, which Apollo might admire:
Where Lilies late did with the Roses grow.
Divine Impression of thy Makers glorie,
Sweet Beautie, why art thou so transitorie?
Who with Ambrosian dainties feed'st our eyes,
And with our soules so neere dost sympathize:
Leading all captives, whom thy power encloses,
In hands of burnisht gold, and chaines of Roses.
A verie nothing, an Ixions cloud,
When most belov'd, pursu'd, embrac'd and kist,
Dissolves it selfe to vapor and to mist:
A blushfull blossome, pleasing to the eye,
No sooner blowne, but blasted by and by.
Why did yee (Heavens) ever Death permit,
The worlds sole Ranger, Bow-bearer of it,
To kill what flesh he pleaseth, where, and when,
Making the Grave his Lodge, his Cacus den?
Because a spade he useth for to beare,
Yee did ordaine him Earths chiefe Gardiner,
Uprending by the roots such flowers as these,
But let vile weeds dispred them as they please:
He crops the Primrose, Violet, or Pink,
Lets Poppies flourish with their banefull stink.
But far be it, we blame you Heavens for this,
It was old Adams fault, his foule amisse,
The father of us all, when he forgate
His Makers hest, and that ru'd apple ate:
So that from Edens faire forbidden Tree,
Death can till now derive his pedigree;
And with the best of Romes great Senate show
His Images (if need be) on a row:
There is no Royall bloud, or Noble race,
But must arise, and give his greatnesse place.
Death's King of Heraulds overlooking tombs,
At Church all placing in their proper roomes,
All marshalling at Funerals and Feasts,
Ranking withall equalitie his guests.
For highest place at Church, or Tables end;
How quickly can this enemie of life
Decide the quarrell, and compound your strife.
Death's Harbinger, the King of Heaven doth send,
To see you lodged at your progresse end:
He is a prime Court-gamester, that will vie,
And see the Rest of Royall Majestie:
Let Honour, Love, Time, Fortune, with him play,
He sweepes the stake, and carries all away:
Though privileg'd in this beyond his Dead,
Himselfe is last, who must be conquered.
How bitter is his memorie to him,
Who doth in plentie and abundance swim,
Devoures all dainties, keepes his downie bed,
No worldly care, to vex his carelesse head?
He doth distaste his gentle Palate more
Than Galls, or Anticyrian Hellebore:
He loathes the wall that Death is painted on,
And trembles at his fleshlesse Sceleton:
Memento mori, and the Day of Doome,
That Master-peece of Angelo in Rome
Do damp his spirit, and offend his eyne,
He better likes the draughts of Aretine.
But to the man who liveth in distresse,
In Want, in Prison, friend and fatherlesse,
To age, that wearie of the world doth see,
From bad to worse how times declining bee,
To bed-read, and the long tormented sick,
How happie is thy welcome, Death, how quick
Doe they embrace thee, as the wearie guest
Cals for his Host, and first would be at rest
Yet did not torment, any tedious paine
Solicite Death for her, although a gaine
Unto the Godly, no, she did affront,
By faith, its furie, and insulted on't:
Her soule to him commending, by whose merit
She hoped, life eternall to inherit.
She should be seene no more of liuing eye,
About her she her dearest friends doth call,
Advise and comfort all she can, withall
Blesseth her servants, wils them not to weepe
For her, who shortly in the Lord must sleepe,
And resting, her eternall Sabbath keepe:
On toilsome earth no more, no more with them,
But in the Court of new Hierusalem.
To mutuall love exhorts them, and to trace
The paths of Vertue, in their lives short race.
She takes her leave, and so doth sweetly dye.
Even as the Hiacynth doth change the hue,
Which (from the tender stalk where late it grew)
Some Virgins daintie finger off hath torne,
And that, sweet tincture which did it adorne,
Not fully faded, by degrees doth dye,
Where some small remnant still affects the eye:
Even so a colour livelesse doth she keepe,
And lovely seemes, as one but fast asleepe.
Now as a Bird that from the cage is fled,
Unto the neighbour wood where she was bred,
And meeting with a many of her kind
At libertie, her selfe hath gladly joyn'd
To their Harmonious Consort, even so shee,
From her Earths prison now exempt and free,
Sings Hallelujahs with the Saints above,
Communicates in blisse all heavenly love,
From whence (me thinks) I heare her say, A lieu,
Thou trustlesse Earth, who with thy shewes untrue
Thy silly children dost as Babes beguile,
Who when (poore things) have played with a while
Thy gands and toyes, thou dost their cradles fit,
And mak'st them ready for the loathed pit:
Adieu yee Courts, but Cotes of clay and stone,
Whose Turrets now, (me thinks) I tread upon;
And as an Ant-hill, view the world below;
Doe toile your selves within your poore abode.
By taking up, then laying downe your loads,
When shortly comes the owner with a spade,
And layes all levell, what your care hath made.
Adieu, my Snarford, once so deare to me,
Heaven's now the house of my eternitie:
Adieu, brave Earles, my sometime sons, and you
My dearest Nephewes in affection, now
With whom I leave my worldly state in trust,
Knowne for to honest, honourable, just:
Adieu, poore neighbours, who lament gone:
Adieu, deare friends, my followers everie one,
Mourne for your selves, and cease to mourne for me,
So sure possest of all felicitie.
This or the like (oh pardon, Ladie deare,
If I arread not right) thou utterest there,
There where true Loue and Charitie abound,
Where Quires of Angels lowdly doe resound
Their Makers goodnesse, Saints doe fully know
All, whereof we are ignorant below,
Partake the brightnesse of that glorious Sun,
Which here but th' row a glasse we looke upon:
Where reigne, remaine (oh happie Soule) foraye,
Till the loud Trumpet, at the latter day.
Thy body shall awaken from the dust,
When Those and Wee, with all the faithfull just
(World wearie six dayes labour done) shalt rest
And keepe that heavenly Sabbath, ever blest
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