FUNERAL ELLEGIES.
An Ellegie On The Death Of My Most Deare And Reverend
Father, Doctor Harman Sheppard, who Deceased
Iuly 12. 1639.
In what words shall I cloath my Verse whil'st I
(O Father) do weep out thy Ellegie?
Stab me some one that loves me, that my blood
Spouting from forth my veines, like to a flood
I may take thence my Ink, and so proceed
To write a line for every ounce I bleed.
Prompt me some Ghost, Melpome thy aide
Afford, O thou most sad dejected Maid,
I court thee now, as chiefest of the Nine,
And truth to say, thou onely art Divine,
And Lovely in my eyes, helpe me to moane,
Thou that for fifty slaughtered Sonnes did'st groane
Whiles thy faire City sparkled to the skies,
And thou each minute anxious of surprize,
Thy griefe as mine was most transcendent sure,
And mine with thine shall evermore endure.
What direfull Plannet, enemy to man,
Usurp'd the Hemispheare, what influence ran
O're the Earths surface, and produc'd that day
On which my Reverend Syre was snatch'd away?
Yee Fatall Sisters. whom all mortals dread,
Oh how durst you in furie cut his thread
Who was Joves darling, and whose single skill
Curb'd yron Mors, and slav'd him to his will,
While (like another Æsculapius)
He redeem'd soules destind for Erebus,
And by the working minerall alone
Gave them from death a sure redemption:
Great Paracelsus Son, he called was,
And by his skill, as strange things brought to passe,
He knew the motions of the Heavens, how farre
Extent Jehovah hath assign'd each starre,
Orions progresse, and the hidden cause
Makes Cynthia varie, gives Oceanus Lawes:
Sleep blessed Spirit in thy gellid urne,
All I can doe is thy great losse to mourne,
And by this deathlesse Verse to raise thy fame,
That after times may reverence thy name.
HIS EPITAPH.
Great
Æsculapiu's Son here lies,
A Leech that cur'd all malladies,
A Paracelsian, and yet knew
Better then Gallen how to do,
He taught the operations
And virtues of most hearbes and stones,
The day and houre he did impart,
That Mors would strike him with his dart,
Three yeares before his Soule went hence,
Age layd him here, no impotence:
Grim Death, it to the soule did grieve,
His skill so many should reprieve,
Destin'd to Charons Boate, in yre
With Atropos he did conspire,
And contrary to Joves Decree,
Rob'd him of his Mortalitie,
When he had numbered ninetie yeares,
Sigh'd for with sobbs, condol'd in teares.
An Ellegie On The Death Of My Deare And Truly
Vertuous Mother, Mis. Pettronella
Sheppard, Who Deceased
September 10. 1650.
All I can do I will, Nature alone,
Doth not enjoyn't, the valluation
I set on Vertue doth command my Quill
(Tryumphant Saint) these lines for to distill:
Thou gav'st me life, now thou hast lost thy breath,
Let me at least preserve thy Name from Death.
I will not taxe the starres, or on pretence
Of griefe defie each heavenly influence,
Quarrell with Atropos, give Mors the lye,
And denounce warre against each Destinie,
For snatching thee away, a speciall Fate
From hence to Heaven did thy Soule translate,
This dirty orbe, not worthy for to beare
A Soule so matchlesse, so Divinely faire.
V-iell did Eliah's Chariot guide,
In which up to Olympus thou didst ride.
As Sol beneath a Cloud, as Gold in dung,
So wert thou conversant on Earth too long,
Prosperity could not beguile thy sence,
Nor Fortunes frown cause thy impatience,
I am not partiall in what I averre,
I would be Truths, and not thy Chronicler.
Had'st thou surviv'd in those imperfect times
When Hesiod wrote, and Homer sang his rimes,
Thou hadst been VESTA, or some Dietie,
More glorious, more divinely chaste then she:
Or had those of that age thy virtues seen,
The first and greatest Sybill thou hadst been:
Or had the Romish Faith thy soule surprizd,
Most sure ere this thou hadst been canoniz'd,
And plac'd [illeg.] Rubrick, found as faire a day
As Agnes, Agathe, or Ursula.
What though the pompe, and that affected state
Which many a Dais doth accumulate,
Was wanting at thy death, and in the darke
(Perhaps without the Priest, or Parish Clarke)
Thou wert but halfe inhum'd, this is thy glory,
That both in life and death things transitory,
Were thy contempt and scorn (perhaps t'was so)
Decreed above thou to thy grave shouldst go
Like Moses wrapt in Mysts, least after dayes
Reading this story of thy lasting praise,
Should erect temples to thy vertuous Name,
Search for thy body, and adore the same.
Rest, Rest thou glorious Saint, the feigned praise
Which doth unto the skies the glory raise
Of Aria, Portia, and Lucretia,
Evadne, or fam'd Artimesia,
Suffers eclipse in thee. O sad,
That thou whose Virtues were so Paramount,
Should find so little Roome ith' book of Fame,
Yet this shall serve to keep alive thy Name,
I would say more, did not my teares prevent,
Be this thy Pyramid and Monument.
HER EPITAPH.
With
reverend awe this earth tread on,
It merits your Devotion.
Beneath this turfe lies Chastitie,
Wisedome, and reall Pietie
Kneaded together, buried here
(Though without Tombe or Sepulcher)
Lies Arias, Loyall love and all,
That we can rare, or precious call.
A woman, who for wit might vie
With Pallas, for sobrietie
With the fam'd Wife of Collatine
,
Her gesture grave, her words Divine,
No Fortune could her thoughts divide,
A Saint she liv'd, a Saint she dy'd.
