The poetical works of William Strode ... Now first collected from manuscript and printed sources: to which is added: The floating island a tragi-comedy: Now first reprinted from the original edition of 1655: Edited by Bertram Dobell with a memoir of the author |
 |
|
OBSEQUIES |
 | The poetical works of William Strode |  |
OBSEQUIES
Draw not too neare,
Unlesse you droppe a tear
On this stone,
Where I groane,
And will weepe,
Untill eternall sleepe
Shall charm my weary eyes.
Clora lyes heere,
Embalm'd with many a teare,
Which the swaines
From the plaines
Here have payde,
And many a vestall mayde
Hath mourn'd her obsequies;
Their snowy breasts they teare,
And rend theyr golden heare,
Casting cries
To celestiall dieties,
To returne
Her beauty from the urne,
To raigne
Unparaleld on earth againe:
When straight a sound
From the ground,
Piercing the ayre
Cryed Shee's dead,
Her soule is fledde
Unto a place most rare.
Unlesse you droppe a tear
On this stone,
Where I groane,
And will weepe,
Untill eternall sleepe
Shall charm my weary eyes.
Clora lyes heere,
Embalm'd with many a teare,
Which the swaines
From the plaines
Here have payde,
And many a vestall mayde
Hath mourn'd her obsequies;
Their snowy breasts they teare,
And rend theyr golden heare,
Casting cries
125
To returne
Her beauty from the urne,
To raigne
Unparaleld on earth againe:
When straight a sound
From the ground,
Piercing the ayre
Cryed Shee's dead,
Her soule is fledde
Unto a place most rare.
You spirits that doe keepe
The dust of those that sleepe
Under the ground,
Heare the sound
Of a swaine,
That folds his arms in vayne,
Unto the ashes he adores.
For pity do not fright
Him wandering in the night:
Whilst he laves
Virgins graves
With his eyes,
Unto their memoryes
Contributing sad showers:
And when my name is read
In the number of the dead,
Some one may
In Charity repay
My sad soul
The tribute which she gave,
And howle
Some requiem on my grave.
Then weepe no more,
Greife will not restore
Her freed from care.
Though she be dead,
Her soul is fledde
Unto a place more rare.
The dust of those that sleepe
Under the ground,
Heare the sound
Of a swaine,
That folds his arms in vayne,
Unto the ashes he adores.
For pity do not fright
Him wandering in the night:
Whilst he laves
Virgins graves
With his eyes,
Unto their memoryes
Contributing sad showers:
And when my name is read
In the number of the dead,
Some one may
In Charity repay
126
The tribute which she gave,
And howle
Some requiem on my grave.
Then weepe no more,
Greife will not restore
Her freed from care.
Though she be dead,
Her soul is fledde
Unto a place more rare.
| The poetical works of William Strode | |