University of Virginia Library

Elegie on the death of his ingenious friend, the deserving Author, Master Thomas Beedome.

Once I resolv'd a silence, was content,
With the rare Fabricke of thy Monument,
View'd it compleat, how every friend had strove,
T'exceed each other in a zealous love
To thy blest memory, and I smil'd to see,
Thy name thus rapt in immortalitie,
Yet payd the mourners tribute, teares let fall
As numerous drops at thy sad Funerall.
As did that friend, whose pregnant Muse dares vie,
With griefe it selfe to weepe thy Elegie;
Yet durst not write, my jealousie was such,
It wisely prompt me, I should wrong too much
Thy greater merit, bad me rather mourne,
In griefe lov'd silence ore thy quiet urne;
Which I had done, had I not seem'd to heare,
(Once at the offering of a tribute teare.
To thy lov'd ashes) a strange murmuring breath,
Breake forth from the still tenement of death,
Thy dismall grave, and in a Language full,
Of incens'd anger, vow to disannull
All former friendship, if I should denie,
Mongst other friends to write thy Elegie;
When thus ambiguous twixt my love and feares,
I vented this, attended with my teares.
Strong course of Fate, could he whose generous quill
Bestow'd a life on others, which else still,
Had Laine death's ruines, die himselfe; could he,
Whose powerfull Art spight of sterne destinie,
Broake up forgotten Monuments, and made
The intomb'd Heroes live againe, that swaide
Ore others Fates, yet could this halfe-god creepe,
Into a grave, and in cold Marble sleepe.
What tribe of Angels did invite thee hence,
Their glorious guest? If not, what curst offence,
Hath fond earth given thee? That thou needs must flye,
So young from us, to heavens eternitie.
Or did thy precious soule shake off its clay,
'Cause nought below was worthy of her stay,
And being matchlesse here, did upward move,
There to be rank'd with equall Saints above.
Sure thus it was, and undeserving we,
May tax our merit; not thy destinie,
Yet glorious Beedome, though each friend appeares,
Almost thy Emblem, made so by his teares,
For thy lamented losse, yet when we looke
On this immortall child of wit, thy booke;
Smiles from our cheekes, all funerall teares doe drive,
Seeing in it thy fame shall ever live.
Time and thy Memory, which no fate can sever,
Shall last like ages, both conclude together.