Bosworth-field :: :: University of Virginia Library

Can my poore lines no better office haue,
But lie like Scritch-Owles still about the graue?
VVhen shall I take some pleasure for my paine,
Commending them that can commend againe?
VVhen shall my Muse in loue-sicke lines recite
Some Ladies worth, which she of whom I write,
VVith thankfull smiles may reade in her owne dayes?
Or when shall I a breathing woman prayse?
O neuer! Mine are too ambitious strings,
They will not sound but of eternall things;
Such are freed-soules, but had I thought it fit,
T'exalt a spirit to a body knit:
I would confesse I spent my time amisse,
VVhen I was slow to giue due praise to this.
Now when all weepe, it is my time to sing,
Thus from her ashes must my Poem spring:
Though in the race I see some swiftly runne,
I will not crowne them till the goale be won,
Till death ye mortals cannot happy be.
VVhat can I then but woe, and dangers see,

160

If in your liues I write, now when ye rest,
I will insert your names among the blest:
And now, perhaps, my Verses may increase
Your rising fame, though not your boundlesse peace:
Which if they euer could, may they make thine:
Great Lady, further, if not clearer shine:
I could thy husbands highest Styles relate,
Thy Fathers Earledome, and that Englands state
VVas wholy manag'd by thy Grandsires brow:
But those that loue thee best, will best allow
That I omit to praise thy match and Line,
And speake of things that were more truely thine:
Thou thought'st it base to build on poore remaines
Of noble bloud, which ranne in others veines;
As many doe, who beare no flowres, nor fruite,
But shew dead stocks, which haue beene of repute,
And liue by meere remembrance of a sound,
Which was long since by winds disperst and drown'd:
While that false worth, which they suppose they haue,
Is digg'd vp new from the corrupting Graue:
For thou hadst liuing honours, not decay'd
With wearing time, and needing not the ayd
Of Heraulds, in the haruest of whose art
None but the vertuous iustly clayme a part:
Since they our Parents memories renew,
For imitation, not for idle view,
Yet what is all their skill, if we compare
Their paper works with those which liuely are,

161

In such as thou hast been, whose present lookes,
If many such were, would surpresse all bookes;
For their examples would alone suffice:
They that the Countrey see, the Map despise.
For thee a Crowne of Vertues we prepare,
The chiefe is Wisdome, in thy Sex most rare,
By which thou didst thy husbands state maintaine,
VVhich sure had falne without thee; and in vaine
Had aged Paulet wealth, and honours heap'd
Vpon his House, if strangers had them reapt.
In vaine to height, by safe still steps he climes,
And serues fiue Princes in most diff'rent times.
In vaine is he a Willow, not an Oke,
Which winds might easly bend, yet neuer broke.
In vaine he breakes his sleepe, and is diseas'd,
And grieues himselfe that others may be pleas'd:
In vaine he striues to beare an equall hand,
'Twixt Somerset and bold Northumberland;
And to his owne close ends directing all,
Will rise with both, but will with neither fall.
All this had been in vaine, vnlesse he might
Haue left his heires cleare knowledge as their right.
But this no sonne infallibly can draw
From his Descent, by Nature, or by Law:
That treasure which the soule with glory decks,
Respects not birth-right, nor the nobler Sex:
For women oft haue mens defects suppli'd,
VVhose office is to keepe what men prouide.

162

So hast thou done, and made thy name as great,
As his who first exalted Paulets seate:
Neere dew, yet not too neere, the thunders blow,
Some stood 'twixt Ioue, and him, though most below.
O well waigh'd dignity, selected place,
Prouided for continuance of his race,
Not by Astrologie, but Prudence farre,
More pow'rfull then the force of any Starre!
The Dukes are gone, and now (though much beneath)
His Coronet is next th' Imperiall Wreath,
No richer signe his flowry Garland drown's,
Which shines alone aboue the lesser Crownes.
This thou inioyd'st, as sicke men tedious houres,
And thought'st of brighter Pearles, and fairer flowres,
And higher Crownes, which heau'n for thee reserues,
When this thy worldly pompe decayes, and starues.
This sacred feruour in thy mind did glow:
And though supprest with outward state and show,
Yet at thy death those hind'ring clouds it clear'd,
And like the lost Sunne to the world appear'd;
Euen as a strong fire vnder ashes turn'd,
Which with more force long secretly hath burn'd,
Breakes forth to be the obiect of our sight,
Aimes at the Orbe, and ioynes his flame with light.