The works of Sr William Davenant ... Consisting of Those which were formerly Printed, and Those which he design'd for the Press: Now published Out of the Authors Originall Copies |
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Elegie on B. Haselrick, slain in's youth, in a Duell.
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 | The works of Sr William Davenant |  |
Elegie on B. Haselrick, slain in's youth, in a Duell.
Now in the blind and quiet time of Night,
So dark as if the funerall of Light
Were celebrated here; whither with slow,
Unwilling feet, sad Virgins do you goe?
Where have you left your reason, and your fear?
What meane those Violets that down-ward wear
Their heads, as griev'd, since thus imploy'd they grew?
Lilies, search'd by your looks, to their pale hew!
Roses, that lost their blushes on the Bough,
And Laurell stoln from some dead Poets Brow?
These, and your looser Hair; shew that you come
To scatter both, on that relenting Tombe.
But stay! by this moist pavement it appears,
Some Ladies have been earli'r here with Tears
Than I, or you; and we can guess no more,
Those that succeed, by these that drop'd before;
Than by the Dew, faln in a Cowslips wombe,
Heav'n's Treasurie of Showrs that are to come.
The Curtain's drawne! look there and you shall spie
The faded God of your Idolatrie!
Cold as the feet of Rocks, silent in shade
As Chaos lay, before the Winds were made.
Yet this was once the Flow'r, on whom the Day
So smil'd, as if he never should decay:
Soft, as the hands of Love, smooth as her brow;
So young in shew, as if he still should grow;
Yet perfected with all the pride of strength,
Equall in Limbs, and square unto his length:
And though the jealous World hath understood,
Fates only Seal'd the first Creation good;
This moderne worke (sterne Fates!) rose up to prove
Your ancient skill retain'd, but not your love:
Could you have lov'd, you had with careful sight
Preserv'd, what you did frame with such delight.
So dark as if the funerall of Light
Were celebrated here; whither with slow,
Unwilling feet, sad Virgins do you goe?
Where have you left your reason, and your fear?
What meane those Violets that down-ward wear
Their heads, as griev'd, since thus imploy'd they grew?
Lilies, search'd by your looks, to their pale hew!
Roses, that lost their blushes on the Bough,
And Laurell stoln from some dead Poets Brow?
These, and your looser Hair; shew that you come
To scatter both, on that relenting Tombe.
But stay! by this moist pavement it appears,
Some Ladies have been earli'r here with Tears
241
Those that succeed, by these that drop'd before;
Than by the Dew, faln in a Cowslips wombe,
Heav'n's Treasurie of Showrs that are to come.
The Curtain's drawne! look there and you shall spie
The faded God of your Idolatrie!
Cold as the feet of Rocks, silent in shade
As Chaos lay, before the Winds were made.
Yet this was once the Flow'r, on whom the Day
So smil'd, as if he never should decay:
Soft, as the hands of Love, smooth as her brow;
So young in shew, as if he still should grow;
Yet perfected with all the pride of strength,
Equall in Limbs, and square unto his length:
And though the jealous World hath understood,
Fates only Seal'd the first Creation good;
This moderne worke (sterne Fates!) rose up to prove
Your ancient skill retain'd, but not your love:
Could you have lov'd, you had with careful sight
Preserv'd, what you did frame with such delight.
O, let me summe his crimes, let me relate
Them strictly as his Judge, not Advocate;
And yet the greatest number you shall find
Were errors of his youth, not of his mind:
For had his jealous courage been so wise,
As to believe it selfe, not others Eyes;
Had he not thought his little patience tame
In suff'ring quiet Men, t'enjoy a Fame;
He might have liv'd to so great use, that I
Had writ his Acts, and not his Elegie.
Goe, gentlest of your Sex! should I relate
With bolder truth, th'unkindness of his Fate,
(Too strict, to flesh and blood) I might infuse
A Schisme in your Religion, and my Muse:
Yet this would be excus'd, since all we gain
By griefe, is but the licence to complain.
Them strictly as his Judge, not Advocate;
And yet the greatest number you shall find
Were errors of his youth, not of his mind:
For had his jealous courage been so wise,
As to believe it selfe, not others Eyes;
Had he not thought his little patience tame
In suff'ring quiet Men, t'enjoy a Fame;
He might have liv'd to so great use, that I
Had writ his Acts, and not his Elegie.
Goe, gentlest of your Sex! should I relate
With bolder truth, th'unkindness of his Fate,
(Too strict, to flesh and blood) I might infuse
A Schisme in your Religion, and my Muse:
Yet this would be excus'd, since all we gain
By griefe, is but the licence to complain.
| The works of Sr William Davenant | |