Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Let him, who from his tyrant Mistresse, did
This day receive his cruell doome, forbid
His eyes to weepe that losse, and let him here
Open those floud-gates, to bedeaw this beere;
So shall those drops, which else would be but brine,
Be turn'd to Manna, falling on her shrine.
Let him, who banisht farre from her deere sight
Whom his soule loves, doth in that absence write.
Or lines of passion, or some powerfull charmes,
To vent his owne griefe, or unlock her armes;
Take off his pen, and in sad verse bemone
This generall sorrow, and forget his owne;
So may those Verses live, which else must dye;
For though the Muses give eternitie
When they embalme with verse, yet she could give
Life unto that Muse, by which others live.
Oh pardon me (faire soule) that boldly have
Dropt, though but one teare, on thy silent grave.

And writ on that earth, which such honour had,
To cloath that flesh, wherein thy selfe was clad.
And pardon me (sweet Saint) whom I adore,
That I this tribute pay, out of the store
Of lines, and teares, that's only due to thee;
Oh, doe not thinke it new Idolatrie;
Though you are only soveraigne of this Land,
Yet universall losses may command
A subsidie from every private eye,
And presse each pen to write; so to supply,
And feed the common griefe; if this excuse
Prevaile not, take these teares to your owne use,
As shed for you; for when I saw her dye,
I then did thinke on your mortalitie;
For since nor vertue, will, nor beautie, could
Preserve from Death's hand, this their heavenly mould.
Where they were framed all, and where they dwelt,
I then knew you must dye too, and did melt
Into these teares: but thinking on that day,
And when the gods resolv'd to take away
A Saint from us; I that did know what dearth
There was of such good soules upon the earth,
Began to feare left Death, their Officer
Might have mistooke, and taken thee for her;

So had'st thou rob'd us of that happinesse
Which she in heaven, and I in thee possesse.
But what can heaven to her glory adde?
The prayses she hath dead, living she had,
To say she's now an Angell, is no more
Praise then she had, for she was one before;
Which of the Saints can shew more votaries
Then she had here? even those that did despise
The Angels, and may her now she is one,
Did whilst she liv'd with pure devotion
Adore, and worship her; her vertues had
All honour here, for this world was too bad
To hate, or envy her, these cannot rise
So high, as to repine at Deities:
But now she's 'mongst her fellow Saints, they may
Be good enough to envy her, this way
There's losse i'th' change 'twixt heav'n and earth, if she
Should leave her servants here below, to be
Hated of her competitors above;
But sure her matchlesse goodnesse needs must move
Those blest soules to admire her excellence;
By this meanes only can her journey hence
To heaven prove gaine, if as she was but here
Worshipt by men, she be by Angels there.

But I must weepe no more over this urne,
My teares to their owne chanell must returne;
And having ended these sad obsequies,
My Muse must back to her old exercise,
To tell the story of my martyrdome:
But, oh thou Idoll of my soule, become
Once pittifull, that she may change her stile,
Drie up her blubbred eyes, and learne to smile.
Rest then blest soule, for as ghosts flye away,
When the shrill Cock proclaimes the infant-day,
So must I hence, for loe I see from farre,
The minions of the Muses comming are,
Each of them bringing to thy sacred Herse,
In either eye a teare, each hand a Verse.