Elizabetha quasi vivens Eliza's Funerall. A fewe Aprill drops, showred on the Hearse of dead Eliza. Or The Funerall Teares of a true hearted Subiect. By H. P. [i.e. Henry Petowe] |
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Eliza's Funerall.
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 | Elizabetha quasi vivens |  |
Eliza's Funerall.
Then withered the Primrose of delight,
Hanging the head o're Sorowes garden wall:
When you might see all pleasures shun the light,
And liue obscuer at Eliza's fall.
Her fall from life to death, oh stay not there!
Thogh she were dead, the shril tong'd trump of heauen
Rais'd her againe, think that you see her heere:
Euen heere, oh where? not heere, shee's hence bereauē
For sweet Eliza in Elizium liues,
In ioy beyond all thought. Then weepe no more,
Your sighing weedes put off, for weeping giues
(Wayling her losse) as seeming to deplore
Our future toward fortunes, morne not then:
You cease a while but now you weepe agen.
Hanging the head o're Sorowes garden wall:
When you might see all pleasures shun the light,
And liue obscuer at Eliza's fall.
Her fall from life to death, oh stay not there!
Thogh she were dead, the shril tong'd trump of heauen
Rais'd her againe, think that you see her heere:
Euen heere, oh where? not heere, shee's hence bereauē
For sweet Eliza in Elizium liues,
In ioy beyond all thought. Then weepe no more,
Your sighing weedes put off, for weeping giues
(Wayling her losse) as seeming to deplore
Our future toward fortunes, morne not then:
You cease a while but now you weepe agen.
Why should a soule in passion be deny'd
To haue true feeling of her essence misse?
My soule hath lost her selfe now deified,
I needes must moane her losse, though crownd with blisse
Then giue me leaue, for I must weepe a-while,
Till sorrowes deludge haue a lower ebbe,
Let lamentation neuer finde a stile,
To passe this dale of woe, vntill the webbe
Appointed for my latest mourning weed
Be spun and wouen with a heauie hand.
Then will I cease to weepe, I will indeed,
And euery beating billowe will withstand.
T'will not be long before this web be spun,
Dy'd blacke, worne out and then my teares be done.
To haue true feeling of her essence misse?
My soule hath lost her selfe now deified,
I needes must moane her losse, though crownd with blisse
Then giue me leaue, for I must weepe a-while,
Till sorrowes deludge haue a lower ebbe,
Let lamentation neuer finde a stile,
To passe this dale of woe, vntill the webbe
Appointed for my latest mourning weed
Be spun and wouen with a heauie hand.
Then will I cease to weepe, I will indeed,
And euery beating billowe will withstand.
T'will not be long before this web be spun,
Dy'd blacke, worne out and then my teares be done.
Of Aprils month the eight and twentith day,
M. Sixe hundred three by computation:
Is the prefixed time for sorowes stay.
That past: my mourning weedes grow out of fashion.
Shall I by prayer hasten on the time?
Faine would I so, because mine eyes are drie,
What cannot prayers doe for soules diuine,
Although the bodies be mortaliitie?
Diuine she is for whome my Muse doth morne,
Though lately mortall, now she sits on hie,
Glorious in heauen, thither by Angells borne,
To liue with them in blisse eternally.
Then come faire day of ioyfull smiling sorow,
Since my teares dry, come happie day to morow.
M. Sixe hundred three by computation:
Is the prefixed time for sorowes stay.
That past: my mourning weedes grow out of fashion.
Shall I by prayer hasten on the time?
Faine would I so, because mine eyes are drie,
What cannot prayers doe for soules diuine,
Although the bodies be mortaliitie?
Diuine she is for whome my Muse doth morne,
Though lately mortall, now she sits on hie,
Glorious in heauen, thither by Angells borne,
To liue with them in blisse eternally.
Then come faire day of ioyfull smiling sorow,
Since my teares dry, come happie day to morow.
Yee Herralds of my heart, my heauie groanes,
My teares which if they could, wold showre like raine
My heauie lookes and all my surdging mones,
My moouing lamentations that complayne
When will you cease, or shall paine, neuer ceasing
Seaze on my heart? oh mollifie your rage,
Least your assaults with ouer-swift increasing,
Procure my death, or call on tymeles age.
She liues in peace whome I do morne for so,
She liues in heauen, and yet my soule laments.
Since shee's so happie, Ile conuert my woe
To present ioy, turne all my languishments.
And with my sorrowes see the time doth wast,
The day is come, and mid-day welnigh past.
My teares which if they could, wold showre like raine
My heauie lookes and all my surdging mones,
My moouing lamentations that complayne
When will you cease, or shall paine, neuer ceasing
Seaze on my heart? oh mollifie your rage,
Least your assaults with ouer-swift increasing,
Procure my death, or call on tymeles age.
She liues in peace whome I do morne for so,
She liues in heauen, and yet my soule laments.
Since shee's so happie, Ile conuert my woe
To present ioy, turne all my languishments.
And with my sorrowes see the time doth wast,
The day is come, and mid-day welnigh past.
Gaze greedy eye: note what thou dost he holde,
Our horizon is of a perfect hew,
As cleere as christall, and the day not olde:
Yet thousand blackes present them to thy view.
Three thousand and od hundred clowds appere,
Vpon the earthly Elament belowe
As blacke as night, trampling the lower Sphere,
As by degrees from place to place they goe.
They passe away, oh whether passe they then?
Into a further clymat out of sight,
Like clowds they were, but yet like clowded men,
Whose presence turn'd the day to sable night.
They vanish thence, note what was after seene,
The liuely picture of a late dead Queene.
Our horizon is of a perfect hew,
As cleere as christall, and the day not olde:
Yet thousand blackes present them to thy view.
Three thousand and od hundred clowds appere,
Vpon the earthly Elament belowe
As blacke as night, trampling the lower Sphere,
As by degrees from place to place they goe.
They passe away, oh whether passe they then?
Into a further clymat out of sight,
Like clowds they were, but yet like clowded men,
Whose presence turn'd the day to sable night.
They vanish thence, note what was after seene,
The liuely picture of a late dead Queene.
Who like to Phœbus in his golden Car,
Was the bright eye of the obscured day:
And though her glorious prograce was not far,
Yet like the smiling Sunne this semblance lay.
Drawse in a Ietty Charriot vayl'd with blacke,
By foure faire Palfraies that did hang the head,
As if their Lady-Mistris they did lacke,
And they but drew the figure of the dead.
Oh yee spectators which did view that sight!
Say if you truelie say, could you refraine,
To shed a sea of teares in deathes despight,
That reft her hence, whome art brought backe againe Queen
He that knew her and had Eliza seene,
Would sweare that figure were faire Englands
Was the bright eye of the obscured day:
And though her glorious prograce was not far,
Yet like the smiling Sunne this semblance lay.
Drawse in a Ietty Charriot vayl'd with blacke,
By foure faire Palfraies that did hang the head,
As if their Lady-Mistris they did lacke,
And they but drew the figure of the dead.
Oh yee spectators which did view that sight!
Say if you truelie say, could you refraine,
To shed a sea of teares in deathes despight,
That reft her hence, whome art brought backe againe Queen
He that knew her and had Eliza seene,
Would sweare that figure were faire Englands
Faire Englands Queene, euen to the life thogh dead,
Speake if I write not true, did you not crye?
Cry foorth amaine and say, her Princely head
Lay on a pillowe of a crimson dye,
Like a sweet beauty in a harmlesse slumber:
She is not dead, no sure it cannot be,
Thus with vnlikely hopes, the vulger number
Flatter themselues (oh sweet lyu'd flatterie.)
Indeed a man of iudgement would haue thought,
Had he not knowne her dead (but seene her so,
Tryumphant drawne in robes so richly wrought,
Crowne on her head, in hand her Scepter to)
At this rare sight he would haue sworne and said,
To Parliament rides this sweet slumbring Maide.
Speake if I write not true, did you not crye?
Cry foorth amaine and say, her Princely head
Lay on a pillowe of a crimson dye,
Like a sweet beauty in a harmlesse slumber:
She is not dead, no sure it cannot be,
Thus with vnlikely hopes, the vulger number
Flatter themselues (oh sweet lyu'd flatterie.)
Indeed a man of iudgement would haue thought,
Had he not knowne her dead (but seene her so,
Tryumphant drawne in robes so richly wrought,
Crowne on her head, in hand her Scepter to)
At this rare sight he would haue sworne and said,
To Parliament rides this sweet slumbring Maide.
But that my warrant's seald by truthes one hand,
That in her counterfeit Art did excell:
I would not say that in this little land,
Pigmalions equall doth admired dwell.
Enough of that, and now my teares are done,
Since she that dy'd liues now aboue the Spheres,
Luna's extinct, and now beholde the Sunne,
Whose beames soake vp the moysture of all teares,
A Phœnix from her ashes doth arise,
A King at whose faire Crowne all glory amyes.
God graunt his royall vertues simpathize,
Which late Eliza's, so God saue King Iames.
He that in loue to this saies not Amen,
Pray God the villaine neuer speake agen.
That in her counterfeit Art did excell:
I would not say that in this little land,
Pigmalions equall doth admired dwell.
Enough of that, and now my teares are done,
Since she that dy'd liues now aboue the Spheres,
Luna's extinct, and now beholde the Sunne,
Whose beames soake vp the moysture of all teares,
A Phœnix from her ashes doth arise,
A King at whose faire Crowne all glory amyes.
God graunt his royall vertues simpathize,
Which late Eliza's, so God saue King Iames.
He that in loue to this saies not Amen,
Pray God the villaine neuer speake agen.
Amen.
FINIS.
| Elizabetha quasi vivens | |