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Funeral Elegies.
1. On the Death of my very good Friend Mr. Michael Drayton.
Phœbus , art thou a God, and canst not giveA Priviledge unto thine own to live?
Thou canst: But if that Poets nere should dye,
In Heaven who should praise thy Deity?
Else still (my Drayton) thou hadst liv'd and writ;
Thy life had been immortal as thy wit.
But Spencer is grown hoarse, he that of late
Song. Gloriana in her Elsin state:
And so is Sydney, whom we yet admire
Lighting our little Torches at his fire.
These have so long before Apollo's Throne
Carrol'd Encomiums, that they now are growne
Weary and faint; and therefore thou didst dye,
Their sweet unfinish'd Ditty to supply.
So was the Iliad-writer rapt away;
Before his lov'd Achilles fatall day,
And when his voice began to fail, the great
Unequal'd Maro did assume his seat:
Therefore we must not mourn, unless it be
'Cause none is left worthy to follow thee.
It is in vain to say thy lines are such
As neither time nor envies rage can touch:
For they must live, and will whiles there's an eye
To reade, or wit to judge of Poetrie.
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Sing, and then die at Drayton's Funeral:
Sure shortly there will not a drop be seen,
And the smooth-pebbled Bottom be turn'd green,
When the Nymphes (that inhabit in it) have
(As they did Shakespeere) wept thee to thy grave.
But I molest thy quiet; sleep, whil'st we
That live, would leave our lives to die like thee.
2. On my dear Sister Mrs. Isabella Cokaine, who who died at Ashbourne about the 18th yeer of her Age, and lyes there buried.
It is an irreligious pride to turneAway our eyes, and not to see thine Urne.
For sure that body whose blest soul doth keep
A Jubile in heaven, (while here asleep
It lies in holy earth) is every day
Bless'd by good Angels, that do pass that way:
And therefore we with reverence should eye
The Sepulchres where Saints entomb'd do lye:
And every time that we do go or come
Nigh where thine Ashes lye, behold thy Tombe:
But when we see it, should we weep our eyes
Dry of their tears, and then conclude in cries?
It is impossible that our complaints
Should make a Diapason to the Saints.
Can Hallelujahs song above agree
With tears on earth? Tis an Antipathie.
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And 'tis Impiety we should be sad:
We must not grieve therefore, nor yet rejoyce;
But fix us in the mean, and shew us wise.
Be glad, that we believe her soul is crown'd
With endless Glory in Heavens ample Round:
Onely lament that we have lost our guide,
And (wanting her) are apt to wander wide.
We need not bid thee sleep secure, that know
That God himself rock'd thee asleep below.
Sweet Sainted Maid, thou meritest the Pen
Of Cherubims to shew thee unto men:
And dost deserve a bench of Poets grave
To study, and to write thine Epitaph,
Which in Mosaick work with diamonds bright
Should be drawn out, and read by it's own light.
A Titian, or a Bonarota should
Cast thee a Statue of pure Ophir Gold:
Had'st thou thy due, the eager earth would sure
Anatomize one India for Ore
And precious stones, a Pyramid to reare,
Lasting and great as the Egyptian were,
To thy eternal memorie; and from
The eastern-lands bring all the plenteous sum
Of spices and perfumes, and on the height
Of that rich monument burn them day and night,
But 'tis a thing impossibly too hard
For men on earth to give thee thy reward:
Thy God, whose power and love is infinite,
Thee hath, and doth, and ever will requite
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To sing Divinest Anthems evermore.
The homely verses I have writ, she oft
Hath smil'd upon, approv'd them smooth and soft:
And if my pen hath power to give a fame,
Dear Isabella, here shall live thy Name.
Had I the deathless Homer's brain, and could
Sing lofty numbers like to Maro Old;
A wit to match Sulmonean Ovid, I
Had writ a Poem, not an Elegie.
'Tis known, and I confess this is beneath
Her Life, and her expressions at her death:
Her resurrection plain will shew how well
She led her life, and bad the World Farewel.
3. On the death of Henry Lord Hastings, Son to the right Honourable Ferdinand Earl of Huntingdon, & c.
Know all to whom these few sad lines shall come,This melancholy Epicedium,
The young Lord Hastings death occasion'd it,
Amidst a storm of Lamentations writ;
Tempests of sighes and grones, and flowing eyes
Whose yielding balls dissolve to Deluges:
And mournful Numbers that with dreadful sound
Waite his bemoned body to the ground,
Are all, and the last duties we can pay
The Noble Spirit that is fled away.
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A body rich in all Nature could give;
Superiour in beauty to the youth
That won the Spartan Queen to forfeit truth,
Break wedlocks strictest bonds, and be his wife;
Environed with tumults all her Life.
His years were in the balmie Spring of Age
Adorn'd with blossomes ripe for marriage,
And but mature; His sweet conditions known
To be so good they could be none but's own.
Our English Nation was enamour'd more
On his full worth, then Rome was heretofore
Of great Vespasian's Jew-subduing Heire,
The love and the Delight of mankind here.
After a large survey of Histories,
Our Criticks (curious in honour, wise
In paralleling generous Souls) will finde
This youthful Lord did bear as brave a minde.
His few but well spent years had master'd all
The liberal Arts: And his sweet tongue could fall
Into the ancient Dialects, dispence
Sacred Judeas amplest eloquence;
The Latine Idiome elegantly true;
And Greek as rich as Athens ever knew:
Italy, France, and Spain, did all confess
Him perfect in their modern Languages.
At his Nativity, what angry Star
Malignant influences flung so far?
What Caput Algolls, and what dire Aspects,
Occasioned so tragical effects?
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I fancy mighty Clarence sigh'd in Heaven;
And till this glorious Soul arrived there,
Recover'd not from his Amaze and fear.
Had this befal'n in ancient credulous times,
He had been deifi'd by Poets rimes;
That Age enamour'd of his Graces, soon
Majestick Fanes (in adoration)
Would have rays'd to his memory, and there
On golden Altars (year succeeding year)
Burnt holy incense, and Sabæan Gums,
That Curles of vapour from those Hecatombs,
Sould reach his Soul in Heaven: but we must pay
No such Oblations in our purer way:
A nobler Service we him owe then that,
His fair example ever t'emulate.
With the Advantage of our double years
Lets imitate him, and (through all Affairs,
And all Encounters of our Lives) intend
To live like him, and make as good an end.
To aim at brave things is an evident signe
In Spirits, that to honour they incline;
And though they do come short in the Contest,
Tis full of glory to have done one's best.
You mournful Parents whom the Fates compel
To bear the Loss of this great miracle,
This wonder of our Times, amidst a sigh
(Surrounded with your thick'st Calamity)
Reflect on joy, think what an happiness
(Though humane Nature oft conceits it less)
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He was too good to grace the wretched earth.
As silver Trent through our North Countries glides,
Adorn'd with Swans, & crown'd with flowry sides,
And rushing into mightier Humbers Waves,
Augments the Regal Æstuarium's Braves:
So he, after a life of eighteen years
Well mannaged Example to our Peeres,
In's early youth encountring sullen Fate,
(Orecome) became a Trophey to his State.
Didst thou sleep Hymen? or art lately grown
T'affect the Subterranean Region?
Enamour'd on bleard Libentina's eyes,
Hoarse-howling Dirges, and the baleful Cries
Of Inauspicious voices, and (above
Thy Star-like torch) with horrid tombs in love?
Thou art; or surely hadst oppos'd this high
Affront of death against thy Deity:
Nor wrong'd an excellent Virgin who had given
Her heart to him, who hath his Soul to Heaven;
Whose Beauties thou hast clouded, and whose eyes
Drowned in tears at these sad Exequies.
The fam'd Heroes of the golden Age,
Those Demigods whose vertues did asswage
And calm the furies of the wildest mindes
That were grown salvage even against their kinds,
Might from their Constellations have look'd down
And by this young Lord seen themselves out-gon.
Farewel (Admired Spirit) that art free
From this strict Prison of Mortalitie.
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The beauteous Body (whence the Soul Divine
Did lately part) be careful of thy trust,
That no profane hand wrong that hallow'd Dust.
The Costly Marble needes no friend t'engrave
Upon it any doleful Epitaph;
No good Man's tongue that Office will decline,
Whil'st years succeeding reach the end of time.
4. On the death of my dear Cousin Germane Mrs. Olive Cotton, who deceased at Berisford the 38th year of her Age, and lyes buried at Bently by Ashbourne, &c.
Amongst the many that shall celebrate(With sighes and tears) this excellent womans Fate;
And with the many that shall fix a verse
(Sacred unto her Fame) upon her Herse;
World! pardon me my boldness, that intrude
These few poor lines upon thy Multitude:
They need not read them, I have my desire
If they but see my name, and look no higher:
But with my Sadness thou may'st well dispence
A tribute due to her Departure hence;
For from my soul I honoured her, and grieve
That I've but such small means to win beliefe.
Others may aim with a victorious Rhime
To vindicate her from the rage of time;
Our ablest Poets, whose each Distick may
Both Brass and Marble Statues wear away,
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And take possession of her ancient Roome;
Converting all their Funeral Elegies
(By that Reunion) t'Epithalamies;
And so by solemnizing her just worth,
Acquire themselves an endless Name on earth.
I no Ambition have but to make known
Her merits, were my Admiration.
Her Conversation harmless was and free,
For neither Pride nor ill Discourse had she:
Her sweet Conditions all the vertues were,
Not studied, but habitual in her:
And (ere the fatal Feaver had begun
T'disturb her calm Soul's Habitation)
The beauteous body was a Palace fit
(Above all other) t'entertain in it
So Sublime, and so many vertues, such
As made old Saints and martyrs prais'd so much.
But she is gone, and we are left behinde
To mourn the want of worth in Woman-kinde;
For femal vertues (as our fears surmize)
Are all with her return'd to Paradise.
And there (best Cousin) may your welcome be
A Crown of Glory and Immortalitie.
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5. A funeral Elegie on my Dear Cousin Mistress Elizabeth Reppington, who deceased at Ammington about the eighteenth year of her age, and lyes buried at Tamworth.
The Contemplation of death to prizeAbove all thoughts of humane vanities
A Sublime wisdom is, and makes Amends
For such sad Contemplations at our Ends.
Stifle therefore (my Muse) at their first birth
All thoughts that may reflect upon the earth:
Be metaphysical, disdaining to
Fix upon any thing that is below.
Fame, set thy Trump unto thy lips, and sound
The world this sad news from her hallow'd ground;
Elizabeth Reppington, that glorious Maid,
Hath left to guide us in this mortal shade
By her unparallel'd example; she
Hath chang'd all Finite for Infinity.
Her Grave all beauty doth include, for there
Two Suns eclips'd lie in one Hemisphere,
Enveloped with Clouds, thicker then those
Which the remotest Arctick doth impose.
Her humble Lovers, that like Persians pai'd
Devotion to the Beams of her fair Head,
(Whose hair their eyes in wonder did contain)
Continue to wish that Golden Fleece in vain:
Flowers more rich then graced Eden ever,
Lillies and Roses there to dust do wither,
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The temple of her mouth that had us'd to come.
A lurid paleness sits upon the skin
That did enclose the beauteous body in:
As after a bright day Night doth succeed,
And clothe high Heaven in a most horrid weed.
Her hands a Consort were of musick, such
As skilfully best Instruments did touch,
Begetting harmony to emulate
What the Intelligencing Spirits create
By motion of the Spheres; yet now they lye
Uselesly here through deaths Impietie.
You that shall chance to read in these poor rhimes
This Virgins Fate, whose life did grace our times,
Whose Death this Nation justly may lament,
She being of it the prime Ornament;
And many vertues must a pattern prove
To all those generous Souls that vertue love:
Consider what a loss her Parents have
Whose Hopes are fal'n with her into the Grave;
(Her Graces grown to an unequal'd height)
Lying now sleeping in the longest night.
Yet any Soul but hers would have been glad
So fair and pure Confinement to have had:
But more illustrious hers, like a bright flame
Broke loose, and is return'd from whence it came;
Where she enjoys all joys, smiles on our tears,
Wishing that ours as happy were as hers:
And her sweet Company and Conversation
We are depriv'd of, but by Contemplation,
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Conceal themselves from busie Phœbus beames,
(Upon whose Banks she us'd to walk, and smile
On the slow waters that past by the while)
Her immature Decease cease not to mone
Under each Willow, and on every stone.
The woods of Amington, which oft times she
Grac'd with her Presence to hear harmonie
From the Innocuous Quiristers of the Aire,
Now murmure for her loss in sad despaire;
The Dryades that there had wont to play,
Spending in weeping for her every day.
The Graces, that us'd thither to retire
To dance unto skilful Apollos Lyre,
As often since as they that way do come,
Sit down, and sing an Epicedium.
Thus I could prosecute; but being grown
Dull with so long a Lamentation,
My hand so trembling it can onely blot,
And Eies so fraught with tears that they see not;
I leave the World (though sorrow struck it faint)
To mourn her Loss, and make up my complaint.
6. A Funeral Elegie upon the Death of Mr. Thomas Pilkington, one of the Queens Musicians, Who deceased at Wolverhampton about the 35. year of his Age, and lies there buried.
At the Report of so sad News sure sooneThe grieved Nation will be out of tune;
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All Instruments with his unequal'd hand:
Mastring all Musick that was known before;
He did invent the Orphion, and gave more.
Though he (by playing) had acquir'd high Fame,
He evermore escap'd a Gamesters Name:
Yet he at Gamut frequent was, and taught
Many to play, till Death set his Gam out.
He was facetious, and did never carp,
Making that Musick which came from him sharp.
His Flats were all Harmonious; not like theirs
Whose ebbs in prose or verse abuse our ears:
But to what end praise I his Flats, since that
He is grown One himself, and now lies Flat?
Others for Days mispent are charged with crime,
But he a strict observer was of time.
Nothing escap'd his Study (by all votes)
Being most perfect of mankind at Notes.
Though he was often in his Moodes, they were
Such as rejoyc'd all mindes, and pleas'd each ear.
The Muses two-clif'd Hill he did surpass;
Whose Musick had three Cliffs to do it Grace.
With rashness none his Credit could impair,
Who did observe his Stops with so much Care.
His Frets were gentle Ones, such as would be
Stop'd with a Finger, and make Harmonie.
His Family agree so in their Hearts,
That they did make a Consort of five Parts;
(To be a Pattern unto every one)
Himself, his Wife, two Daughters, and a Son:
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Twas for the best in the Conclusion;
For each learn'd Master in this Science knowes
Good Musick often hath from Discords rose.
A Large his generous heart was and a Long;
His Life was wish'd by all the happy Throng
Acquainted with his worths: But (in the chiefe
Of all his Dayes) Death made it be a Briefe.
Crotchets he had good store, yet such as were
Harmonious, full of Spirit, life, and aire.
His Life was but a Minum, till his prime,
When as old Age should last out Sembrief-time;
His proved over short, as if indeed
He were, Alas! to die by Quaver-speed.
Whose Loss our trembling Heart such wise lament,
As they like Semi, and Demi-Quavers went.
So he is gone (as Heaven hath thought it best)
And (after all his pains) hath made a Rest.
Musicks best Instrument his body made,
Wherein his soul upon the Organs plai'd:
But Death was likewise Sacrilegious grown,
Who rudely hath those Organs overthrown.
For other Exequies what need we call?
Play o're his Hearse his own fam'd Funeral;
The doleful Aire that he compos'd, to mourn
For beauteous Reppingtons untimely Urne.
What need more words, when no words can declare
The Merits of a Man so wondrous rare?
He was too excellent for earth: And's gone,
To be in Heaven a prime Musician.
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