University of Virginia Library

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TO THE HONORABLE, Edward Somerset, Lord Herbert, my most noble and accomplish'd Lord;

Treasures of Comforts, after these Tributes of teares.

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Elisabeth Herbert.

Anag. Heere a blest birth.

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RAGLANDS Niobe: Or, ELIZA'S Elegie.

Heare me, Latona! of all starres that were
Or ever shone in this inferiour Spheere,

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The truly purest and refinedst One
Is from our Orbe, to gaine more glory, gone.
Why should not we then imitatours bee
Of that compassion we conceive in thee?
Admit these Halcyon daies give Her encrease
Of honour, glory, beauty, plenty, peace,
With that blest confluence of heav'nly store,
Which crownes pure soules when they arrive a shore.
Wee that are Mortals ever have more sense
Of our owne want, than others affluence.
Tell me thou State-surrounded Strand, canst finde
Through all thy Prospects a selecter minde
Cloath'd in a choicer dresse! Pray, looke about,
Thou canst not chuse but see some face peepe out

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T'attract the forc'd Spectator; but that skin
Is it so sleeke as't ha's no staines within?
Is it a native tincture? do'es it wooe
The gazer without art? or if it doe,
Is it accomplish'd with some better part
To pollish nature with diviner art?
Ha's it adorning graces to make good
The splendor of her beauty or her blood?
Can it converse with fashion, and appeare
Discreet in her election what to weare?
Can it send out her eies, and not be tane,
Or to take Others make it not her aime?
Can it discourse without affected state,
Or hearken Lightnesse with a blushing hate?

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Can it distinguish times and persons too?
Reserve a state without a seeming show?
Can it pursue the Object it affects
With more divine than sensuall respects?
Can it esteeme of beauty as it is?
Imparadize her thoughts in future blisse?

Canst finde me this rare Phœnix? I much doubt,
Thou loosest time in seeking of her out.
Two Phœnixes at once were never seene,
It is enough, that such an One hath beene.
Thou hast indeed, a choice varietye
Of mortall beauties to surprize the eye
Of a Zenocrates; but so divine
Would not suite well with fashions of the time.

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Complete and complementall are two things,
Which different constructions ever brings:
For what's an outward dresse, or seeming faire,
A vading breath resolving into aire?
What's permanent is good, nor can it be
So styl'd, that's short of this eternitie.

But thou hadst One in that Elysian grove!
A precious Sprigge of vertue, beauty, love;
Yea, such a Seat, as no diviner grace
But in her Saintly bosome had a place.
One richly stor'd with all the gifts of nature,
Of gracefull presence and attractive feature;
And what was richer farre than all the rest,
An heav'nly fancy in an holy brest.

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For shew me One within this Orbe of ours,
That was so young in yeares and old in houres.
So sweetly humble and compassionate,
So well compos'd ith' posture of her state;
So loyall in her love, so firme to those
Who in her Honour did their hopes repose.

And now, me thinkes, in this high overflow
Of boundlesse sorrow, I am fixt on you,
You sad Attendants, whom she us'd to cheere
With pleasing language, while shee breathed heere.
The losse you feele is poiz'd above compare,
Yet, as I live, I love to beare a share
In such depressive burdens: for these bee,
As I am yours, reflecting upon mee.

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Let's then a mutuall sorrow entertaine,
And moisten this dry earth that wanteth raine,
With our distreaming teares: for Heav'ns have kept,
Thus long their Conduits shut, and have not wept,
That with profuser treasures they might store
Our native Mother, and wet eies deplore
This sad Occasion: Sad, indeed, to us
Who eye the Count'nance of that heavie house,
Where ev'ry Habit, Object as we passe,
Proclaime thus much, time is not as it was.
While ev'ry silent accent seemes to breath
The last farewell of our Elizabeth.
Divine Elysian Lady! O that eies
Made Niobe's, could rescue such a prize!

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Teares be those Treasures which wee mortals use
To pay to such we lov'd: nor can wee chuse
To doe lesse to this Shrine, the scattred dust
Of that diviner part, which 'mongst the just
Holds her eternall Annall: tell me where
I may my Object take without a teare.

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No where, O no where! though all humane state
Be by injunction subject unto fate,
Which solely makes distinction 'twixt the good,
And those who with foule actions staine pure blood:
For these make State a Subterfuge to guilt,
Ttriumphing in those conduits they have spilt
Through their profuser bounty: whereas those
Who are to none but vice professed foes,
Live in their dissolution, and receive
A lasting odour from a dying grave.
Yet when such glorious Lights their splendor loose,
Not to themselves but to our earthly house,
As those faire structures have their glory lost,
Which by their breathing beauty shined most,

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Who can dispense with griefe, surcease to mone,
Unlesse hee bee a Stoicke or a stone?

I must confesse, the Thracians did expresse
An Embleme of our humane wretchednesse;
Who in a various straine of mone and mirth,
Wept whē men came, joy'd when they went frō earth.
Which temper, sure, in earthly walls inclos'd,
Seemes in my judgement pretiously compos'd,
And such as wee should imitate: yet when
Like men, we thinke how we convers'd with them
Who now are closed from our longing eyes,
How much we their society did prize,
What choice delight we tooke in their resort,
How much their fame improved our report,

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How short quicke-vading minutes dropt away,
How th'closing Ev'ning crown'd the cheerefull day,
What sweet Communion of Comforts too
Which friend on friend did mutually bestow,
With what a rare Confection of reliefe
In the communicating of their griefe,
One drained from another; and that one
Divorc'd now from his sight, dislodg'd and gone;
Hee farre transcends the mould of humane state,
Who scornes in this to be effeminate.

Deaths Lachrymæ, indeed, is such a song,
So short's the Scene of griefe, it lasts not long:
Yet where impressive vertues did appeare,
They have an Anniversall ev'ry yeare.

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And such were thine, blest Saint, whose light shall give
Direction unto others how to live.

I'st irreligious then to shed a teare
For one, where such choice vertues lodged were?
A Gardiner would discontented seeme
If that prime flower he held in most esteeme,
Should be mel-dew'd or cropt before the time;
Can we doe lesse for her, who in her prime
Was cropt by th'hand of D eh? much wonder I
At popular amazement, who descry
A strange distraction in perplexed eyes,
When they contemplate vulgar rarities:
And such as from meere nat'rall causes spring,
As when they see the Sun-beames wrastling

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With interposed shades: this eclyps'd light
Darts an astonishment unto their sight.
Good God (thus will they say) that which did show
Such beauteous rayes, how is it darkned now?
Where is that beaming glory which reviv'd
Th'inferiour Orbe? how is it now depriv'd
Of his late full-spread vigour? how 'tis spent
Which gave to all things life and nourishment?

Draw nearer wondring Mortals, and see heere
A glorious Light reft from our Hemispheere!
One, upon whose cleare brow no Cloud e're sat,
Nor e're ey'd Object that she aimed at
But what she might affect: nor personate
An unbeseeming introduced state:

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Nor gloze in painted goodnesse: nor expresse
More than her Soule did inwardly professe:
Nor feed her fancy with conceipts of time,
But clos'd her Lifes Act with a Scene divine.
And this same taking beauty now is gone,
Reft from our sight! which while we thinke upon,
'Tis not sufficient to bemoane her death,
But to observe how sweetly vertues breath
In her expired Corpse; and that her Fate,
Blest Fate! h'as left what wee're to imitate.
“Death from oblivion will exempt no blood,
“Unlesse that Highnesse be recorded good.
For Monumentall structures may be said
Erected more for th'living than the dead.

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These have their date and period, and must turne
To dust, like mouldred ashes in an Urne.
Where vertue scornes such confines, being knowne
To leane on no supportance, but her owne.

Nor doe I muse why thou should'st vertuous be,
Being deriv'd from such a Familie,
Whose Actions streame in goodnesse; they who gave
First life to thee, no lesse Memorialls have
In Times deserving Annals: Dormers name
Retein's ith' accent a sufficient fame
To second our assertion: and to show
Thy Mothers house was corresponding too
In lineall acts of goodnesse, and what might
Give to a noble line a living light,

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I'le onely name Him, whome ne're age could tax,
The all-approved-loved Mvllinax.
Deare to his owne, to strangers debonaire,
Deare to the Muses, who Joves darlings are,
Firme where hee doth professe, entire to such
Who know, but make no boast of knowing much:
And to summe all in one, such a right Lord
Hee scornes nought more then sleighting of his word.

Blest Babes! Sweet Graces! for you are but three;
And may you bee, as your House showes to mee,

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Still gracious; my sute shall be but one,
That you may represent Her that is gone
In your surviving vertues. First, to you
Right Noble Sir, let 't be your taske to shew
His name, and nature

From Henry now Earle of Worster, his Grandfather.

whence you tooke your name,
Beleeve your Servant, 'twill improve your fame,
And make you live, belov'd; I doe not care
For guilded honour, 'tis a vading ayre
That's soone disperst; a painted Trophie torne
From tainted Heraldry, displai'd in scorne.
“Goodnes cloathes greatnes with a gracefull dresse,
“And shines most glorious when it shews nought lesse.
So pleasing's humble Honour to each eye
It wins affection in the Stander by;

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Let but your Infant Honour thinke of this,
Summer shall rise in love and set in blisse.

Now, to you Noble Ladies, who may see
Store of examples to endoctrine yee,
Some to deprave; but in your tender brest
Such num'rous seeds of native goodnesse rest,
Which freely ripened as they are begun,
May in due time to their perfection come.
With an exacter Patterne none can store you,
Then Her example who is gone before you:
Let her Life be the Line to regulate
Your actions by; the posture of her state
Your constant'st Modell; her sweet moderation,
In her discourse, employment, recreation,

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Your clearest mirror: for yee cannot erre
In any these by imitating her.
Confirme your Mothers Anagram on Earth,
With this Emphatick Mott: Heere A Blest Birth.

Novv I approach, my deare sad Lord to you,
Who having taken your late last adue

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Of your unequall'd Spouse, are full of griefe,
To which divinest comforts breath reliefe.
Excuse me, Honour'd Lord, that you are plac't
In this sad Scene of serious Sorrow, last;
'Twas my desire, that you should first digest
These grounded griefes wherewith you are deprest
Before revivall of them; 'las you know
I owe as much to you as I doe owe
To the whole world (without private aime
To me or mine) Save to my soveraigne.
Yea, should you flow in teares, as you doe flow,
You should not finde your poore MVSÆVS slow
In the like tribute: bee it only yours
To yeeld your will unto th'Superiour powers.

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Shee's reft from you ('tis true) but shee is given
By your division to be spous'd in heav'n.
Nor had she left her Mate, her choice deare Love,
But onely for His love shee had above:
In whose translation there appeared heere
A civill Combat 'twixt two Months i'th yeere,
So as, none could definitively say
Shee dide the first of June or last of May.
Both wrastled like two Champions for the wall,
Which might give convoy to her Nuptiall.
A solemne sacred Nuptiall! Where Heav'ns King
Becomes the Bridegroome: and where Angels sing
Their Epithalamies; and Saintly Quires
With choicest ayres accomplish their desires.

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Epitaph.

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[Let 't not disraste my Lord, that I have heere]