Poems By the most deservedly Admired Mrs Katherine Philips: The matchless Orinda. To which is added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey & Horace Tragedies. With several other Translations out of French |
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On the death of my Lord Rich, only Son to the Earl
of Warwick, who dyed of the small Pox, 1664.
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On the death of my Lord Rich, only Son to the Earl of Warwick, who dyed of the small Pox, 1664.
Have not so many lives of late
Suffis'd to quench the greedy thirst of Fate?
Though to encrease the mournful purple Flood.
As well as Noble, she drank Royal Blood;
That not content, against us to engage
Our own wild fury, and Usurpers rage;
By sickness now, when all that storm is past,
She strives to hew our Heros down as fast?
And by the Prey she chuses, shews her Aim
Is to extinguish all the English Fame.
Else had this generous Youth we now have lost,
Been still his Friends delight, and Country's boast,
And higher rais'd the Illustrious Name he bore,
Than all our Chronicles had done before.
Had Death consider'd e're he struck this blow,
How many noble hopes 'twould overthrow;
The Genius of his House (who did complain
That all her Worthies now dy'd o're again)
His flourishing, and yet untainted years;
His Fathers anguish, and his Mothers tears;
Sure he had been perswaded to relent,
Nor had for so much early sweetness, sent
That fierce Disease, which knows not how to spare
The Young, the Great, the Knowing, or the Fair.
But we as well might flatter every wind,
And court the Tempests to be less unkind,
As hope from churlish Death to snatch his Prey,
Who is as furious and as deaf as they;
And who hath cruelly surpriz'd in him,
His Parents joy, and all the World's esteem.
Suffis'd to quench the greedy thirst of Fate?
Though to encrease the mournful purple Flood.
As well as Noble, she drank Royal Blood;
That not content, against us to engage
Our own wild fury, and Usurpers rage;
By sickness now, when all that storm is past,
She strives to hew our Heros down as fast?
And by the Prey she chuses, shews her Aim
Is to extinguish all the English Fame.
Else had this generous Youth we now have lost,
Been still his Friends delight, and Country's boast,
And higher rais'd the Illustrious Name he bore,
Than all our Chronicles had done before.
Had Death consider'd e're he struck this blow,
How many noble hopes 'twould overthrow;
The Genius of his House (who did complain
That all her Worthies now dy'd o're again)
His flourishing, and yet untainted years;
His Fathers anguish, and his Mothers tears;
Sure he had been perswaded to relent,
Nor had for so much early sweetness, sent
That fierce Disease, which knows not how to spare
The Young, the Great, the Knowing, or the Fair.
But we as well might flatter every wind,
And court the Tempests to be less unkind,
As hope from churlish Death to snatch his Prey,
Who is as furious and as deaf as they;
And who hath cruelly surpriz'd in him,
His Parents joy, and all the World's esteem.
Say treacherous hopes that whisper in our ear,
Still to expect some steady comfort here,
And though we oft discover all your Arts,
Would still betray our disappointed Hearts;
What new delusion can you now prepare,
Since this pale object shews how false you are?
'Twill fully answer all you have to plead,
If we reply, Great Warwick's Heir is dead:
Blush humane Hopes and Joies, and then be all
In solemn mourning at this Funeral.
Still to expect some steady comfort here,
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Would still betray our disappointed Hearts;
What new delusion can you now prepare,
Since this pale object shews how false you are?
'Twill fully answer all you have to plead,
If we reply, Great Warwick's Heir is dead:
Blush humane Hopes and Joies, and then be all
In solemn mourning at this Funeral.
For since such expectations brittle prove,
What can we safely either Hope or Love?
What can we safely either Hope or Love?
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