Pleasant dialogues and dramma's selected out of Lucian, Erasmus, Textor, Ovid, &c. ... By Tho. Heywood |
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 | Funerall Elegies and Epitaphs. |
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 | Pleasant dialogues and dramma's |  |
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Funerall Elegies and Epitaphs.
A Funerall Elegie upon the death of the thrice noble Gentleman Sir George Saint Poole of Lincolne-shire my Country-man.
It is a maxime, neither birth nor state,
Honour nor goodnesse can divert our fate.
If these, or more, that did in him accrew
(For these with his gifts valewd were but few)
Could doe't; St. Poole had liv'd to Englands good,
Since all these did nobilitate his blood.
Honour nor goodnesse can divert our fate.
If these, or more, that did in him accrew
(For these with his gifts valewd were but few)
Could doe't; St. Poole had liv'd to Englands good,
Since all these did nobilitate his blood.
Antiquity; which though it cannot save
From death, yet helpes to decorate the grave,
Heralds his gentry, and doth highly advance
His pedegree from the St. Pooles of France,
Which, from the Norman Innovation till
His expiration hath beene eminent still.
That was his least, though some extoll it most.
Of that which is not ours why should we boast?
That's our best noblenesse which our vertues win,
Not that, to which w' are borne, and claime by kin.
From death, yet helpes to decorate the grave,
Heralds his gentry, and doth highly advance
His pedegree from the St. Pooles of France,
Which, from the Norman Innovation till
His expiration hath beene eminent still.
That was his least, though some extoll it most.
Of that which is not ours why should we boast?
That's our best noblenesse which our vertues win,
Not that, to which w' are borne, and claime by kin.
He was possest of both, and in full measure,
Did in his bosome many vertues treasure,
Which on the earth hee did but put to lone,
He now in heaven receives them ten for one.
Vpheld he hath, and husbanded that fame
Which from his ancient Predecessors came.
Being much in him augmented: his revenue
Grac't, and ennobled by that faire retenue.
He kept about him still not like this age,
Changing his traine, to a Foot-boy or a Page.
Free hospitality exil'd the Reame,
He tooke in charge, which like a plenteous streame
On his full tables flow'd (now a strange thing)
It rather seem'd a torrent than a spring,
Did in his bosome many vertues treasure,
Which on the earth hee did but put to lone,
He now in heaven receives them ten for one.
Vpheld he hath, and husbanded that fame
Which from his ancient Predecessors came.
Being much in him augmented: his revenue
Grac't, and ennobled by that faire retenue.
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Changing his traine, to a Foot-boy or a Page.
Free hospitality exil'd the Reame,
He tooke in charge, which like a plenteous streame
On his full tables flow'd (now a strange thing)
It rather seem'd a torrent than a spring,
His hand was ever open, but before
All others, to the vertuous and the poore;
Not as most men are bounteous now; to those
That either need not, or with cunning glose.
They that were nearest bosom'd, knew, his heart,
Beyond all favour still preferd desert.
All others, to the vertuous and the poore;
Not as most men are bounteous now; to those
That either need not, or with cunning glose.
They that were nearest bosom'd, knew, his heart,
Beyond all favour still preferd desert.
Religious zeale with which he was inspir'd
'Bove common measure, made him both admir'd,
And lov'd: besides upon that honour'd place
Where he had voice, alwayes the poore mans case
He would first heare, and howsoe're the rest
That sate with him were swaid, favour'd th'opprest.
'Bove common measure, made him both admir'd,
And lov'd: besides upon that honour'd place
Where he had voice, alwayes the poore mans case
He would first heare, and howsoe're the rest
That sate with him were swaid, favour'd th'opprest.
In all moralities, as courtesie,
Bounty, love, generous affability,
And other of like kind, each way so rare,
He hath left few, that may with him compare.
Of Arts, a Patron to the learned, still
A knowne Mœcena's, and to all of skill
A favourer, witnesse that annuall fee,
Which (Oxford) in his death he bequeath'd thee.
Bounty, love, generous affability,
And other of like kind, each way so rare,
He hath left few, that may with him compare.
Of Arts, a Patron to the learned, still
A knowne Mœcena's, and to all of skill
A favourer, witnesse that annuall fee,
Which (Oxford) in his death he bequeath'd thee.
But wherefore should my duller Muse aspire,
To expresse what I better should admire,
Which rather may extenuate, then with praise
Condigne, and worthy his high vertues raise.
Then, with the Country who his death deplore,
With these, whom he still patroniz'd, the poore,
The wrong'd, who misse his justice, with the weale,
Which will soone want him, with the men of zeale,
And most religious; with the nobler spirits
With whom he was companion, Lords and Knights,
With his Allyes and friends; and with his traine
(Of servants, who have most cause to complaine
The losse of such a Master, in's best yeares
Snatcht from the earth) my Muse concludes in teares.
To expresse what I better should admire,
Which rather may extenuate, then with praise
Condigne, and worthy his high vertues raise.
Then, with the Country who his death deplore,
With these, whom he still patroniz'd, the poore,
The wrong'd, who misse his justice, with the weale,
Which will soone want him, with the men of zeale,
And most religious; with the nobler spirits
With whom he was companion, Lords and Knights,
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(Of servants, who have most cause to complaine
The losse of such a Master, in's best yeares
Snatcht from the earth) my Muse concludes in teares.
A Funerall Elegie upon a vertuous Maide, who dyed the very day on which shee should have beene married.
O Hymen change thy saffron weeds,To habit black and sable:
Change joyfull Acts, to Funerall deeds,
Since nothing's firme or stable.
My bridals are to burials turn'd,
My day of mirth to sorrow:
Show me the man who most hath mourn'd?
From him my griefe Ile borrow.
In stead of love and second life
A dead corps I imbraced:
Receiv'd a Coffin for a wife,
With hearbs and flowers inchaced.
Her beauty better had becom'd
A Bride-bed than a grave:
But envious fates her dayes have sum'd
And crost what I did crave.
All lovers that Have truely lov'd,
Beare part in my laments:
'Mongst thousands scarcely one hath prov'd
My tragick discontents.
Heaven mourne her death in stormy clouds,
Seas, weepe for her in brine.
Thou earth which now her body shrouds,
Lament though she be thine.
That musick which with merry Tones
Should to a bridall sound,
Sigh out my griefe and passionate grones,
Since she is toomb'd in ground.
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An Epitaph upon the death of Sir Philip Woodhouse Knight Baronet.
From valiant Iohn this Philip Woodhouse springs
Hee (of the Chamber to the greatest Kings
Henry the fift) who'at famous Agincourt
Woon that eternis'd Motto, Frappe fort,
Snatcht from a noble Frenchman, when by force
In the mid-field, he beat him from his horse,
And brought him prisoner, for which warlike deed,
(As Souldiers still deserve their valours meed)
All Heraldry hath to his Crest allow'd
A Hand and Club extended from a cloud.
Hee (of the Chamber to the greatest Kings
Henry the fift) who'at famous Agincourt
Woon that eternis'd Motto, Frappe fort,
Snatcht from a noble Frenchman, when by force
In the mid-field, he beat him from his horse,
And brought him prisoner, for which warlike deed,
(As Souldiers still deserve their valours meed)
All Heraldry hath to his Crest allow'd
A Hand and Club extended from a cloud.
This Iohn had issue Edward: Edward then
Thomas: and Thomas, Roger: He agen
Thomas, and Thomas, Roger, who was father
To this Sir Philip, Him, whose dust we gather,
To mixe with his brave Ancestors, the last
Of sixe successive Knights whose fates are cast;
Thus was he borne, thus lineally descended,
For whom this pious Sacred is commended.
Thomas: and Thomas, Roger: He agen
Thomas, and Thomas, Roger, who was father
To this Sir Philip, Him, whose dust we gather,
To mixe with his brave Ancestors, the last
Of sixe successive Knights whose fates are cast;
Thus was he borne, thus lineally descended,
For whom this pious Sacred is commended.
Ag'd sixty one, Knighted in Spaine, and hee
Of Baronets in ranck the fortieth three,
By order and precedence, here now sleepes,
For whom this monumentall Marble weepes.
Reader, who e're thou beest, conceive this done
By the due office of a gratefull sonne.
Of Baronets in ranck the fortieth three,
By order and precedence, here now sleepes,
For whom this monumentall Marble weepes.
Reader, who e're thou beest, conceive this done
By the due office of a gratefull sonne.
An Epitaph upon one Mr. Robert Honywood and his Mother, and of their numerous Issue.
Increase and multiply God said: to theeNo doubt he spake O Honywood: for we
Know, thou as Sire and Grandsire, hast to Heaven
Added, of soules one hundred twenty seven,
And yet thy mother did thee farre surmount
Three hundred sixty seven, her age could count.
256
Sacrum Amoris.
Perpetuitati memoriæ Katharinæ Skip: obijt Anno salutis millesimo Sexcentesimo Tricesimo.
Ætatis suæ, Vicesimo nono.
Can foure weake lines comprise her vertues? no,Not volumes can, here lyes beneath this stone,
All that her sex since Eve could learne or know,
(Alas) where shall they harbour now shee's gone?
Of Mr. Thomas Skipp her husband since deceased, and buried in the same Tombe, whose Statue is plac't in a circle of Bookes, for the great love he bore to learning.
What stronger circle can Art-magick findWherein a Scholers spirit can be confind,
Then this of Bookes? next how he spent his time,
Scorning earths drosse to looke on things sublime.
So long thy love to learning shall be read,
Whilst fame shall last, or Statues for the dead.
An Epitaph upon a worthy Gentlewoman whose name was Patience.
Impatience, why from Patience shouldst thou grow?Or why such sorrow raise from sweet content?
From pleasures spring, why should displeasure flow?
Or our late joyes turne to such sad lament?
But that we see, as time to death is hasting,
Nothing on earth is permanent and lasting
Saving Impatience, sorrow and displeasure,
Laments and strange disasters that still fall,
The losse of solace, comfort and of treasure,
And of these nam'd this losse includeth all.
A losse indeed this Grizels losse implyes,
Since here with her all womens patience lyes.
257
An Epitaph upon a vertuous young Gentlewoman, who after seven yeares marriage expired.
Well borne, well bred, brought up with cost and care,Sweet Infant, hopefull child, and virgin chaste.
Marriage which makes up women, made her rare,
Matron and maide, with all choise vertues grac't,
Loving and lov'd of all (her husband chiefe)
Liv'd to our great joy, dyde to all our griefe.
Vpon a Toomb-stone which covereth the body of a worthy Citizen, on which is ingraven a white hand pointing to a Starre.
Pure Heart, white hand, one shadowed, th'other seene,Points to a Starre, to show what both have beene.
The Heart devout: in life a constant giver,
The Hand that gift, as ready to deliver,
In such alternate goodnesse, both agreeing,
As seldome to be matcht when they had being.
The Heart bequeath'd, the Hand did still bestow,
Both reape in Heaven, what they on earth did sow.
A Funerall Elegie upon the death of Mistris Mary Littleboyes, Daughter to Master George Littleboyes of Ashburnham in Sussex, Esquire.
She was a virgin tall, as towards Heaven growing,Who had she by Emergent Venus stood,
(Her dewy locks about her shoulders flowing,
And Cupid viewde them both at once) He woo'd
(Not able to distinguish one from th' other)
Have leapt into her lap, there toyde and plaid,
And (though a maide) mistooke her for his mother.
So faire she was; But thus all beauties fade.
All the choice vertues, morall and divine,
That ever grac't the sex, compris'd in one,
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And where shall they find harbour now shee's gone?
Whom heaven did love, who merited mans praise,
Modest, wise, pious, charitable, chaste,
Whose vertues did in number passe her dayes,
Now (woe the while) in darknesse sleepes her last.
Well borne, well bred, brought up with cost and care,
Of singular parts; the sole admir'd 'mongst many,
In all her gracefull carriage, choise and rare.
But what of these? we see death spares not any.
Besides all other rich decorements she
So sweetly sung, her voice did rapture breed,
No spring-tide bird to her compar'd might be,
Who Orpheus did, and Thamiras exceed.
And what's of rare remarke; even all that day,
(The saddest to her friends that ever came)
When she (sweet soule) upon her death-bed lay,
She to choise musicall notes her voice did frame.
Her Funerall Dirge the dying Swan so sings,
Then Angels waited to make up the Quire,
And beare her soule on their celestiall wings,
Vnto that place shee living did desire.
Were all the pens of Poets joyn'd in one,
Dipt in like Inke, and sworne, to write her true;
Let them spend all their spirits on her alone,
Yet can they not ascribe to her her due.
Apollo write thy selfe, for this doth aske
No humane skill, to give her merited praise.
Thy Daphne dead, now take in hand this taske,
Do't as it ought, and ever weare thy bayes.
The Inscription upon her Tombe-stone lying in Clerkenwell Church.
Hereunder lyes a Casket, that containdA life unspotted, and a soule unstaind,
A virgin chaste, beyond example faire,
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Of natures pieces, one the prime and choice,
So nurturd, that for needle, booke and voice
She was unpeer'd: matchles in mind and face,
And all the vertues that her sex most grace.
Who after twenty yeares scarce fully expird,
Arriv'd at that safe port she most desird:
In life, to friends and parents fresh joyes bringing:
In death; to God sweet Halelujaes singing.
Obijt Die Mart. 8. Anno Ætat. 20. An. salutis. 1636.
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