The Funerals of the Honourable, my best friend and Kinsman,George Talbot, Esquire.Elegie, 1.Twere malice to the fame; to weepe aloneAnd not enforce an universall groaneFrom ruinous man, and make the World complaine:Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophaneIn mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truthYet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.I can relate thy businesse here on earth,Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birthOut-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farreTh' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,I cannot speake, nor whether thou art inCommission with a Throne, or Cherubin.Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we mayWithout disturbing the harmonious Spheares,Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'dMy active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'dBy empty griefes; they who can utter it,Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.I stood likeNiobewithout a grone,Congeal'd into that monumentall stoneThat doth lye over thee: I had no roomeFor witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.And friendships monument, thus had I stood;But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my bloodWith a new life. Ile like a funerall fireBut burne a while to thee, and then expire.Elegie, 2.Talbotis dead. Like lightning which no partOth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in allThe stocke of sorrow, any charme can callDeath sooner up. For musiqu's in the breathOf thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' deathThat brings with it, if you with this compareAll the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.They cure (Physitians say) the elementSicke with dull vapors, and to banishmentConfine infections; but this fatall shreeke,Without the least redresse, is utter'd likeThe last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lyeA scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.What now hath life to boast of? Can I haveA thought lesse darke than th' horror of the graveNow thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a faultPast pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe?Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,These vowes to thee! for since greatTalbot'sgoneDowne to thy silence, I commerce with noneBut thy pale people: and in that confuteMistaking man, that dead men are not mute.Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eareAccustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heareHow their cold language tels thee, that thy skinIs but a beautious shrine, in which black sinIs Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lustHath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.GreatAtlasof the state, descend with me.But hither, and this vault shall furnish theeWith more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,And show how false are all those mysteriesThy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swellWith envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.It will instruct you, Courtier, that your ArtOf outward smoothnesse and a rugged heartBut cheates your self, and all those subtill wayesYou tread to greatnesse, is a fatall mazeWhere you your selfe shall loose, for though you breathUpward to pride, your center is beneath.And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can woundThis unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquenceWill teach my soule to triumph over sence,Which hath its period in a grave, and thereShowes what are all our pompous surfets here.Great Orator! deareTalbot! Still, to theeMay I an auditor attentive be:And piously maintaine the same commerceWe held in life! and if in my rude verseI to the world may thy sad precepts read:I will on earth interpret for the dead.Elegie, 3.Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and thoughI cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goeIn thy cœlestiall journey; and my heartExpanssion wants, to thinke what now thou artHow bright and wide thy glories; yet I mayRemember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.Best object to my heart! what vertues beInherent even to the least thought of thee!Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feareIn its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,Now glorious to my eye, since it possestThe wealthy empyre of that happie chestWhich harbours thy rich dust; for how can heBe thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eareI catch from lonely graves, in hope to heareNewes from the dead, nor can pale visions frightHis eye, who since thy death feeles no delightIn mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fateDoth in me a sublimer soule create.And now my sorrow followes thee, I treadThe milkie way, and see the snowie headOfAtlasfarre below, while all the highSwolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while IWeepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye,My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;So fraile that every blast of honour canSwell him above himselfe, each, adverse gustHim and his glories shiver into dust.How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a spanHis empire, who commands the Ocean.Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty oreAnd th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shoreNor can it greater seeme, when this great AllFor which men quarrell so, is but a ballCast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.From thee, deareTalbot, living I did learneThe Arts of life, and by thy light discerneThe truth, which men dispute. But by thee deadI'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:And that way sooner master it, than heTo whom both th' Indies tributary be.Elegie, 4.My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breathDid call upon: affirming that thy deathWould wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must beIndeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,(Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds wearesT' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowneReall as mine. All other mourners keepeIn griefe a method: without forme I weepe.The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyesWet just as long as are the obsequies.The widow formerly a yeare doth spendIn her so courtly blackes. But for a FriendWe weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, haveOur very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flameAnd thouCastarawho had hadst a name,But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verseIs lost to you, and onely onTalbotsherseSadly attends. And till times fatall handRuines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.There to thy selfe, deareTalbot, Ile repeateThy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how greatThou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how allWho out-live thee, see but the FunerallOf glory: and if yet some vertuous be,They but weake apparitions are of thee.So setled were thy thoughts, each action soDiscreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flowWas ere perceiv'd in thee: each word matureAnd every sceane of life from sinne so pureThat scarce in its whole history, we canFinde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we mustAddresse our language to a little dust,And seeke forTalbotthere. Injurious fate,To lay my lifes ambition desolate.Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,Not how it can give such another blow.Elegie, 5.Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely brightAs when by death her Soule shines in full lightFreed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that cameFrom thee (deareTalbot) did beget a flameT' enkindle vertue: which so faire by theeBecame, man, that blind mole, her face did see.But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwellYet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cellOf some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,As if of her the old man jealous were.Nor ever showes her beauty, but to someCarthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe!So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea,A starre about the Articke Circle, mayThen ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shallServe at the frozen Pilots funerall.Thou (brightest constellation) to this maineWhich all we sinners traffique on, didst daigneThe bounty of thy fire, which with so cleareAnd constant beames did our frayle vessels steare,That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.But now we sayle at randome. Every rockeThe folly doth of our ambition mockeAnd splits our hopes: To every Sirens breathWe listen and even court the face of death,If painted ore by pleasure: Every waveIft hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:So ruinous is the defect of thee,To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to meWho liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.Where shall I then begin to weepe? No groveSilent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse tearesEach eare is so enchanted; that no breathIs listned to, which mockes report of death.I'le turne my griefe then inward and deploreMy ruine to my selfe, repeating oreThe story of his vertues; untill INot write, but am my selfe his Elegie.Elegie, 6.Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flightTo their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder nightFrom its approach on day, and force day riseFrom the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herseRedeemes notTalbot, who cold as the breathOf winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eareTo breath into his soft expiring prayer.For had thy life beene by thy vertues spunOut to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the SunneAnd clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not allOur wonders fiction, from thy funerallThou hadst received new life, and liv'd to beThe conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.But all we Poets glory in, is vaineAnd empty triumph: Art cannot regaineOne poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flyeBy a fooles finger destinate to dye.Live then in thy true life (great soule) for setAt liberty by death thou owest no debtT' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sportOf time and fortune in yand' starry courtA glorious Potentate, while we belowBut fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.We follow campes, and to our hopes proposeTh' insulting victor; not remembring thoseDismembred trunkes who gave him victoryBy a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants beAnd to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.The shootings of a wounded conscienceWe patiently sustaine to serve our senceWith a short pleasure; So we empire gaineAnd rule the fate of businesse, the sad paineOf action we contemne, and the affrightWhich with pale visions still attends our night.Our joyes false apparitions, but our fearesAre certaine prophecies. And till our earesReach that cælestiall musique, which thine nowSo cheerefully receive, we must allowNo comfort to our griefes: from which to beExempted, is in death to follow thee.Elegie, 7.There is no peace in sinne. Æternall warDoth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues areFriends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents beHarsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.While thou didst live we did that union findeIn the so faire republick of thy mind,Where discord never swel'd. And as we dareAffirme those goodly structures, temples areWhere well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:The musique of thy soule made us say, thereGod had his Altars; every breath a spiceAnd each religious act a sacrifice.But death hath that demolisht. All our eyeOf thee now sees doth like a Cittie lyeRaz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flameThat added warmth and beauty to thy frame?Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fireThe losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?Or hovers it beneath, the world t' upholdFrom generall ruine, and expell that coldDull humor weakens it? If so it be;My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.But thy example (if kinde heaven had daigndFrailty that favour) had mankind regaindTo his first purity. For that the witOf vice, might not except 'gainst th' AncheritAs too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:Teaching the soule by what preservative,She may from sinnes contagion live secure,Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.In this darke mist of error with a cleareUnspotted light, thy vertue did appeareT' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rageOf untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealthOf time have spent in ryot, or his healthBy surfeits forfeited; if he had seeneWhat temperance had in thy dyet beene?What glorious foole had vaunted honours boughtBy gold or practise, or by rapin broughtFrom his fore-fathers, had he understoodHowTalbotvalued not his owne great blood!Had Politicians seene him scorning moreThe unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the pooreThatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth findStill free admittance: their pale labors hadBeene to be good, not to be great and bad.But he is lost in a blind vault, and weMust not admire though sinnes now frequent beAnd uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables whereThe Law was writ by death now broken are,By death extinguisht is that Star, whose lightDid shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd rightWhich steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,(That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be.But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fireEnlighten'd. And since thou must never hereBe seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.Elegie, 8.Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor allThe cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.Though there both th' Indies met in each smal roomTh' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chestIs Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the EastWhen it is purified by th' generall fireShall see these now pale ashes sparkle higherThen all the gems she vants: transcending farIn fragrant lustre the bright morning star.Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather weHave by a cataract lost sight, then heThough dead his glory. So to us blacke nightBrings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of dayFrom the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le payLike the just Larke, the tribute of my verseI will invite thee, from thy envious herseTo rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes comeFrom th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdomeThe nard breathes never so, nor so the roseWhen the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowesSoft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early EastVying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.These gentle perfumes usher in the dayWhich from the night of his discolour'd clayBreakes on the sudden: for a Soule so brightOf force must to her earth contribute light.But if w' are so far blind, we cannot seeThe wonder of this truth; yet let us beNot infidels: nor like dull Atheists giveOur selves so long to lust, till we believe(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fallTo a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.The bad mans death is horror. But the justKeepe something of his glory in his dust.FINIS.
Elegie, 1.Twere malice to the fame; to weepe aloneAnd not enforce an universall groaneFrom ruinous man, and make the World complaine:Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophaneIn mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truthYet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.I can relate thy businesse here on earth,Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birthOut-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farreTh' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,I cannot speake, nor whether thou art inCommission with a Throne, or Cherubin.Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we mayWithout disturbing the harmonious Spheares,Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'dMy active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'dBy empty griefes; they who can utter it,Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.I stood likeNiobewithout a grone,Congeal'd into that monumentall stoneThat doth lye over thee: I had no roomeFor witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.And friendships monument, thus had I stood;But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my bloodWith a new life. Ile like a funerall fireBut burne a while to thee, and then expire.
Elegie, 1.Twere malice to the fame; to weepe aloneAnd not enforce an universall groaneFrom ruinous man, and make the World complaine:Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophaneIn mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truthYet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.I can relate thy businesse here on earth,Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birthOut-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farreTh' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,I cannot speake, nor whether thou art inCommission with a Throne, or Cherubin.Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we mayWithout disturbing the harmonious Spheares,Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'dMy active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'dBy empty griefes; they who can utter it,Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.I stood likeNiobewithout a grone,Congeal'd into that monumentall stoneThat doth lye over thee: I had no roomeFor witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.And friendships monument, thus had I stood;But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my bloodWith a new life. Ile like a funerall fireBut burne a while to thee, and then expire.
Twere malice to the fame; to weepe aloneAnd not enforce an universall groaneFrom ruinous man, and make the World complaine:Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophaneIn mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truthYet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.I can relate thy businesse here on earth,Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birthOut-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farreTh' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,I cannot speake, nor whether thou art inCommission with a Throne, or Cherubin.Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we mayWithout disturbing the harmonious Spheares,Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'dMy active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'dBy empty griefes; they who can utter it,Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.I stood likeNiobewithout a grone,Congeal'd into that monumentall stoneThat doth lye over thee: I had no roomeFor witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.And friendships monument, thus had I stood;But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my bloodWith a new life. Ile like a funerall fireBut burne a while to thee, and then expire.
Twere malice to the fame; to weepe alone
And not enforce an universall groane
From ruinous man, and make the World complaine:
Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophane
In mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truth
Yet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.
I can relate thy businesse here on earth,
Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birth
Out-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farre
Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,
I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in
Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin.
Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,
Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we may
Without disturbing the harmonious Spheares,
Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.
Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'd
My active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'd
By empty griefes; they who can utter it,
Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.
I stood likeNiobewithout a grone,
Congeal'd into that monumentall stone
That doth lye over thee: I had no roome
For witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.
And friendships monument, thus had I stood;
But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my blood
With a new life. Ile like a funerall fire
But burne a while to thee, and then expire.
Elegie, 2.Talbotis dead. Like lightning which no partOth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in allThe stocke of sorrow, any charme can callDeath sooner up. For musiqu's in the breathOf thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' deathThat brings with it, if you with this compareAll the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.They cure (Physitians say) the elementSicke with dull vapors, and to banishmentConfine infections; but this fatall shreeke,Without the least redresse, is utter'd likeThe last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lyeA scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.What now hath life to boast of? Can I haveA thought lesse darke than th' horror of the graveNow thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a faultPast pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe?Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,These vowes to thee! for since greatTalbot'sgoneDowne to thy silence, I commerce with noneBut thy pale people: and in that confuteMistaking man, that dead men are not mute.Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eareAccustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heareHow their cold language tels thee, that thy skinIs but a beautious shrine, in which black sinIs Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lustHath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.GreatAtlasof the state, descend with me.But hither, and this vault shall furnish theeWith more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,And show how false are all those mysteriesThy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swellWith envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.It will instruct you, Courtier, that your ArtOf outward smoothnesse and a rugged heartBut cheates your self, and all those subtill wayesYou tread to greatnesse, is a fatall mazeWhere you your selfe shall loose, for though you breathUpward to pride, your center is beneath.And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can woundThis unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquenceWill teach my soule to triumph over sence,Which hath its period in a grave, and thereShowes what are all our pompous surfets here.Great Orator! deareTalbot! Still, to theeMay I an auditor attentive be:And piously maintaine the same commerceWe held in life! and if in my rude verseI to the world may thy sad precepts read:I will on earth interpret for the dead.
Elegie, 2.Talbotis dead. Like lightning which no partOth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in allThe stocke of sorrow, any charme can callDeath sooner up. For musiqu's in the breathOf thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' deathThat brings with it, if you with this compareAll the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.They cure (Physitians say) the elementSicke with dull vapors, and to banishmentConfine infections; but this fatall shreeke,Without the least redresse, is utter'd likeThe last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lyeA scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.What now hath life to boast of? Can I haveA thought lesse darke than th' horror of the graveNow thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a faultPast pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe?Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,These vowes to thee! for since greatTalbot'sgoneDowne to thy silence, I commerce with noneBut thy pale people: and in that confuteMistaking man, that dead men are not mute.Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eareAccustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heareHow their cold language tels thee, that thy skinIs but a beautious shrine, in which black sinIs Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lustHath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.GreatAtlasof the state, descend with me.But hither, and this vault shall furnish theeWith more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,And show how false are all those mysteriesThy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swellWith envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.It will instruct you, Courtier, that your ArtOf outward smoothnesse and a rugged heartBut cheates your self, and all those subtill wayesYou tread to greatnesse, is a fatall mazeWhere you your selfe shall loose, for though you breathUpward to pride, your center is beneath.And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can woundThis unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquenceWill teach my soule to triumph over sence,Which hath its period in a grave, and thereShowes what are all our pompous surfets here.Great Orator! deareTalbot! Still, to theeMay I an auditor attentive be:And piously maintaine the same commerceWe held in life! and if in my rude verseI to the world may thy sad precepts read:I will on earth interpret for the dead.
Talbotis dead. Like lightning which no partOth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in allThe stocke of sorrow, any charme can callDeath sooner up. For musiqu's in the breathOf thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' deathThat brings with it, if you with this compareAll the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.They cure (Physitians say) the elementSicke with dull vapors, and to banishmentConfine infections; but this fatall shreeke,Without the least redresse, is utter'd likeThe last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lyeA scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.What now hath life to boast of? Can I haveA thought lesse darke than th' horror of the graveNow thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a faultPast pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe?Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,These vowes to thee! for since greatTalbot'sgoneDowne to thy silence, I commerce with noneBut thy pale people: and in that confuteMistaking man, that dead men are not mute.Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eareAccustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heareHow their cold language tels thee, that thy skinIs but a beautious shrine, in which black sinIs Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lustHath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.GreatAtlasof the state, descend with me.But hither, and this vault shall furnish theeWith more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,And show how false are all those mysteriesThy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swellWith envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.It will instruct you, Courtier, that your ArtOf outward smoothnesse and a rugged heartBut cheates your self, and all those subtill wayesYou tread to greatnesse, is a fatall mazeWhere you your selfe shall loose, for though you breathUpward to pride, your center is beneath.And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can woundThis unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquenceWill teach my soule to triumph over sence,Which hath its period in a grave, and thereShowes what are all our pompous surfets here.Great Orator! deareTalbot! Still, to theeMay I an auditor attentive be:And piously maintaine the same commerceWe held in life! and if in my rude verseI to the world may thy sad precepts read:I will on earth interpret for the dead.
Talbotis dead. Like lightning which no part
Oth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,
This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in all
The stocke of sorrow, any charme can call
Death sooner up. For musiqu's in the breath
Of thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' death
That brings with it, if you with this compare
All the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.
They cure (Physitians say) the element
Sicke with dull vapors, and to banishment
Confine infections; but this fatall shreeke,
Without the least redresse, is utter'd like
The last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lye
A scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.
What now hath life to boast of? Can I have
A thought lesse darke than th' horror of the grave
Now thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a fault
Past pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?
Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe?
Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,
These vowes to thee! for since greatTalbot'sgone
Downe to thy silence, I commerce with none
But thy pale people: and in that confute
Mistaking man, that dead men are not mute.
Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eare
Accustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heare
How their cold language tels thee, that thy skin
Is but a beautious shrine, in which black sin
Is Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lust
Hath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.
GreatAtlasof the state, descend with me.
But hither, and this vault shall furnish thee
With more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,
And show how false are all those mysteries
Thy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swell
With envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.
It will instruct you, Courtier, that your Art
Of outward smoothnesse and a rugged heart
But cheates your self, and all those subtill wayes
You tread to greatnesse, is a fatall maze
Where you your selfe shall loose, for though you breath
Upward to pride, your center is beneath.
And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;
Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can wound
This unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquence
Will teach my soule to triumph over sence,
Which hath its period in a grave, and there
Showes what are all our pompous surfets here.
Great Orator! deareTalbot! Still, to thee
May I an auditor attentive be:
And piously maintaine the same commerce
We held in life! and if in my rude verse
I to the world may thy sad precepts read:
I will on earth interpret for the dead.
Elegie, 3.Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and thoughI cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goeIn thy cœlestiall journey; and my heartExpanssion wants, to thinke what now thou artHow bright and wide thy glories; yet I mayRemember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.Best object to my heart! what vertues beInherent even to the least thought of thee!Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feareIn its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,Now glorious to my eye, since it possestThe wealthy empyre of that happie chestWhich harbours thy rich dust; for how can heBe thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eareI catch from lonely graves, in hope to heareNewes from the dead, nor can pale visions frightHis eye, who since thy death feeles no delightIn mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fateDoth in me a sublimer soule create.And now my sorrow followes thee, I treadThe milkie way, and see the snowie headOfAtlasfarre below, while all the highSwolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while IWeepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye,My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;So fraile that every blast of honour canSwell him above himselfe, each, adverse gustHim and his glories shiver into dust.How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a spanHis empire, who commands the Ocean.Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty oreAnd th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shoreNor can it greater seeme, when this great AllFor which men quarrell so, is but a ballCast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.From thee, deareTalbot, living I did learneThe Arts of life, and by thy light discerneThe truth, which men dispute. But by thee deadI'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:And that way sooner master it, than heTo whom both th' Indies tributary be.
Elegie, 3.Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and thoughI cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goeIn thy cœlestiall journey; and my heartExpanssion wants, to thinke what now thou artHow bright and wide thy glories; yet I mayRemember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.Best object to my heart! what vertues beInherent even to the least thought of thee!Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feareIn its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,Now glorious to my eye, since it possestThe wealthy empyre of that happie chestWhich harbours thy rich dust; for how can heBe thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eareI catch from lonely graves, in hope to heareNewes from the dead, nor can pale visions frightHis eye, who since thy death feeles no delightIn mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fateDoth in me a sublimer soule create.And now my sorrow followes thee, I treadThe milkie way, and see the snowie headOfAtlasfarre below, while all the highSwolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while IWeepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye,My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;So fraile that every blast of honour canSwell him above himselfe, each, adverse gustHim and his glories shiver into dust.How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a spanHis empire, who commands the Ocean.Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty oreAnd th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shoreNor can it greater seeme, when this great AllFor which men quarrell so, is but a ballCast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.From thee, deareTalbot, living I did learneThe Arts of life, and by thy light discerneThe truth, which men dispute. But by thee deadI'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:And that way sooner master it, than heTo whom both th' Indies tributary be.
Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and thoughI cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goeIn thy cœlestiall journey; and my heartExpanssion wants, to thinke what now thou artHow bright and wide thy glories; yet I mayRemember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.Best object to my heart! what vertues beInherent even to the least thought of thee!Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feareIn its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,Now glorious to my eye, since it possestThe wealthy empyre of that happie chestWhich harbours thy rich dust; for how can heBe thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eareI catch from lonely graves, in hope to heareNewes from the dead, nor can pale visions frightHis eye, who since thy death feeles no delightIn mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fateDoth in me a sublimer soule create.And now my sorrow followes thee, I treadThe milkie way, and see the snowie headOfAtlasfarre below, while all the highSwolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while IWeepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye,My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;So fraile that every blast of honour canSwell him above himselfe, each, adverse gustHim and his glories shiver into dust.How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a spanHis empire, who commands the Ocean.Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty oreAnd th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shoreNor can it greater seeme, when this great AllFor which men quarrell so, is but a ballCast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.From thee, deareTalbot, living I did learneThe Arts of life, and by thy light discerneThe truth, which men dispute. But by thee deadI'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:And that way sooner master it, than heTo whom both th' Indies tributary be.
Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and though
I cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goe
In thy cœlestiall journey; and my heart
Expanssion wants, to thinke what now thou art
How bright and wide thy glories; yet I may
Remember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.
Best object to my heart! what vertues be
Inherent even to the least thought of thee!
Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feare
In its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,
Now glorious to my eye, since it possest
The wealthy empyre of that happie chest
Which harbours thy rich dust; for how can he
Be thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?
Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eare
I catch from lonely graves, in hope to heare
Newes from the dead, nor can pale visions fright
His eye, who since thy death feeles no delight
In mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fate
Doth in me a sublimer soule create.
And now my sorrow followes thee, I tread
The milkie way, and see the snowie head
OfAtlasfarre below, while all the high
Swolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.
I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while I
Weepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye,
My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;
Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,
Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;
So fraile that every blast of honour can
Swell him above himselfe, each, adverse gust
Him and his glories shiver into dust.
How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a span
His empire, who commands the Ocean.
Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty ore
And th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shore
Nor can it greater seeme, when this great All
For which men quarrell so, is but a ball
Cast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.
And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,
Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;
And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.
From thee, deareTalbot, living I did learne
The Arts of life, and by thy light discerne
The truth, which men dispute. But by thee dead
I'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:
And that way sooner master it, than he
To whom both th' Indies tributary be.
Elegie, 4.My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breathDid call upon: affirming that thy deathWould wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must beIndeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,(Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds wearesT' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowneReall as mine. All other mourners keepeIn griefe a method: without forme I weepe.The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyesWet just as long as are the obsequies.The widow formerly a yeare doth spendIn her so courtly blackes. But for a FriendWe weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, haveOur very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flameAnd thouCastarawho had hadst a name,But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verseIs lost to you, and onely onTalbotsherseSadly attends. And till times fatall handRuines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.There to thy selfe, deareTalbot, Ile repeateThy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how greatThou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how allWho out-live thee, see but the FunerallOf glory: and if yet some vertuous be,They but weake apparitions are of thee.So setled were thy thoughts, each action soDiscreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flowWas ere perceiv'd in thee: each word matureAnd every sceane of life from sinne so pureThat scarce in its whole history, we canFinde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we mustAddresse our language to a little dust,And seeke forTalbotthere. Injurious fate,To lay my lifes ambition desolate.Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,Not how it can give such another blow.
Elegie, 4.My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breathDid call upon: affirming that thy deathWould wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must beIndeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,(Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds wearesT' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowneReall as mine. All other mourners keepeIn griefe a method: without forme I weepe.The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyesWet just as long as are the obsequies.The widow formerly a yeare doth spendIn her so courtly blackes. But for a FriendWe weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, haveOur very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flameAnd thouCastarawho had hadst a name,But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verseIs lost to you, and onely onTalbotsherseSadly attends. And till times fatall handRuines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.There to thy selfe, deareTalbot, Ile repeateThy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how greatThou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how allWho out-live thee, see but the FunerallOf glory: and if yet some vertuous be,They but weake apparitions are of thee.So setled were thy thoughts, each action soDiscreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flowWas ere perceiv'd in thee: each word matureAnd every sceane of life from sinne so pureThat scarce in its whole history, we canFinde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we mustAddresse our language to a little dust,And seeke forTalbotthere. Injurious fate,To lay my lifes ambition desolate.Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,Not how it can give such another blow.
My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breathDid call upon: affirming that thy deathWould wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must beIndeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,(Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds wearesT' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowneReall as mine. All other mourners keepeIn griefe a method: without forme I weepe.The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyesWet just as long as are the obsequies.The widow formerly a yeare doth spendIn her so courtly blackes. But for a FriendWe weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, haveOur very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flameAnd thouCastarawho had hadst a name,But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verseIs lost to you, and onely onTalbotsherseSadly attends. And till times fatall handRuines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.There to thy selfe, deareTalbot, Ile repeateThy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how greatThou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how allWho out-live thee, see but the FunerallOf glory: and if yet some vertuous be,They but weake apparitions are of thee.So setled were thy thoughts, each action soDiscreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flowWas ere perceiv'd in thee: each word matureAnd every sceane of life from sinne so pureThat scarce in its whole history, we canFinde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we mustAddresse our language to a little dust,And seeke forTalbotthere. Injurious fate,To lay my lifes ambition desolate.Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,Not how it can give such another blow.
My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breath
Did call upon: affirming that thy death
Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be
Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.
My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,
(Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds weares
T' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:
Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowne
Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe
In griefe a method: without forme I weepe.
The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyes
Wet just as long as are the obsequies.
The widow formerly a yeare doth spend
In her so courtly blackes. But for a Friend
We weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, have
Our very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.
Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame
And thouCastarawho had hadst a name,
But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse
Is lost to you, and onely onTalbotsherse
Sadly attends. And till times fatall hand
Ruines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.
There to thy selfe, deareTalbot, Ile repeate
Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great
Thou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how all
Who out-live thee, see but the Funerall
Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be,
They but weake apparitions are of thee.
So setled were thy thoughts, each action so
Discreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow
Was ere perceiv'd in thee: each word mature
And every sceane of life from sinne so pure
That scarce in its whole history, we can
Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.
Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we must
Addresse our language to a little dust,
And seeke forTalbotthere. Injurious fate,
To lay my lifes ambition desolate.
Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,
Not how it can give such another blow.
Elegie, 5.Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely brightAs when by death her Soule shines in full lightFreed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that cameFrom thee (deareTalbot) did beget a flameT' enkindle vertue: which so faire by theeBecame, man, that blind mole, her face did see.But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwellYet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cellOf some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,As if of her the old man jealous were.Nor ever showes her beauty, but to someCarthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe!So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea,A starre about the Articke Circle, mayThen ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shallServe at the frozen Pilots funerall.Thou (brightest constellation) to this maineWhich all we sinners traffique on, didst daigneThe bounty of thy fire, which with so cleareAnd constant beames did our frayle vessels steare,That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.But now we sayle at randome. Every rockeThe folly doth of our ambition mockeAnd splits our hopes: To every Sirens breathWe listen and even court the face of death,If painted ore by pleasure: Every waveIft hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:So ruinous is the defect of thee,To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to meWho liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.Where shall I then begin to weepe? No groveSilent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse tearesEach eare is so enchanted; that no breathIs listned to, which mockes report of death.I'le turne my griefe then inward and deploreMy ruine to my selfe, repeating oreThe story of his vertues; untill INot write, but am my selfe his Elegie.
Elegie, 5.Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely brightAs when by death her Soule shines in full lightFreed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that cameFrom thee (deareTalbot) did beget a flameT' enkindle vertue: which so faire by theeBecame, man, that blind mole, her face did see.But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwellYet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cellOf some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,As if of her the old man jealous were.Nor ever showes her beauty, but to someCarthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe!So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea,A starre about the Articke Circle, mayThen ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shallServe at the frozen Pilots funerall.Thou (brightest constellation) to this maineWhich all we sinners traffique on, didst daigneThe bounty of thy fire, which with so cleareAnd constant beames did our frayle vessels steare,That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.But now we sayle at randome. Every rockeThe folly doth of our ambition mockeAnd splits our hopes: To every Sirens breathWe listen and even court the face of death,If painted ore by pleasure: Every waveIft hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:So ruinous is the defect of thee,To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to meWho liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.Where shall I then begin to weepe? No groveSilent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse tearesEach eare is so enchanted; that no breathIs listned to, which mockes report of death.I'le turne my griefe then inward and deploreMy ruine to my selfe, repeating oreThe story of his vertues; untill INot write, but am my selfe his Elegie.
Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely brightAs when by death her Soule shines in full lightFreed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that cameFrom thee (deareTalbot) did beget a flameT' enkindle vertue: which so faire by theeBecame, man, that blind mole, her face did see.But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwellYet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cellOf some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,As if of her the old man jealous were.Nor ever showes her beauty, but to someCarthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe!So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea,A starre about the Articke Circle, mayThen ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shallServe at the frozen Pilots funerall.Thou (brightest constellation) to this maineWhich all we sinners traffique on, didst daigneThe bounty of thy fire, which with so cleareAnd constant beames did our frayle vessels steare,That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.But now we sayle at randome. Every rockeThe folly doth of our ambition mockeAnd splits our hopes: To every Sirens breathWe listen and even court the face of death,If painted ore by pleasure: Every waveIft hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:So ruinous is the defect of thee,To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to meWho liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.Where shall I then begin to weepe? No groveSilent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse tearesEach eare is so enchanted; that no breathIs listned to, which mockes report of death.I'le turne my griefe then inward and deploreMy ruine to my selfe, repeating oreThe story of his vertues; untill INot write, but am my selfe his Elegie.
Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely bright
As when by death her Soule shines in full light
Freed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that came
From thee (deareTalbot) did beget a flame
T' enkindle vertue: which so faire by thee
Became, man, that blind mole, her face did see.
But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwell
Yet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cell
Of some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,
As if of her the old man jealous were.
Nor ever showes her beauty, but to some
Carthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe!
So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea,
A starre about the Articke Circle, may
Then ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shall
Serve at the frozen Pilots funerall.
Thou (brightest constellation) to this maine
Which all we sinners traffique on, didst daigne
The bounty of thy fire, which with so cleare
And constant beames did our frayle vessels steare,
That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,
Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.
But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke
The folly doth of our ambition mocke
And splits our hopes: To every Sirens breath
We listen and even court the face of death,
If painted ore by pleasure: Every wave
Ift hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:
So ruinous is the defect of thee,
To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me
Who liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,
Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.
And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,
To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.
Where shall I then begin to weepe? No grove
Silent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:
With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,
His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse teares
Each eare is so enchanted; that no breath
Is listned to, which mockes report of death.
I'le turne my griefe then inward and deplore
My ruine to my selfe, repeating ore
The story of his vertues; untill I
Not write, but am my selfe his Elegie.
Elegie, 6.Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flightTo their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder nightFrom its approach on day, and force day riseFrom the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herseRedeemes notTalbot, who cold as the breathOf winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eareTo breath into his soft expiring prayer.For had thy life beene by thy vertues spunOut to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the SunneAnd clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not allOur wonders fiction, from thy funerallThou hadst received new life, and liv'd to beThe conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.But all we Poets glory in, is vaineAnd empty triumph: Art cannot regaineOne poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flyeBy a fooles finger destinate to dye.Live then in thy true life (great soule) for setAt liberty by death thou owest no debtT' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sportOf time and fortune in yand' starry courtA glorious Potentate, while we belowBut fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.We follow campes, and to our hopes proposeTh' insulting victor; not remembring thoseDismembred trunkes who gave him victoryBy a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants beAnd to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.The shootings of a wounded conscienceWe patiently sustaine to serve our senceWith a short pleasure; So we empire gaineAnd rule the fate of businesse, the sad paineOf action we contemne, and the affrightWhich with pale visions still attends our night.Our joyes false apparitions, but our fearesAre certaine prophecies. And till our earesReach that cælestiall musique, which thine nowSo cheerefully receive, we must allowNo comfort to our griefes: from which to beExempted, is in death to follow thee.
Elegie, 6.Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flightTo their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder nightFrom its approach on day, and force day riseFrom the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herseRedeemes notTalbot, who cold as the breathOf winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eareTo breath into his soft expiring prayer.For had thy life beene by thy vertues spunOut to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the SunneAnd clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not allOur wonders fiction, from thy funerallThou hadst received new life, and liv'd to beThe conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.But all we Poets glory in, is vaineAnd empty triumph: Art cannot regaineOne poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flyeBy a fooles finger destinate to dye.Live then in thy true life (great soule) for setAt liberty by death thou owest no debtT' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sportOf time and fortune in yand' starry courtA glorious Potentate, while we belowBut fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.We follow campes, and to our hopes proposeTh' insulting victor; not remembring thoseDismembred trunkes who gave him victoryBy a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants beAnd to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.The shootings of a wounded conscienceWe patiently sustaine to serve our senceWith a short pleasure; So we empire gaineAnd rule the fate of businesse, the sad paineOf action we contemne, and the affrightWhich with pale visions still attends our night.Our joyes false apparitions, but our fearesAre certaine prophecies. And till our earesReach that cælestiall musique, which thine nowSo cheerefully receive, we must allowNo comfort to our griefes: from which to beExempted, is in death to follow thee.
Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flightTo their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder nightFrom its approach on day, and force day riseFrom the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herseRedeemes notTalbot, who cold as the breathOf winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eareTo breath into his soft expiring prayer.For had thy life beene by thy vertues spunOut to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the SunneAnd clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not allOur wonders fiction, from thy funerallThou hadst received new life, and liv'd to beThe conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.But all we Poets glory in, is vaineAnd empty triumph: Art cannot regaineOne poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flyeBy a fooles finger destinate to dye.Live then in thy true life (great soule) for setAt liberty by death thou owest no debtT' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sportOf time and fortune in yand' starry courtA glorious Potentate, while we belowBut fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.We follow campes, and to our hopes proposeTh' insulting victor; not remembring thoseDismembred trunkes who gave him victoryBy a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants beAnd to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.The shootings of a wounded conscienceWe patiently sustaine to serve our senceWith a short pleasure; So we empire gaineAnd rule the fate of businesse, the sad paineOf action we contemne, and the affrightWhich with pale visions still attends our night.Our joyes false apparitions, but our fearesAre certaine prophecies. And till our earesReach that cælestiall musique, which thine nowSo cheerefully receive, we must allowNo comfort to our griefes: from which to beExempted, is in death to follow thee.
Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight
To their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder night
From its approach on day, and force day rise
From the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:
Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.
It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herse
Redeemes notTalbot, who cold as the breath
Of winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,
Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eare
To breath into his soft expiring prayer.
For had thy life beene by thy vertues spun
Out to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the Sunne
And clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not all
Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall
Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be
The conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.
But all we Poets glory in, is vaine
And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine
One poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flye
By a fooles finger destinate to dye.
Live then in thy true life (great soule) for set
At liberty by death thou owest no debt
T' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sport
Of time and fortune in yand' starry court
A glorious Potentate, while we below
But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.
We follow campes, and to our hopes propose
Th' insulting victor; not remembring those
Dismembred trunkes who gave him victory
By a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants be
And to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,
Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.
The shootings of a wounded conscience
We patiently sustaine to serve our sence
With a short pleasure; So we empire gaine
And rule the fate of businesse, the sad paine
Of action we contemne, and the affright
Which with pale visions still attends our night.
Our joyes false apparitions, but our feares
Are certaine prophecies. And till our eares
Reach that cælestiall musique, which thine now
So cheerefully receive, we must allow
No comfort to our griefes: from which to be
Exempted, is in death to follow thee.
Elegie, 7.There is no peace in sinne. Æternall warDoth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues areFriends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents beHarsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.While thou didst live we did that union findeIn the so faire republick of thy mind,Where discord never swel'd. And as we dareAffirme those goodly structures, temples areWhere well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:The musique of thy soule made us say, thereGod had his Altars; every breath a spiceAnd each religious act a sacrifice.But death hath that demolisht. All our eyeOf thee now sees doth like a Cittie lyeRaz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flameThat added warmth and beauty to thy frame?Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fireThe losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?Or hovers it beneath, the world t' upholdFrom generall ruine, and expell that coldDull humor weakens it? If so it be;My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.But thy example (if kinde heaven had daigndFrailty that favour) had mankind regaindTo his first purity. For that the witOf vice, might not except 'gainst th' AncheritAs too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:Teaching the soule by what preservative,She may from sinnes contagion live secure,Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.In this darke mist of error with a cleareUnspotted light, thy vertue did appeareT' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rageOf untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealthOf time have spent in ryot, or his healthBy surfeits forfeited; if he had seeneWhat temperance had in thy dyet beene?What glorious foole had vaunted honours boughtBy gold or practise, or by rapin broughtFrom his fore-fathers, had he understoodHowTalbotvalued not his owne great blood!Had Politicians seene him scorning moreThe unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the pooreThatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth findStill free admittance: their pale labors hadBeene to be good, not to be great and bad.But he is lost in a blind vault, and weMust not admire though sinnes now frequent beAnd uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables whereThe Law was writ by death now broken are,By death extinguisht is that Star, whose lightDid shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd rightWhich steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,(That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be.But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fireEnlighten'd. And since thou must never hereBe seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.
Elegie, 7.There is no peace in sinne. Æternall warDoth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues areFriends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents beHarsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.While thou didst live we did that union findeIn the so faire republick of thy mind,Where discord never swel'd. And as we dareAffirme those goodly structures, temples areWhere well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:The musique of thy soule made us say, thereGod had his Altars; every breath a spiceAnd each religious act a sacrifice.But death hath that demolisht. All our eyeOf thee now sees doth like a Cittie lyeRaz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flameThat added warmth and beauty to thy frame?Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fireThe losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?Or hovers it beneath, the world t' upholdFrom generall ruine, and expell that coldDull humor weakens it? If so it be;My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.But thy example (if kinde heaven had daigndFrailty that favour) had mankind regaindTo his first purity. For that the witOf vice, might not except 'gainst th' AncheritAs too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:Teaching the soule by what preservative,She may from sinnes contagion live secure,Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.In this darke mist of error with a cleareUnspotted light, thy vertue did appeareT' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rageOf untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealthOf time have spent in ryot, or his healthBy surfeits forfeited; if he had seeneWhat temperance had in thy dyet beene?What glorious foole had vaunted honours boughtBy gold or practise, or by rapin broughtFrom his fore-fathers, had he understoodHowTalbotvalued not his owne great blood!Had Politicians seene him scorning moreThe unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the pooreThatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth findStill free admittance: their pale labors hadBeene to be good, not to be great and bad.But he is lost in a blind vault, and weMust not admire though sinnes now frequent beAnd uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables whereThe Law was writ by death now broken are,By death extinguisht is that Star, whose lightDid shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd rightWhich steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,(That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be.But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fireEnlighten'd. And since thou must never hereBe seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.
There is no peace in sinne. Æternall warDoth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues areFriends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents beHarsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.While thou didst live we did that union findeIn the so faire republick of thy mind,Where discord never swel'd. And as we dareAffirme those goodly structures, temples areWhere well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:The musique of thy soule made us say, thereGod had his Altars; every breath a spiceAnd each religious act a sacrifice.But death hath that demolisht. All our eyeOf thee now sees doth like a Cittie lyeRaz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flameThat added warmth and beauty to thy frame?Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fireThe losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?Or hovers it beneath, the world t' upholdFrom generall ruine, and expell that coldDull humor weakens it? If so it be;My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.But thy example (if kinde heaven had daigndFrailty that favour) had mankind regaindTo his first purity. For that the witOf vice, might not except 'gainst th' AncheritAs too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:Teaching the soule by what preservative,She may from sinnes contagion live secure,Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.In this darke mist of error with a cleareUnspotted light, thy vertue did appeareT' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rageOf untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealthOf time have spent in ryot, or his healthBy surfeits forfeited; if he had seeneWhat temperance had in thy dyet beene?What glorious foole had vaunted honours boughtBy gold or practise, or by rapin broughtFrom his fore-fathers, had he understoodHowTalbotvalued not his owne great blood!Had Politicians seene him scorning moreThe unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the pooreThatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth findStill free admittance: their pale labors hadBeene to be good, not to be great and bad.But he is lost in a blind vault, and weMust not admire though sinnes now frequent beAnd uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables whereThe Law was writ by death now broken are,By death extinguisht is that Star, whose lightDid shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd rightWhich steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,(That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be.But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fireEnlighten'd. And since thou must never hereBe seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.
There is no peace in sinne. Æternall war
Doth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues are
Friends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents be
Harsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.
While thou didst live we did that union finde
In the so faire republick of thy mind,
Where discord never swel'd. And as we dare
Affirme those goodly structures, temples are
Where well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:
The musique of thy soule made us say, there
God had his Altars; every breath a spice
And each religious act a sacrifice.
But death hath that demolisht. All our eye
Of thee now sees doth like a Cittie lye
Raz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flame
That added warmth and beauty to thy frame?
Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fire
The losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?
Or hovers it beneath, the world t' uphold
From generall ruine, and expell that cold
Dull humor weakens it? If so it be;
My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.
But thy example (if kinde heaven had daignd
Frailty that favour) had mankind regaind
To his first purity. For that the wit
Of vice, might not except 'gainst th' Ancherit
As too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:
Teaching the soule by what preservative,
She may from sinnes contagion live secure,
Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.
In this darke mist of error with a cleare
Unspotted light, thy vertue did appeare
T' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rage
Of untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;
Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealth
Of time have spent in ryot, or his health
By surfeits forfeited; if he had seene
What temperance had in thy dyet beene?
What glorious foole had vaunted honours bought
By gold or practise, or by rapin brought
From his fore-fathers, had he understood
HowTalbotvalued not his owne great blood!
Had Politicians seene him scorning more
The unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the poore
Thatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind
(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth find
Still free admittance: their pale labors had
Beene to be good, not to be great and bad.
But he is lost in a blind vault, and we
Must not admire though sinnes now frequent be
And uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables where
The Law was writ by death now broken are,
By death extinguisht is that Star, whose light
Did shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd right
Which steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,
(That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be.
But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,
Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fire
Enlighten'd. And since thou must never here
Be seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.
Elegie, 8.Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor allThe cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.Though there both th' Indies met in each smal roomTh' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chestIs Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the EastWhen it is purified by th' generall fireShall see these now pale ashes sparkle higherThen all the gems she vants: transcending farIn fragrant lustre the bright morning star.Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather weHave by a cataract lost sight, then heThough dead his glory. So to us blacke nightBrings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of dayFrom the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le payLike the just Larke, the tribute of my verseI will invite thee, from thy envious herseTo rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes comeFrom th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdomeThe nard breathes never so, nor so the roseWhen the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowesSoft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early EastVying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.These gentle perfumes usher in the dayWhich from the night of his discolour'd clayBreakes on the sudden: for a Soule so brightOf force must to her earth contribute light.But if w' are so far blind, we cannot seeThe wonder of this truth; yet let us beNot infidels: nor like dull Atheists giveOur selves so long to lust, till we believe(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fallTo a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.The bad mans death is horror. But the justKeepe something of his glory in his dust.
Elegie, 8.Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor allThe cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.Though there both th' Indies met in each smal roomTh' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chestIs Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the EastWhen it is purified by th' generall fireShall see these now pale ashes sparkle higherThen all the gems she vants: transcending farIn fragrant lustre the bright morning star.Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather weHave by a cataract lost sight, then heThough dead his glory. So to us blacke nightBrings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of dayFrom the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le payLike the just Larke, the tribute of my verseI will invite thee, from thy envious herseTo rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes comeFrom th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdomeThe nard breathes never so, nor so the roseWhen the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowesSoft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early EastVying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.These gentle perfumes usher in the dayWhich from the night of his discolour'd clayBreakes on the sudden: for a Soule so brightOf force must to her earth contribute light.But if w' are so far blind, we cannot seeThe wonder of this truth; yet let us beNot infidels: nor like dull Atheists giveOur selves so long to lust, till we believe(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fallTo a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.The bad mans death is horror. But the justKeepe something of his glory in his dust.
Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor allThe cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.Though there both th' Indies met in each smal roomTh' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chestIs Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the EastWhen it is purified by th' generall fireShall see these now pale ashes sparkle higherThen all the gems she vants: transcending farIn fragrant lustre the bright morning star.Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather weHave by a cataract lost sight, then heThough dead his glory. So to us blacke nightBrings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of dayFrom the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le payLike the just Larke, the tribute of my verseI will invite thee, from thy envious herseTo rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes comeFrom th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdomeThe nard breathes never so, nor so the roseWhen the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowesSoft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early EastVying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.These gentle perfumes usher in the dayWhich from the night of his discolour'd clayBreakes on the sudden: for a Soule so brightOf force must to her earth contribute light.But if w' are so far blind, we cannot seeThe wonder of this truth; yet let us beNot infidels: nor like dull Atheists giveOur selves so long to lust, till we believe(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fallTo a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.The bad mans death is horror. But the justKeepe something of his glory in his dust.
Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all
The cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.
Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room
Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.
Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chest
Is Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the East
When it is purified by th' generall fire
Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher
Then all the gems she vants: transcending far
In fragrant lustre the bright morning star.
Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we
Have by a cataract lost sight, then he
Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night
Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.
Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of day
From the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le pay
Like the just Larke, the tribute of my verse
I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
To rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,
That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.
My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes come
From th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdome
The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose
When the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowes
Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East
Vying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.
These gentle perfumes usher in the day
Which from the night of his discolour'd clay
Breakes on the sudden: for a Soule so bright
Of force must to her earth contribute light.
But if w' are so far blind, we cannot see
The wonder of this truth; yet let us be
Not infidels: nor like dull Atheists give
Our selves so long to lust, till we believe
(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall
To a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.
The bad mans death is horror. But the just
Keepe something of his glory in his dust.
FINIS.