Light Sonnets hence, and to loose Louers flie,And mournfull Maydens sing an ElegieOn those threeSheffields, ouer-whelm'd with waues,Whose losse the teares of all the Muses craues;A thing so full of pitty as this was,Me thinkes for nothing should not slightly passe.Treble this losse was, why should it not borrowe,Through this Iles treble parts, a treble sorrowe:But Fate did this, to let the world to knowe,10That sorrowes which from common causes growe,Are not worth mourning for, the losse to beare,But of one onely sonne, 's not worth one teare.Some tender-hearted man, as I, may spendSome drops (perhaps) for a deceased friend.Some men (perhaps) their Wifes late death may rue;Or Wifes their Husbands, but such be but fewe.Cares that haue vs'd the hearts of men to tuchSo oft, and deepely, will not now be such;Who'll care for loss of maintenance, or place,20Fame, liberty, or of the Princes grace;Or sutes in law, by base corruption crost,When he shall finde, that this which he hath lost,Alas, is nothing to his, which did lose,Three sonnes at once so excellent as those:Nay, it is feard that this in time may breedHard hearts in men to their owne naturall seed;That in respect of this great losse of theirs,Men will scarce mourne the death of their owne heires.Through all this Ile their losse so publique is,30That euery man doth take them to be his,And as a plague which had beginning there,So catching is, and raigning euery where,That those the farthest off as much doe rue them,As those the most familiarly that knew them;Children with this disaster are wext sage,And like to men that strucken are in age;Talke what it is, three children at one timeThus to haue drown'd, and in their very prime;Yea, and doe learne to act the same so well,40That then olde folke, they better can it tell.Inuention, oft that Passion vs'd to faine,In sorrowes of themselves but slight, and meane,To make them seeme great, here it shall not need,For that this Subiect doth so farre exceedAll forc'd Expression, that what Poesie shallHappily thinke to grace it selfe withall,Falls so belowe it, that it rather borrowesGrace from their griefe, then addeth to their sorrowes,For sad mischance thus in the losse of three,50To shewe it selfe the vtmost it could bee:Exacting also by the selfe same lawe,The vtmost teares that sorrowe had to draweAll future times hath vtterly preuentedOf a more losse, or more to be lamented.Whilst in faire youth they liuely flourish'd here,To their kinde Parents they were onely deere:But being dead, now euery one doth takeThem for their owne, and doe like sorrowe make:As for their owne begot, as they pretended60Hope in the issue, which should haue discendedFrom them againe; nor here doth end our sorrow,But those of vs, that shall be borne to morroweStill shall lament them, and when time shall count,To what vast number passed yeares shall mount,They from their death shall duly reckon so,As from the Deluge, former vs'd to doe.O cruellHumberguilty of their gore,I now beleeue more then I did beforeTheBrittishStory, whence thy name begun70Of KinglyHumber, an inuadingHun,By thee deuoured, for't is likely thouWith blood wert Christned, bloud-thirsty till now.TheOuse, theDone, and thou farre clearerTrent,To drowne theSheffieldsas you gaue consent,Shall curse the time, that ere you were infus'd,Which haue your waters basely thus abus'd.The groueling Boore yee hinder not to goe,And at his pleasure Ferry to and fro.The very best part of whose soule, and bloud,80Compared with theirs, is viler then your mud.But wherefore paper, doe I idely spend,On those deafe waters to so little end,And vp to starry heauen doe I not looke,In which, as in an euerlasting booke,Our ends are written; O let times rehearseTheir fatall losse, in their sad Aniuerse.
Light Sonnets hence, and to loose Louers flie,And mournfull Maydens sing an ElegieOn those threeSheffields, ouer-whelm'd with waues,Whose losse the teares of all the Muses craues;A thing so full of pitty as this was,Me thinkes for nothing should not slightly passe.Treble this losse was, why should it not borrowe,Through this Iles treble parts, a treble sorrowe:But Fate did this, to let the world to knowe,10That sorrowes which from common causes growe,Are not worth mourning for, the losse to beare,But of one onely sonne, 's not worth one teare.Some tender-hearted man, as I, may spendSome drops (perhaps) for a deceased friend.Some men (perhaps) their Wifes late death may rue;Or Wifes their Husbands, but such be but fewe.Cares that haue vs'd the hearts of men to tuchSo oft, and deepely, will not now be such;Who'll care for loss of maintenance, or place,20Fame, liberty, or of the Princes grace;Or sutes in law, by base corruption crost,When he shall finde, that this which he hath lost,Alas, is nothing to his, which did lose,Three sonnes at once so excellent as those:Nay, it is feard that this in time may breedHard hearts in men to their owne naturall seed;That in respect of this great losse of theirs,Men will scarce mourne the death of their owne heires.Through all this Ile their losse so publique is,30That euery man doth take them to be his,And as a plague which had beginning there,So catching is, and raigning euery where,That those the farthest off as much doe rue them,As those the most familiarly that knew them;Children with this disaster are wext sage,And like to men that strucken are in age;Talke what it is, three children at one timeThus to haue drown'd, and in their very prime;Yea, and doe learne to act the same so well,40That then olde folke, they better can it tell.Inuention, oft that Passion vs'd to faine,In sorrowes of themselves but slight, and meane,To make them seeme great, here it shall not need,For that this Subiect doth so farre exceedAll forc'd Expression, that what Poesie shallHappily thinke to grace it selfe withall,Falls so belowe it, that it rather borrowesGrace from their griefe, then addeth to their sorrowes,For sad mischance thus in the losse of three,50To shewe it selfe the vtmost it could bee:Exacting also by the selfe same lawe,The vtmost teares that sorrowe had to draweAll future times hath vtterly preuentedOf a more losse, or more to be lamented.Whilst in faire youth they liuely flourish'd here,To their kinde Parents they were onely deere:But being dead, now euery one doth takeThem for their owne, and doe like sorrowe make:As for their owne begot, as they pretended60Hope in the issue, which should haue discendedFrom them againe; nor here doth end our sorrow,But those of vs, that shall be borne to morroweStill shall lament them, and when time shall count,To what vast number passed yeares shall mount,They from their death shall duly reckon so,As from the Deluge, former vs'd to doe.O cruellHumberguilty of their gore,I now beleeue more then I did beforeTheBrittishStory, whence thy name begun70Of KinglyHumber, an inuadingHun,By thee deuoured, for't is likely thouWith blood wert Christned, bloud-thirsty till now.TheOuse, theDone, and thou farre clearerTrent,To drowne theSheffieldsas you gaue consent,Shall curse the time, that ere you were infus'd,Which haue your waters basely thus abus'd.The groueling Boore yee hinder not to goe,And at his pleasure Ferry to and fro.The very best part of whose soule, and bloud,80Compared with theirs, is viler then your mud.But wherefore paper, doe I idely spend,On those deafe waters to so little end,And vp to starry heauen doe I not looke,In which, as in an euerlasting booke,Our ends are written; O let times rehearseTheir fatall losse, in their sad Aniuerse.
Madame, to shew the smoothnesse of my vaine,Neither that I would haue you entertaineThe time in reading me, which you would spendIn faire discourse with some knowne honest friend,I write not to you. Nay, and which is more,My powerfull verses striue not to restore,What time and sicknesse haue in you impair'd,To other ends my Elegie is squar'd.Your beauty, sweetnesse, and your gracefull parts10That haue drawne many eyes, wonne many hearts,Of me get little, I am so much man,That let them doe their vtmost that they can,I will resist their forces: and they beThough great to others, yet not so to me.The first time I beheld you, I then saweThat (in it selfe) which had the power to draweMy stayd affection, and thought to alloweYou some deale of my heart; but you have nowGot farre into it, and you haue the skill20(For ought I see) to winne vpon me still.When I doe thinke how brauely you haue borneYour many crosses, as in Fortunes scorne,And how neglectfull you have seem'd to be,Of that which hath seem'd terrible to me,I thought you stupid, nor that you had feltThose griefes which (often) I haue scene to meltAnother woman into sighes and teares,A thing but seldome in your sexe and yeares,But when in you I haue perceiu'd agen,30(Noted by me, more then by other men)How feeling and how sensible you areOf your friends sorrowes, and with how much careYou seeke to cure them, then my selfe I blame,That I your patience should so much misname,Which to my vnderstanding maketh knowneWho feeles anothers griefe, can feele their owne.When straight me thinkes, I heare your patience say,Are you the man that studiedSeneca:Pliniesmost learned letters; and must I40Read you a Lecture in Philosophie,T'auoid the afflictions that haue vs'd to reach you;I'le learne you more, Sir, then your bookes can teach you.Of all your sex, yet neuer did I knowe,Any that yet so actually could showeSuch rules for patience, such an easie way,That who so sees it, shall be forc'd to say,Loe what before seem'd hard to be discern'd,Is of this Lady, in an instant learn'd.It is heauens will that you should wronged be50By the malicious, that the world might seeYour Doue-like meekenesse; for had the base scumme,The spawne of Fiends, beene in your slander dumbe,Your vertue then had perish'd, neuer priz'd,For that the same you had not exercised;And you had lost the Crowne you haue, and glory,Nor had you beene the subiect of my Story.Whilst they feele Hell, being damned in their hate,Their thoughts like Deuils them excruciate,Which by your noble suffrings doe torment60Them with new paines, and giues you this contentTo see your soule an Innocent, hath suffred,And vp to heauen before your eyes be offred:Your like we in a burning Glasse may see,When the Sunnes rayes therein contracted beBent on some obiect, which is purely white,We finde that colour doth dispierce the light,And stands vntainted: but if it hath gotSome little sully; or the least small spot,Then it soon fiers it; so you still remaine70Free, because in you they can finde no staine.God doth not loue them least, on whom he layesThe great'st afflictions; but that he will praiseHimselfe most in them, and will make them fit,Near'st to himselfe who is the Lambe to sit:For by that touch, like perfect gold he tries them,Who are not his, vntill the world denies them.And your example may work such effect,That it may be the beginning of a SectOf patient women; and that many a day80All Husbands may for you their Founder pray.Nor is to me your Innocence the lesse,In that I see you striue not to suppresseTheir barbarous malice; but your noble heartPrepar'd to act so difficult a part,With vnremoued constancie is stillThe same it was, that of your proper ill,The effect proceeds from your owne selfe the cause,Like some iust Prince, who to establish lawes,Suffers the breach at his best lou'd to strike,90To learne the vulgar to endure the like.You are a Martir thus, nor can you beLesse to the world so valued by me:If as you haue begun, you still perseuerBe euer good, that I may loue you euer.
Madame, to shew the smoothnesse of my vaine,Neither that I would haue you entertaineThe time in reading me, which you would spendIn faire discourse with some knowne honest friend,I write not to you. Nay, and which is more,My powerfull verses striue not to restore,What time and sicknesse haue in you impair'd,To other ends my Elegie is squar'd.Your beauty, sweetnesse, and your gracefull parts10That haue drawne many eyes, wonne many hearts,Of me get little, I am so much man,That let them doe their vtmost that they can,I will resist their forces: and they beThough great to others, yet not so to me.The first time I beheld you, I then saweThat (in it selfe) which had the power to draweMy stayd affection, and thought to alloweYou some deale of my heart; but you have nowGot farre into it, and you haue the skill20(For ought I see) to winne vpon me still.When I doe thinke how brauely you haue borneYour many crosses, as in Fortunes scorne,And how neglectfull you have seem'd to be,Of that which hath seem'd terrible to me,I thought you stupid, nor that you had feltThose griefes which (often) I haue scene to meltAnother woman into sighes and teares,A thing but seldome in your sexe and yeares,But when in you I haue perceiu'd agen,30(Noted by me, more then by other men)How feeling and how sensible you areOf your friends sorrowes, and with how much careYou seeke to cure them, then my selfe I blame,That I your patience should so much misname,Which to my vnderstanding maketh knowneWho feeles anothers griefe, can feele their owne.When straight me thinkes, I heare your patience say,Are you the man that studiedSeneca:Pliniesmost learned letters; and must I40Read you a Lecture in Philosophie,T'auoid the afflictions that haue vs'd to reach you;I'le learne you more, Sir, then your bookes can teach you.Of all your sex, yet neuer did I knowe,Any that yet so actually could showeSuch rules for patience, such an easie way,That who so sees it, shall be forc'd to say,Loe what before seem'd hard to be discern'd,Is of this Lady, in an instant learn'd.It is heauens will that you should wronged be50By the malicious, that the world might seeYour Doue-like meekenesse; for had the base scumme,The spawne of Fiends, beene in your slander dumbe,Your vertue then had perish'd, neuer priz'd,For that the same you had not exercised;And you had lost the Crowne you haue, and glory,Nor had you beene the subiect of my Story.Whilst they feele Hell, being damned in their hate,Their thoughts like Deuils them excruciate,Which by your noble suffrings doe torment60Them with new paines, and giues you this contentTo see your soule an Innocent, hath suffred,And vp to heauen before your eyes be offred:Your like we in a burning Glasse may see,When the Sunnes rayes therein contracted beBent on some obiect, which is purely white,We finde that colour doth dispierce the light,And stands vntainted: but if it hath gotSome little sully; or the least small spot,Then it soon fiers it; so you still remaine70Free, because in you they can finde no staine.God doth not loue them least, on whom he layesThe great'st afflictions; but that he will praiseHimselfe most in them, and will make them fit,Near'st to himselfe who is the Lambe to sit:For by that touch, like perfect gold he tries them,Who are not his, vntill the world denies them.And your example may work such effect,That it may be the beginning of a SectOf patient women; and that many a day80All Husbands may for you their Founder pray.Nor is to me your Innocence the lesse,In that I see you striue not to suppresseTheir barbarous malice; but your noble heartPrepar'd to act so difficult a part,With vnremoued constancie is stillThe same it was, that of your proper ill,The effect proceeds from your owne selfe the cause,Like some iust Prince, who to establish lawes,Suffers the breach at his best lou'd to strike,90To learne the vulgar to endure the like.You are a Martir thus, nor can you beLesse to the world so valued by me:If as you haue begun, you still perseuerBe euer good, that I may loue you euer.
Must I needes write, who's hee that can refuse,He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,The thought of her doth heau'nly rage inspire,Next powerfull, to those clouen tongues of fire.Since I knew ought time neuer did alloweMe stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;WhenFranceandEngland'sHenriesdy'd, my quill,Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.'Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,10To obserue custome I vse not to praise;Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,On any one from whom she was descended;That for their fauour I this way should wooe,As some poor wretched things (perhaps) may doe;I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,If by my freedome, I may giue her fame.Walking then forth being newly vp from bed,O Sir (quoth one) the LadyClifton'sdead.When, but that reason my sterne rage withstood,20My hand had sure beene guilty of his blood.If shee be so, must thy rude tongue confesse it(Quoth I) and com'st so coldly to expresse it.Thou shouldst haue giuen a shreeke, to make me feare thee;That might haue slaine what euer had beene neere thee.Thou shouldst haue com'n like Time with thy scalpe bare,And in thy hands thou shouldst haue brought thy haire,Casting vpon me such a dreadfull looke,As seene a spirit, or th'adst beene thunder-strooke,And gazing on me so a little space,30Thou shouldst haue shot thine eye balls in my face,Then falling at my feet, thou shouldst haue said,O she is gone, and Nature with her dead.With this ill newes amaz'd by chance I past,By that neere Groue, whereas both first and last,I saw her, not three moneths before shee di'd.When (though full Summer gan to vaile her pride,And that I sawe men leade home ripened Corne,Besides aduis'd me well,) I durst haue sworneThe lingring yeare, the Autumne had adiourn'd,40And the fresh Spring had beene againe return'd,Her delicacie, louelinesse, and grace,With such a Summer brauery deckt the place:But now alas, it lookt forlorne and dead;And where she stood, the fading leaues were shed,Presenting onely sorrowe to my sight,O God (thought I) this is her Embleme right.And sure I thinke it cannot but be thought,That I to her by prouidence was brought.For that the Fates fore-dooming, shee should die,50Shewed me this wondrous Master peece, that IShould sing her Funerall, that the world should know it,That heauen did thinke her worthy of a Poet;My hand is fatall, nor doth fortune doubt,For what it writes, not fire shall ere race out.A thousand silken Puppets should haue died,And in their fulsome Coffins putrified,Ere in my lines, you of their names should heareTo tell the world that such there euer were,Whose memory shall from the earth decay,60Before those Rags be worne they gaue away:Had I her god-like features neuer seene,Poore slight Report had tolde me she had beeneA hansome Lady, comely, very well,And so might I haue died an Infidell,As many doe which neuer did her see,Or cannot credit, what she was, by mee.Nature, her selfe, that before Art prefersTo goe beyond all our Cosmographers,By Charts and Maps exactly that haue showne,70All of this earth that euer can be knowne,For that she would beyond them all descrieWhat Art could not by any mortall eye;A Map of heauen in her rare features drue,And that she did so liuely and so true,That any soule but seeing it might sweareThat all was perfect heauenly that was there.If euer any Painter were so blest,To drawe that face, which so much heau'n exprest,If in his best of skill he did her right,80I wish it neuer may come in my sight,I greatly doubt my faith (weake man) lest IShould to that face commit Idolatry.Death might haue tyth'd her sex, but for this one,Nay, haue ta'n halfe to haue let her alone;Such as their wrinkled temples to supply,Cyment them vp with sluttishMercury,Such as vndrest were able to affright,A valiant man approching him by night;Death might haue taken such, her end deferd,90Vntill the time she had beene climaterd;When she would haue bin at threescore yeares and three,Such as our best at three and twenty be,With enuie then, he might haue ouerthrowne her,When age nor time had power to ceaze vpon her.But when the vnpittying Fates her end decreed,They to the same did instantly proceed,For well they knew (if she had languish'd so)As those which hence by naturall causes goe,So many prayers, and teares for her had spoken,100As certainly their Iron lawes had broken,And had wak'd heau'n, who clearely would haue show'dThat change of Kingdomes to her death it ow'd;And that the world still of her end might thinke,It would haue let some Neighbouring mountaine sinke.Or the vast Sea it in on vs to cast,AsSeuernedid about some fiue yeares past:Or some sterne Comet his curld top to reare,Whose length should measure halfe our Hemisphere.Holding this height, to say some will not sticke,110That now I raue, and am growne lunatique:You of what sexe so ere you be, you lye,'Tis thou thy selfe is lunatique, not I.I charge you in her name that now is gone,That may coniure you, if you be not stone,That you no harsh, nor shallow rimes decline,Vpon that day wherein you shall read mine.Such as indeed are falsely termed verse,And will but sit like mothes vpon her herse;Nor that no child, nor chambermaide, nor page,120Disturbe the Rome, the whilst my sacred rage,In reading is; but whilst you heare it read,Suppose, before you, that you see her dead,The walls about you hung with mournfull blacke,And nothing of her funerall to lacke,And when this period giues you leaue to pause,Cast vp your eyes, and sigh for my applause.
Must I needes write, who's hee that can refuse,He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,The thought of her doth heau'nly rage inspire,Next powerfull, to those clouen tongues of fire.Since I knew ought time neuer did alloweMe stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;WhenFranceandEngland'sHenriesdy'd, my quill,Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.'Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,10To obserue custome I vse not to praise;Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,On any one from whom she was descended;That for their fauour I this way should wooe,As some poor wretched things (perhaps) may doe;I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,If by my freedome, I may giue her fame.Walking then forth being newly vp from bed,O Sir (quoth one) the LadyClifton'sdead.When, but that reason my sterne rage withstood,20My hand had sure beene guilty of his blood.If shee be so, must thy rude tongue confesse it(Quoth I) and com'st so coldly to expresse it.Thou shouldst haue giuen a shreeke, to make me feare thee;That might haue slaine what euer had beene neere thee.Thou shouldst haue com'n like Time with thy scalpe bare,And in thy hands thou shouldst haue brought thy haire,Casting vpon me such a dreadfull looke,As seene a spirit, or th'adst beene thunder-strooke,And gazing on me so a little space,30Thou shouldst haue shot thine eye balls in my face,Then falling at my feet, thou shouldst haue said,O she is gone, and Nature with her dead.With this ill newes amaz'd by chance I past,By that neere Groue, whereas both first and last,I saw her, not three moneths before shee di'd.When (though full Summer gan to vaile her pride,And that I sawe men leade home ripened Corne,Besides aduis'd me well,) I durst haue sworneThe lingring yeare, the Autumne had adiourn'd,40And the fresh Spring had beene againe return'd,Her delicacie, louelinesse, and grace,With such a Summer brauery deckt the place:But now alas, it lookt forlorne and dead;And where she stood, the fading leaues were shed,Presenting onely sorrowe to my sight,O God (thought I) this is her Embleme right.And sure I thinke it cannot but be thought,That I to her by prouidence was brought.For that the Fates fore-dooming, shee should die,50Shewed me this wondrous Master peece, that IShould sing her Funerall, that the world should know it,That heauen did thinke her worthy of a Poet;My hand is fatall, nor doth fortune doubt,For what it writes, not fire shall ere race out.A thousand silken Puppets should haue died,And in their fulsome Coffins putrified,Ere in my lines, you of their names should heareTo tell the world that such there euer were,Whose memory shall from the earth decay,60Before those Rags be worne they gaue away:Had I her god-like features neuer seene,Poore slight Report had tolde me she had beeneA hansome Lady, comely, very well,And so might I haue died an Infidell,As many doe which neuer did her see,Or cannot credit, what she was, by mee.Nature, her selfe, that before Art prefersTo goe beyond all our Cosmographers,By Charts and Maps exactly that haue showne,70All of this earth that euer can be knowne,For that she would beyond them all descrieWhat Art could not by any mortall eye;A Map of heauen in her rare features drue,And that she did so liuely and so true,That any soule but seeing it might sweareThat all was perfect heauenly that was there.If euer any Painter were so blest,To drawe that face, which so much heau'n exprest,If in his best of skill he did her right,80I wish it neuer may come in my sight,I greatly doubt my faith (weake man) lest IShould to that face commit Idolatry.Death might haue tyth'd her sex, but for this one,Nay, haue ta'n halfe to haue let her alone;Such as their wrinkled temples to supply,Cyment them vp with sluttishMercury,Such as vndrest were able to affright,A valiant man approching him by night;Death might haue taken such, her end deferd,90Vntill the time she had beene climaterd;When she would haue bin at threescore yeares and three,Such as our best at three and twenty be,With enuie then, he might haue ouerthrowne her,When age nor time had power to ceaze vpon her.But when the vnpittying Fates her end decreed,They to the same did instantly proceed,For well they knew (if she had languish'd so)As those which hence by naturall causes goe,So many prayers, and teares for her had spoken,100As certainly their Iron lawes had broken,And had wak'd heau'n, who clearely would haue show'dThat change of Kingdomes to her death it ow'd;And that the world still of her end might thinke,It would haue let some Neighbouring mountaine sinke.Or the vast Sea it in on vs to cast,AsSeuernedid about some fiue yeares past:Or some sterne Comet his curld top to reare,Whose length should measure halfe our Hemisphere.Holding this height, to say some will not sticke,110That now I raue, and am growne lunatique:You of what sexe so ere you be, you lye,'Tis thou thy selfe is lunatique, not I.I charge you in her name that now is gone,That may coniure you, if you be not stone,That you no harsh, nor shallow rimes decline,Vpon that day wherein you shall read mine.Such as indeed are falsely termed verse,And will but sit like mothes vpon her herse;Nor that no child, nor chambermaide, nor page,120Disturbe the Rome, the whilst my sacred rage,In reading is; but whilst you heare it read,Suppose, before you, that you see her dead,The walls about you hung with mournfull blacke,And nothing of her funerall to lacke,And when this period giues you leaue to pause,Cast vp your eyes, and sigh for my applause.
I many a time haue greatly marueil'd, whyMen say, their friends depart when as they die,How well that word, a dying, doth expresse,I did not know (I freely must confesse,)Till her departure: for whose missed sight,I am enforc'd this Elegy to write:But since resistlesse fate will haue it so,That she from hence must toIberiagoe,And my weak wishes can her not detaine,10I will of heauen in policy complaine,That it so long her trauell should adiourne,Hoping thereby to hasten her returne.The witches of the Northerly legions sell windes to passengers.Can those ofNorwayfor their wage procure,By their blacke spells a winde that shall endureTill from aboard the wished land men see,And fetch the harbour, where they long to be,Can they by charmes doe this and cannot IWho am the Priest ofPhœbus, and so hie,Sit in his fauour, winne the Poets god,20To send swiftHermeswith his snaky rod,ToÆolusCaue, commanding him with care,His prosperous winds, that he for her prepare,And from that howre, wherein shee takes the seas,Nature bring on the quietHalciondayes,And in that hower that bird begin her nest,Nay at that very instant, that long restMay seize onNeptune, who may still repose,And let that bird nere till that hower disclose,Wherein she landeth, and for all that space30Be not a wrinkle seene onThetisface,Onely so much breath with a gentle gale,As by the easy swelling of her saile,The nearest Harbour ofSpaine.May at *Sebastianssafely set her downeWhere, with her goodnes she may blesse the towne.If heauen in iustice would haue plagu'd by theeSome Pirate, and grimmeNeptunethou should'st beHis Executioner, or what is his worse,The gripple Merchant, borne to be the curseOf this braue Iland; let them for her sake,40Who to thy safeguard doth her selfe betake,Escape vndrown'd, vnwrackt, nay rather letThem be at ease in some safe harbour set,Where with much profit they may vent their wealthThat they haue got by villany and stealth,Rather greatNeptune, then when thou dost raue,Thou once shouldst wet her saile but with a waue.Or if some proling Rouer shall but dare,To seize the ship wherein she is to fare,Let the fell fishes of the Maine appeare,50And tell those Sea-thiefes, that once such they wereAs they are now, till they assaid to rapeAn Ile for the abundance of wine supposed to be the habitation ofBachus.Grape-crownedBacchusin a striplings shape,That came aboard them, and would faine haue saild,To vine-spread *Naxusbut that him they faild,Which he perceiuing, them so monstrous made,And warnd them how they passengers inuade.Ye South and Westerne winds now cease to blowAutumne is come, there be no flowers to grow,Yea from that place respire, to which she goes,60And to her sailes should show your selfe but foes,ButBoreasand yee Esterne windes arise,To send her soon toSpaine, but be precise,That in your aide you seeme not still so sterne,As we a summer should no more discerne,For till that here againe, I may her see,It will be winter all the yeare with mee.CastorandPoloxbegot byIoueonLedain the forme of a Swanne. A constellation ominous to Mariners.Ye swanne-begotten lonely brother-stars,So oft auspicious to poore Mariners,Ye twin-bred lights of louelyLeda'sbrood,70Iouesegge-borne issue smile vpon the flood,And in your mild'st aspect doe ye appeareTo be her warrant from all future feare.And if thou ship that bear'st her, doe proue good,May neuer time by wormes, consume thy woodNor rust thy iron, may thy tacklings last,Till they for reliques be in temples plac't;Maist thou be ranged with that mighty Arke,Wherein iustNoahdid all the world imbarque,With that which afterTroyesso famous wracke,80From ten yeares trauell broughtVlissesbacke,That Argo which toColchoswent fromGreece,And in her botome brought the goulden fleeceVnder braueIason; or that same ofDrake,Wherein he did his famous voyage makeAbout the world; orCandishesthat wentAs far as his, about the Continent.And yee milde winds that now I doe implore,Not once to raise the least sand on the shore,Nor once on forfait of your selues respire:90When once the time is come of her retire,If then it please you, but to doe your due,What for these windes I did, Ile doe for you;Ile wooe you then, and if that not suffice,My pen shall prooue you to haue dietyes,Ile sing your loues in verses that shall flow,And tell the storyes of your weale and woe,Ile prooue what profit to the earth you bring,And how t'is you that welcome in the spring;Ile raise vp altars to you, as to show,100The time shall be kept holy, when you blow.O blessed winds! your will that it may be,To send health to her, and her home to me.
I many a time haue greatly marueil'd, whyMen say, their friends depart when as they die,How well that word, a dying, doth expresse,I did not know (I freely must confesse,)Till her departure: for whose missed sight,I am enforc'd this Elegy to write:But since resistlesse fate will haue it so,That she from hence must toIberiagoe,And my weak wishes can her not detaine,10I will of heauen in policy complaine,That it so long her trauell should adiourne,Hoping thereby to hasten her returne.The witches of the Northerly legions sell windes to passengers.Can those ofNorwayfor their wage procure,By their blacke spells a winde that shall endureTill from aboard the wished land men see,And fetch the harbour, where they long to be,Can they by charmes doe this and cannot IWho am the Priest ofPhœbus, and so hie,Sit in his fauour, winne the Poets god,20To send swiftHermeswith his snaky rod,ToÆolusCaue, commanding him with care,His prosperous winds, that he for her prepare,And from that howre, wherein shee takes the seas,Nature bring on the quietHalciondayes,And in that hower that bird begin her nest,Nay at that very instant, that long restMay seize onNeptune, who may still repose,And let that bird nere till that hower disclose,Wherein she landeth, and for all that space30Be not a wrinkle seene onThetisface,Onely so much breath with a gentle gale,As by the easy swelling of her saile,The nearest Harbour ofSpaine.May at *Sebastianssafely set her downeWhere, with her goodnes she may blesse the towne.If heauen in iustice would haue plagu'd by theeSome Pirate, and grimmeNeptunethou should'st beHis Executioner, or what is his worse,The gripple Merchant, borne to be the curseOf this braue Iland; let them for her sake,40Who to thy safeguard doth her selfe betake,Escape vndrown'd, vnwrackt, nay rather letThem be at ease in some safe harbour set,Where with much profit they may vent their wealthThat they haue got by villany and stealth,Rather greatNeptune, then when thou dost raue,Thou once shouldst wet her saile but with a waue.Or if some proling Rouer shall but dare,To seize the ship wherein she is to fare,Let the fell fishes of the Maine appeare,50And tell those Sea-thiefes, that once such they wereAs they are now, till they assaid to rapeAn Ile for the abundance of wine supposed to be the habitation ofBachus.Grape-crownedBacchusin a striplings shape,That came aboard them, and would faine haue saild,To vine-spread *Naxusbut that him they faild,Which he perceiuing, them so monstrous made,And warnd them how they passengers inuade.Ye South and Westerne winds now cease to blowAutumne is come, there be no flowers to grow,Yea from that place respire, to which she goes,60And to her sailes should show your selfe but foes,ButBoreasand yee Esterne windes arise,To send her soon toSpaine, but be precise,That in your aide you seeme not still so sterne,As we a summer should no more discerne,For till that here againe, I may her see,It will be winter all the yeare with mee.CastorandPoloxbegot byIoueonLedain the forme of a Swanne. A constellation ominous to Mariners.Ye swanne-begotten lonely brother-stars,So oft auspicious to poore Mariners,Ye twin-bred lights of louelyLeda'sbrood,70Iouesegge-borne issue smile vpon the flood,And in your mild'st aspect doe ye appeareTo be her warrant from all future feare.And if thou ship that bear'st her, doe proue good,May neuer time by wormes, consume thy woodNor rust thy iron, may thy tacklings last,Till they for reliques be in temples plac't;Maist thou be ranged with that mighty Arke,Wherein iustNoahdid all the world imbarque,With that which afterTroyesso famous wracke,80From ten yeares trauell broughtVlissesbacke,That Argo which toColchoswent fromGreece,And in her botome brought the goulden fleeceVnder braueIason; or that same ofDrake,Wherein he did his famous voyage makeAbout the world; orCandishesthat wentAs far as his, about the Continent.And yee milde winds that now I doe implore,Not once to raise the least sand on the shore,Nor once on forfait of your selues respire:90When once the time is come of her retire,If then it please you, but to doe your due,What for these windes I did, Ile doe for you;Ile wooe you then, and if that not suffice,My pen shall prooue you to haue dietyes,Ile sing your loues in verses that shall flow,And tell the storyes of your weale and woe,Ile prooue what profit to the earth you bring,And how t'is you that welcome in the spring;Ile raise vp altars to you, as to show,100The time shall be kept holy, when you blow.O blessed winds! your will that it may be,To send health to her, and her home to me.
The witches of the Northerly legions sell windes to passengers.
The nearest Harbour ofSpaine.
An Ile for the abundance of wine supposed to be the habitation ofBachus.
CastorandPoloxbegot byIoueonLedain the forme of a Swanne. A constellation ominous to Mariners.
My dearely loued friend how oft haue we,In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)To some well-chosen place vs'd to retire;And there with moderate meate, and wine, and fire,Haue past the howres contentedly with chat,Now talk of this, and then discours'd of that,Spoke our owne verses 'twixt our selves, if notOther mens lines, which we by chance had got,Or some Stage pieces famous long before,10Of which your happy memory had store;And I remember you much pleased were,Of those who liued long agoe to heare,As well as of those, of these latter times,Who have inricht our language with their rimes,And in succession, how still vp they grew,Which is the subiect, that I now pursue;For from my cradle, (you must know that) I,Was still inclin'd to noble Poesie,And when that oncePuerilesI had read,20And newly had myCatoconstrued,In my small selfe I greatly marueil'd then,Amonst all other, what strange kinde of menThese Poets were; And pleased with the name,To my milde Tutor merrily I came,(For I was then a proper goodly page,Much like a Pigmy, scarse ten yeares of age)Clasping my slender armes about his thigh.O my deare master! cannot you (quoth I)Make me a Poet, doe it if you can,30And you shall see, Ile quickly bee a man,Who me thus answered smiling, boy quoth he,If you'le not play the wag, but I may seeYou ply your learning, I will shortly readSome Poets to you;Phœbusbe my speed,Too't hard went I, when shortly he began,And first read to me honestMantuan,ThenVirgils Eglogues, being entred thus,Me thought I straight had mountedPegasus,And in his full Careere could make him stop,40And bound vponParnassus'by-clift top.I scornd your ballet then though it were doneAnd had for Finis,William Elderton.But soft, in sporting with this childish iest,I from my subiect haue too long digrest,Then to the matter that we tooke in hand,IoueandApollofor theMusesstand.Then nobleChaucer, in those former times,The first inrich'd ourEnglishwith his rimes,And was the first of ours, that euer brake,50Into theMusestreasure, and first spakeIn weighty numbers, deluing in the MineOf perfect knowledge, which he could refine,And coyne for currant, and as much as thenTheEnglishlanguage could expresse to men,He made it doe; and by his wondrous skill,Gaue vs much light from his abundant quill.And honestGower, who in respect of him,Had only sipt atAganippasbrimme,And though in yeares this last was him before,60Yet fell he far short of the others store.When after those, foure ages very neare,They with theMuseswhich conuersed, wereThat PrincelySurrey, early in the timeOf the EightHenry, who was then the primeOfEnglandsnoble youth; with him there cameWyat; with reuerence whom we still doe nameAmongst our Poets,Brianhad a shareWith the two former, which accompted areThat times best makers, and the authors were70Of those small poems, which the title beare,Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hitOn many dainty passages of wit.GascoineandChurchyardafter them againeIn the beginning ofEliza'sraine,Accoumpted were great Meterers many a day,But not inspired with braue fier, had theyLiu'd but a little longer, they had seene,Their works before them to have buried beene.Graue morrallSpencerafter these came on80Then whom I am perswaded there was noneSince the blindBardhisIliadsvp did make,Fitter a taske like that to vndertake,To set downe boldly, brauely to inuent,In all high knowledge, surely excellent.The nobleSidneywith this last arose,ThatHeroefor numbers, and for Prose.That throughly pac'd our language as to show,The plenteousEnglishhand in hand might goeWithGreekorLatine, and did first reduce90Our tongue fromLillieswriting then in vse;Talking of Stones, Stars, Plants, of fishes, Flyes,Playing with words, and idle Similies,As th'English, Apes and very Zanies be,Of euery thing, that they doe heare and see,So imitating his ridiculous tricks,They spake and writ, all like meere lunatiques.ThenWarnerthough his lines were not so trim'd,Nor yet his Poem so exactly lim'dAnd neatly ioynted, but the Criticke may100Easily reprooue him, yet thus let me say;For my old friend, some passages there beIn him, which I protest haue taken me,With almost wonder, so fine, cleere, and newAs yet they haue bin equalled by few.NeatMarlowbathed in theThespianspringsHad in him those braue translunary things,That the first Poets had, his raptures were,All ayre, and fire, which made his verses cleere,For that fine madnes still he did retaine,110Which rightly should possesse a Poets braine.And surelyNashe, though he a Proser wereA branch of Lawrell yet deserues to beare,SharplySatirickwas he, and that wayHe went, since that his being, to this dayFew haue attempted, and I surely thinkeThose wordes shall hardly be set downe with inke;Shall scorch and blast, so as his could, where he,Would inflict vengeance, and be it said of thee,Shakespeare, thou hadst as smooth a Comicke vaine,120Fitting the socke, and in thy naturall braine,As strong conception, and as Cleere a rage,As any one that trafiqu'd with the stage.Amongst theseSamuel Daniel, whom if IMay spake of, but to sensure doe denie,Onely haue heard some wisemen him rehearse,To be too muchHistorianin verse;His rimes were smooth, his meeters well did closeBut yet his maner better fitted prose:Next these, learn'dJohnson, in this List I bring,130Who had drunke deepe of thePierianspring,Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer,And long was Lord here of the Theater,Who in opinion made our learn'st to sticke,Whether in Poems rightly dramatique,StrongSenecaorPlautus, he or they,Should beare the Buskin, or the Socke away.Others againe here liued in my dayes,That haue of vs deserued no lesse praiseFor their translations, then the daintiest wit140That onParnassusthinks, he highst doth sit,And for a chaire may mongst the Muses call,As the most curious maker of them all;As reuerentChapman, who hath brought to vs,Musæus,HomerandHesiodusOut of the Greeke; and by his skill hath reardThem to that height, and to our tongue endear'd,That were those Poets at this day aliue,To see their bookes thus with vs to suruiue,They would think, hauing neglected them so long,150They had bin written in theEnglishtongue.AndSiluesterwho from theFrenchmore weake,MadeBartasof his sixe dayes labour speakeIn naturallEnglish, who, had he there stayd,He had done well, and neuer had bewraidHis owne inuention, to haue bin so pooreWho still wrote lesse, in striuing to write more.Then daintySandsthat hath toEnglishdone,Smooth slidingOuid, and hath made him runWith so much sweetnesse and vnusuall grace,160As though the neatnesse of theEnglishpace,Should tell the IettingLattinethat it cameBut slowly after, as though stiff and lame.SoScotlandsent vs hither, for our owneThat man, whose name I euer would haue knowne,To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight,MyAlexander, to whom in his right,I want extreamely, yet in speaking thusI doe but shew the loue, that was twixt vs,And not his numbers which were braue and hie,170So like his mind, was his clear Poesie,And my deareDrummondto whom much I oweFor his much loue, and proud I was to know,His poesie, for which two worthy men,IMenstrystill shall loue, andHauthorne-den.Then the twoBeamountsand myBrownearose,My deare companions whom I freely choseMy bosome friends; and in their seuerall wayes,Rightly borne Poets, and in these last dayes,Men of much note, and no lesse nobler parts,180Such as haue freely tould to me their hearts,As I have mine to them; but if you shallSay in your knowledge, that these be not allHaue writ in numbers, be inform'd that IOnly my selfe, to these few men doe tye,Whose works oft printed, set on euery post,To publique censure subiect haue bin most;For such whose poems, be they nere so rare,In priuate chambers, that incloistered are,And by transcription daintyly must goe;190As though the world vnworthy were to know,Their rich composures, let those men that keepeThese wonderous reliques in their iudgement deepe;And cry them vp so, let such Peeces beeSpoke of by those that shall come after me,I passe not for them: nor doe meane to run,In quest of these, that them applause haue wonne,Vpon our Stages in these latter dayes,That are so many, let them haue their bayesThat doe deserue it; let those wits that haunt200Those publique circuits, let them freely chauntTheir fine Composures, and their praise pursueAnd so my deare friend, for this time adue.
My dearely loued friend how oft haue we,In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)To some well-chosen place vs'd to retire;And there with moderate meate, and wine, and fire,Haue past the howres contentedly with chat,Now talk of this, and then discours'd of that,Spoke our owne verses 'twixt our selves, if notOther mens lines, which we by chance had got,Or some Stage pieces famous long before,10Of which your happy memory had store;And I remember you much pleased were,Of those who liued long agoe to heare,As well as of those, of these latter times,Who have inricht our language with their rimes,And in succession, how still vp they grew,Which is the subiect, that I now pursue;For from my cradle, (you must know that) I,Was still inclin'd to noble Poesie,And when that oncePuerilesI had read,20And newly had myCatoconstrued,In my small selfe I greatly marueil'd then,Amonst all other, what strange kinde of menThese Poets were; And pleased with the name,To my milde Tutor merrily I came,(For I was then a proper goodly page,Much like a Pigmy, scarse ten yeares of age)Clasping my slender armes about his thigh.O my deare master! cannot you (quoth I)Make me a Poet, doe it if you can,30And you shall see, Ile quickly bee a man,Who me thus answered smiling, boy quoth he,If you'le not play the wag, but I may seeYou ply your learning, I will shortly readSome Poets to you;Phœbusbe my speed,Too't hard went I, when shortly he began,And first read to me honestMantuan,ThenVirgils Eglogues, being entred thus,Me thought I straight had mountedPegasus,And in his full Careere could make him stop,40And bound vponParnassus'by-clift top.I scornd your ballet then though it were doneAnd had for Finis,William Elderton.But soft, in sporting with this childish iest,I from my subiect haue too long digrest,Then to the matter that we tooke in hand,IoueandApollofor theMusesstand.Then nobleChaucer, in those former times,The first inrich'd ourEnglishwith his rimes,And was the first of ours, that euer brake,50Into theMusestreasure, and first spakeIn weighty numbers, deluing in the MineOf perfect knowledge, which he could refine,And coyne for currant, and as much as thenTheEnglishlanguage could expresse to men,He made it doe; and by his wondrous skill,Gaue vs much light from his abundant quill.And honestGower, who in respect of him,Had only sipt atAganippasbrimme,And though in yeares this last was him before,60Yet fell he far short of the others store.When after those, foure ages very neare,They with theMuseswhich conuersed, wereThat PrincelySurrey, early in the timeOf the EightHenry, who was then the primeOfEnglandsnoble youth; with him there cameWyat; with reuerence whom we still doe nameAmongst our Poets,Brianhad a shareWith the two former, which accompted areThat times best makers, and the authors were70Of those small poems, which the title beare,Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hitOn many dainty passages of wit.GascoineandChurchyardafter them againeIn the beginning ofEliza'sraine,Accoumpted were great Meterers many a day,But not inspired with braue fier, had theyLiu'd but a little longer, they had seene,Their works before them to have buried beene.Graue morrallSpencerafter these came on80Then whom I am perswaded there was noneSince the blindBardhisIliadsvp did make,Fitter a taske like that to vndertake,To set downe boldly, brauely to inuent,In all high knowledge, surely excellent.The nobleSidneywith this last arose,ThatHeroefor numbers, and for Prose.That throughly pac'd our language as to show,The plenteousEnglishhand in hand might goeWithGreekorLatine, and did first reduce90Our tongue fromLillieswriting then in vse;Talking of Stones, Stars, Plants, of fishes, Flyes,Playing with words, and idle Similies,As th'English, Apes and very Zanies be,Of euery thing, that they doe heare and see,So imitating his ridiculous tricks,They spake and writ, all like meere lunatiques.ThenWarnerthough his lines were not so trim'd,Nor yet his Poem so exactly lim'dAnd neatly ioynted, but the Criticke may100Easily reprooue him, yet thus let me say;For my old friend, some passages there beIn him, which I protest haue taken me,With almost wonder, so fine, cleere, and newAs yet they haue bin equalled by few.NeatMarlowbathed in theThespianspringsHad in him those braue translunary things,That the first Poets had, his raptures were,All ayre, and fire, which made his verses cleere,For that fine madnes still he did retaine,110Which rightly should possesse a Poets braine.And surelyNashe, though he a Proser wereA branch of Lawrell yet deserues to beare,SharplySatirickwas he, and that wayHe went, since that his being, to this dayFew haue attempted, and I surely thinkeThose wordes shall hardly be set downe with inke;Shall scorch and blast, so as his could, where he,Would inflict vengeance, and be it said of thee,Shakespeare, thou hadst as smooth a Comicke vaine,120Fitting the socke, and in thy naturall braine,As strong conception, and as Cleere a rage,As any one that trafiqu'd with the stage.Amongst theseSamuel Daniel, whom if IMay spake of, but to sensure doe denie,Onely haue heard some wisemen him rehearse,To be too muchHistorianin verse;His rimes were smooth, his meeters well did closeBut yet his maner better fitted prose:Next these, learn'dJohnson, in this List I bring,130Who had drunke deepe of thePierianspring,Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer,And long was Lord here of the Theater,Who in opinion made our learn'st to sticke,Whether in Poems rightly dramatique,StrongSenecaorPlautus, he or they,Should beare the Buskin, or the Socke away.Others againe here liued in my dayes,That haue of vs deserued no lesse praiseFor their translations, then the daintiest wit140That onParnassusthinks, he highst doth sit,And for a chaire may mongst the Muses call,As the most curious maker of them all;As reuerentChapman, who hath brought to vs,Musæus,HomerandHesiodusOut of the Greeke; and by his skill hath reardThem to that height, and to our tongue endear'd,That were those Poets at this day aliue,To see their bookes thus with vs to suruiue,They would think, hauing neglected them so long,150They had bin written in theEnglishtongue.AndSiluesterwho from theFrenchmore weake,MadeBartasof his sixe dayes labour speakeIn naturallEnglish, who, had he there stayd,He had done well, and neuer had bewraidHis owne inuention, to haue bin so pooreWho still wrote lesse, in striuing to write more.Then daintySandsthat hath toEnglishdone,Smooth slidingOuid, and hath made him runWith so much sweetnesse and vnusuall grace,160As though the neatnesse of theEnglishpace,Should tell the IettingLattinethat it cameBut slowly after, as though stiff and lame.SoScotlandsent vs hither, for our owneThat man, whose name I euer would haue knowne,To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight,MyAlexander, to whom in his right,I want extreamely, yet in speaking thusI doe but shew the loue, that was twixt vs,And not his numbers which were braue and hie,170So like his mind, was his clear Poesie,And my deareDrummondto whom much I oweFor his much loue, and proud I was to know,His poesie, for which two worthy men,IMenstrystill shall loue, andHauthorne-den.Then the twoBeamountsand myBrownearose,My deare companions whom I freely choseMy bosome friends; and in their seuerall wayes,Rightly borne Poets, and in these last dayes,Men of much note, and no lesse nobler parts,180Such as haue freely tould to me their hearts,As I have mine to them; but if you shallSay in your knowledge, that these be not allHaue writ in numbers, be inform'd that IOnly my selfe, to these few men doe tye,Whose works oft printed, set on euery post,To publique censure subiect haue bin most;For such whose poems, be they nere so rare,In priuate chambers, that incloistered are,And by transcription daintyly must goe;190As though the world vnworthy were to know,Their rich composures, let those men that keepeThese wonderous reliques in their iudgement deepe;And cry them vp so, let such Peeces beeSpoke of by those that shall come after me,I passe not for them: nor doe meane to run,In quest of these, that them applause haue wonne,Vpon our Stages in these latter dayes,That are so many, let them haue their bayesThat doe deserue it; let those wits that haunt200Those publique circuits, let them freely chauntTheir fine Composures, and their praise pursueAnd so my deare friend, for this time adue.
Could there be words found to expresse my losse,There were some hope, that this my heauy crosseMight be sustained, and that wretched IMight once finde comfort: but to haue him diePast all degrees that was so deare to me;As but comparing him with others, heeWas such a thing, as if some Power should sayI'le take Man on me, to shew men the wayWhat a friend should be. But words come so short10Of him, that when I thus would him report,I am vndone, and hauing nought to say,Mad at my selfe, I throwe my penne away,And beate my breast, that there should be a woeSo high, that words cannot attaine thereto.T'is strange that I from my abundant breast,Who others sorrowes haue so well exprest:Yet I by this in little time am growneSo poore, that I want to expresse mine owne.I thinke the Fates perceiuing me to beare20My worldly crosses without wit or feare:Nay, with what scorne I euer haue derided,Those plagues that for me they haue oft prouided,Drew them to counsaile; nay, conspired rather,And in this businesse laid their heads togetherTo finde some one plague, that might me subuert,And at an instant breake my stubborne heart;They did indeede, and onely to this endThey tooke from me this more then man, or friend.Hard-hearted Fates, your worst thus haue you done,30Then let vs see what lastly you haue wonneBy this your rigour, in a course so strict,Why see, I beare all that you can inflict:And hee from heauen your poore reuenge to view;Laments my losse of him, but laughes at you,Whilst I against you execrations breath;Thus are you scorn'd aboue, and curst beneath.Me thinks that man (vnhappy though he be)Is now thrice happy in respect of me,Who hath no friend; for that in hauing none40He is not stirr'd as I am, to bemoneMy miserable losse, who but in vaine,May euer looke to find the like againe.This more then mine own selfe; that who had seeneHis care of me where euer I had beene,And had not knowne his actiue spirit before,Vpon some braue thing working euermore:He would haue sworne that to no other endHe had been borne: but onely for my friend.I had been happy if nice Nature had50(Since now my lucke falls out to be so bad)Made me vnperfect, either of so softAnd yeelding temper, that lamenting oft,I into teares my mournefull selfe might melt;Or else so dull, my losse not to haue felt.I haue by my too deare experience bought,That fooles and mad men, whom I euer thoughtThe most vnhappy, are in deede not so:And therefore I lesse pittie can bestowe(Since that my sence, my sorrowe so can sound)60On those in Bedlam that are bound,And scarce feele scourging; and when as I meeteA foole by Children followed in the Streete,Thinke I (poor wretch) thou from my griefe art free,Nor couldst thou feele it, should it light on thee;But that I am aChristian, and am taughtBy him who with his precious bloud me bought,Meekly like him my crosses to endure,Else would they please me well, that for their cure,When as they feele their conscience doth them brand,70Vpon themselues dare lay a violent hand;Not suffering Fortune with her murdering knife,Stand like a Surgeon working on the life,Deserting this part, that ioynt off to cut,Shewing that Artire, ripping then that gut,Whilst the dull beastly World with her squint eye,Is to behold the strange Anatomie.I am persuaded that those which we readTo be man-haters, were not so indeed,The AthenianTimon, and beside him more80Of which theLatines, as theGreekeshaue store;Nor not did they all humane manners hate,Nor yet maligne mans dignity and state.But finding our fraile life how euery day,It like a bubble vanisheth away:For this condition did mankinde detest,Farre more incertaine then that of the beast.Sure heauen doth hate this world and deadly too,Else as it hath done it would neuer doe,For if it did not, it would ne're permit90A man of so much vertue, knowledge, wit,Of naturall goodnesse, supernaturall grace,Whose courses when considerately I traceInto their ends, and diligently looke,They serue me for Oeconomike booke.By which this rough world I not onely stemme,In goodnesse but grow learn'd by reading them.O pardon me, it my much sorrow is,Which makes me vse this long Parenthesis;Had heauen this world not hated as I say,100In height of life it had not, tane awayA spirit so braue, so actiue, and so free,That such a one who would not wish to bee,Rather then weare a Crowne, by Armes though got,So fast a friend, so true a Patriot.In things concerning both the worlds so wise,Besides so liberall of his faculties,That where he would his industrie bestowe,He would haue done, e're one could think to doe.No more talke of the working of the Starres,110For plenty, scarcenesse, or for peace, or Warres:They are impostures, therefore get you henceWith all your Planets, and their influence.No more doe I care into them to looke,Then in some idle Chiromantick booke,Shewing the line of life, andVenusmount,Nor yet no more would I of them account,Then what that tells me, since what that so ereMight promise man long life: of care and feare,By nature freed, a conscience cleare, and quiet,120His health, his constitution, and his diet;Counting a hundred, fourscore at the least,Propt vp by prayers, yet more to be encreast,All these should faile, and in his fiftieth yeareHe should expire, henceforth let none be deare,To me at all, lest for my haplesse sake,Before their time heauen from the world them take,And leaue me wretched to lament their endsAs I doe his, who was a thousand friends.
Could there be words found to expresse my losse,There were some hope, that this my heauy crosseMight be sustained, and that wretched IMight once finde comfort: but to haue him diePast all degrees that was so deare to me;As but comparing him with others, heeWas such a thing, as if some Power should sayI'le take Man on me, to shew men the wayWhat a friend should be. But words come so short10Of him, that when I thus would him report,I am vndone, and hauing nought to say,Mad at my selfe, I throwe my penne away,And beate my breast, that there should be a woeSo high, that words cannot attaine thereto.T'is strange that I from my abundant breast,Who others sorrowes haue so well exprest:Yet I by this in little time am growneSo poore, that I want to expresse mine owne.I thinke the Fates perceiuing me to beare20My worldly crosses without wit or feare:Nay, with what scorne I euer haue derided,Those plagues that for me they haue oft prouided,Drew them to counsaile; nay, conspired rather,And in this businesse laid their heads togetherTo finde some one plague, that might me subuert,And at an instant breake my stubborne heart;They did indeede, and onely to this endThey tooke from me this more then man, or friend.Hard-hearted Fates, your worst thus haue you done,30Then let vs see what lastly you haue wonneBy this your rigour, in a course so strict,Why see, I beare all that you can inflict:And hee from heauen your poore reuenge to view;Laments my losse of him, but laughes at you,Whilst I against you execrations breath;Thus are you scorn'd aboue, and curst beneath.Me thinks that man (vnhappy though he be)Is now thrice happy in respect of me,Who hath no friend; for that in hauing none40He is not stirr'd as I am, to bemoneMy miserable losse, who but in vaine,May euer looke to find the like againe.This more then mine own selfe; that who had seeneHis care of me where euer I had beene,And had not knowne his actiue spirit before,Vpon some braue thing working euermore:He would haue sworne that to no other endHe had been borne: but onely for my friend.I had been happy if nice Nature had50(Since now my lucke falls out to be so bad)Made me vnperfect, either of so softAnd yeelding temper, that lamenting oft,I into teares my mournefull selfe might melt;Or else so dull, my losse not to haue felt.I haue by my too deare experience bought,That fooles and mad men, whom I euer thoughtThe most vnhappy, are in deede not so:And therefore I lesse pittie can bestowe(Since that my sence, my sorrowe so can sound)60On those in Bedlam that are bound,And scarce feele scourging; and when as I meeteA foole by Children followed in the Streete,Thinke I (poor wretch) thou from my griefe art free,Nor couldst thou feele it, should it light on thee;But that I am aChristian, and am taughtBy him who with his precious bloud me bought,Meekly like him my crosses to endure,Else would they please me well, that for their cure,When as they feele their conscience doth them brand,70Vpon themselues dare lay a violent hand;Not suffering Fortune with her murdering knife,Stand like a Surgeon working on the life,Deserting this part, that ioynt off to cut,Shewing that Artire, ripping then that gut,Whilst the dull beastly World with her squint eye,Is to behold the strange Anatomie.I am persuaded that those which we readTo be man-haters, were not so indeed,The AthenianTimon, and beside him more80Of which theLatines, as theGreekeshaue store;Nor not did they all humane manners hate,Nor yet maligne mans dignity and state.But finding our fraile life how euery day,It like a bubble vanisheth away:For this condition did mankinde detest,Farre more incertaine then that of the beast.Sure heauen doth hate this world and deadly too,Else as it hath done it would neuer doe,For if it did not, it would ne're permit90A man of so much vertue, knowledge, wit,Of naturall goodnesse, supernaturall grace,Whose courses when considerately I traceInto their ends, and diligently looke,They serue me for Oeconomike booke.By which this rough world I not onely stemme,In goodnesse but grow learn'd by reading them.O pardon me, it my much sorrow is,Which makes me vse this long Parenthesis;Had heauen this world not hated as I say,100In height of life it had not, tane awayA spirit so braue, so actiue, and so free,That such a one who would not wish to bee,Rather then weare a Crowne, by Armes though got,So fast a friend, so true a Patriot.In things concerning both the worlds so wise,Besides so liberall of his faculties,That where he would his industrie bestowe,He would haue done, e're one could think to doe.No more talke of the working of the Starres,110For plenty, scarcenesse, or for peace, or Warres:They are impostures, therefore get you henceWith all your Planets, and their influence.No more doe I care into them to looke,Then in some idle Chiromantick booke,Shewing the line of life, andVenusmount,Nor yet no more would I of them account,Then what that tells me, since what that so ereMight promise man long life: of care and feare,By nature freed, a conscience cleare, and quiet,120His health, his constitution, and his diet;Counting a hundred, fourscore at the least,Propt vp by prayers, yet more to be encreast,All these should faile, and in his fiftieth yeareHe should expire, henceforth let none be deare,To me at all, lest for my haplesse sake,Before their time heauen from the world them take,And leaue me wretched to lament their endsAs I doe his, who was a thousand friends.