to the right Honorable WILLIAM Earle of New-Castle YE sonns of Phoebus were ye drownd in Sacke Or Lethe did dull security slacke Your feeble spirits knew ye not she was gone That was sole governesse of Helicon She was the soule of learning love and grace Rowâ—e up your sack-braines die not in disgrace Let not each misers Herse adorned ly With your strong Verses stead of heraldry She was sole Queene of the Castalian spring Then to her feete your flowing numbers bring Come sprightly on and offer here your Bayes For she deservedly was worth your praise Since most ingratefull braine-sicke murtherers Court Parasites Vertues smotherers False Sonnes of Phoebus bastards of the Nine Since they their own worthes sing and conceale thine May that rare miracle ne're Created be Nor found amongst 'em wealth in Poetrie Well though I cannot sing yet you shall see Honour and â—ruth kisse in an Elegie Thy funerall Ode was not more full of fame Then mine shall be of truth let spite spite shame For Temper Goodnesse Liberality Stedfastnesse in faith Hospitality She was inimitable beyond compare No earthly Saint was so compleated rare Each day the poore kept market at her gates And tasted largly of her wonted Cates Had all commodities the mart afforded Yet payd for nothing all went backe rewarded Rich Charity the whiles when every buyer Has all for nothing and is payd for hyre Here goodnesse floated Hospitality Is the first staire leades to Eternity These she at Rufford every day did show As duely as she payd her morning Vow Which sweet Oblations every day did fly As incense offered to the Trinity Her soule set in her body was a Jem Inclosd within a Glorious Diadem Whose sparkling Inster reachd unto the Skyes Where like a starre it stands fix'd in our eyes Her minde was the gold cabinet of Art Richly compleated in every part Love Honour Knowledge Learning farre beyond The common straine of Ladies in our Land Who are not so annexed to the tie Of sacred knowledge as to nicetie Her youth spoke rare things her vertues greater She was rare 'i th first 'i th last compleater Such sacred comforts her sweet soule did give As that she fear'd not death 't was feare to live Was her affliction honoured she No TALBOT left of that great progenie That progenie I say even at whose looke All France have stood as with an earth-quake shooke Like crazy buildings when their pillars gone So have they trembl'd and for refuge flowne The name of TALBOT as a Bugge-beare still Affrightes their children from attempting ill If twatling rumour said but TALBOT's come At her report all mutinies were dumbe That famous TALBOT whose authentique name Was never touchd by tainture blot nor staine Not to historifie their high renowne A Shrewsbury was keeper of the Crowne Such were the unstain'd TALBOTS honours there Though now scarse mention of them is made here But honourd urnes and ashes what are those But reliques which our rotten tombes enclose What can out-last time rust weares l'ron away Small wonder then if our great names decay And yet her name and honourd memory Shall never fade till all consume and dy Her servants are her Chroniclers they found Those vertues from her cannot fall to 'th ground Northumberland thy deere losse does lament In them thy goodnes still is eminent What shall I say of her she was compleat And in two Maxim's rare borne good and great Great-borne by birth joynd with that stile of bloud But that which nobler was she was borne good Nay adde to that which may all mankinde vexe All vertues liv'd in one of weaker sexe Then sweetest Madam noblest Lady JANE You beare her memory her worth and fame And may you fairest Lady ever be As neere to her in deeds as pedegree You cannot misse her worth you have the shrine Of goodnes in you all parts speake Divine On the right Honorable ELIZABETH Countesse of Huntington Wife to the right Honorable FERDINAND Earle of Huntington VVomen lament her losse for here she lyes That from your female sexe deserv'd the prize The Graces met in this bright paragon And but for her had perishd long agon The Lacedemonians usde to sacrifize Vnto the Muses in most solemne wise To th' end their deedes might all be registred And Chronicl'd for theirs when they were dead If they did thus Ladies why should not you Pay to this pious Dame a holy due She to her sexe did all their vertues give Envy cannot deface them they shall live Till Time dissolves and this huge fabricke passe And all to Chaos turne as first it was What s'ever worth or merit could define In her as in a mirrour cleare did shine Those rich endowments sacred vertue claimes To be sole Queene of those she wore as chaines Making a true loves knot of goodnes she The Lady was of bles'd Humilitie Charity Love Zeale Religion Were the Ideas that she doated on Shee knew Court Ladies faults and did not tie Her faith unto her fashion her eye Aimd at the starry Court of Majesty Absolute in Love Zeale Brightnes Glory Honour loves not applausive multitudes But vertues selfe which verity includes Her soule was so engraffd in piety That she despisd all popularity She needed not those Platonicall Rings Of whom an ould Philosopher thus sings The vertue made invisible no no she Express'd all vertues in her modestie She on true honours Maxime did depend That conscience was the honorablest friend From dead Eliza of bles'd memory She did receive her Christianity A happy Mother makes a happy Childe She had her spirit and her nature milde Till pale Consumption made the way for Death Then sweet Eliza yeelded up her Breath On ELIZABETH WILLOVGH BY First Wife to HENRY WILLOVGH BY of RISLEY Baronet who lieth interr'd in the Parish of Wilne in Derby-shire VVHy did the birds 'i th hight of Summers prime Their wonted Chirpings leave which usd to chime Like silver sounding bells from springs or woods Which Echo iterates from running floodes The sil'y robinet did leave to hop And senseles sat upon the cold house top The Larke lay downe lothing to get on winge The Thrush had quite forgot her sonneting Sad Philomela from her pensive brest In all dull sorrows tunes her notes exprest Such mournfull dirges were by her begun As if that sorrow sorrow would strike dumbe Thy losse best woman was the cause why thus Both man and creatures were incongruous The Birds bless'd woman ruefully did mone Thinking their Phoenix was to Ashes stone But from thy flames few more such will arise In thee th' Arabicke perfection dies Thou Orphant's Mother and the Churches praise Great pity Time did not protract thy daies But let a stocke of vertues fall in thee Which able were to make an Historie Of ample goodnes these for to looke upon And dare to write 'em were detraction Thou hast bene long lamented yet no verse Nor showres of rhetorique can grace thy Herse Thou hast out-gone
Truthes Epitomy here doth lie On that worthy woman CASSANDRA POVVTRELL of Westhallam THough she be gone her goodnes fame and birth Left not a second paragon on Earth T is said the Phoenix into ashes flies And from her flames another Bird doth rise If our Arabian England can affoard From all her borroughes such another Bird Wee le banish forreigne groves ours their shall shame Of thy great worth Religion breeding fame Where are the Muses are they all asleepe Do they their fathers high holiday keepe Have they forgot their nursing mother's gone Which kept a house as free as Helicon Where every thirsty soule might drinke his fill And make him apt for the Castalian quill True knowledge base ingratitude doth shunne When learning growes ingrate the World is done Others their fame and glories gaine by chance But she did never her great birth advance From others names that worth is profitlesse That comes by chance not by vertuousnesse Hers was inherent given her from above Filld with sanctity piety and love Yet I dare boast and will not be denide Shee could say that few women can beside Great Aunt and Mother to so many Sonnes Earles Lords and Knights Vertues companions Honourd Countesses Ladies of great worth Our Herraldries cannot the like bring forth Greater her honour could so closely hide Her noble birth-right free from thought of pride Yet was contented in a pious life With one sole husband thou his onely wife Thy patience as a Land marke still doth stand To be a president to this whole Land Bless'd with so many children yet to see That they should all claime aprecedencie Of place before thee but 't is natures will Death both the younge and â—uld alike doth kill Our persons he respects not natures pay Is what she lent us life at our just day Her coate like vertues was un-alterable A dy that never staind un-coulourable No mortall saw her change eve'n such her life Even such a Maide a VVidow and a VVife Her garments and her faith both were one Vnchangeable in love life Religion Her charity like to the Queene of heaven To needy beggers every houre was given They knew their martes and where thy well might buy Sustenance for their meere necessity ' I was not extended barely at the doore Where they that ask'd receiv'de but to the poore Her neighbours who sicke in bed ost lay Through hunger starv'd almost cast away For lacke of succor thither still went shee While she could goe and ease their miserie Happy Cassandra Happy thrise I say Thy Almse deedes never can be tane away One part thou hast th' other still we have Bless'd in thy Birth thy Cradle Life Death and Grave She had her servants harts her tenants praise And never raisd a rent in all her dayes Remarkable signe of goodnesse this age wantes such Tho'ther way they multiply too much My Muse wantes not rare matter but a pen To crowne her with a Glorious Diadem But that shee needes not for her sacred parts Have stellifide her 'bove the reach of arts Nay I dare bouldly to the world proclaime Her likewill scarse be found on earth againe Her braine a Chronicle her minde a volume Her Vertues a pillar her goodnesse a columne For great ones for to build on if goodnes rest In any of thy sexe 't was in thy brest Shee did not hoorde it there but freely gave To any one that askt whaâ— they would have True patterne of the blessed so did shee Who 's ever thirsty was might there drinke free Cassandra mournd to see Troyes misery Thy Troy Cassandra now does mourne for thee And yet those honor'd Branches left behinde Will ever imitate thy nobler minde On Mrs. ELIZABETH WOODVVARD Wife of THOMAS WOODVVARD Esquire THy Countries losse and griefe of minde The â—ame mans hands eyes of the blinde The widowes joyes and cure for griefe The Tennants harts-ease and reliefe Thou Growne of women and good dayes The fatherlesse and orphants praise Thou that inspight of death did'st live To praise his name that long did give Thee being think st thou that thy name Though dead is gone no 't is the same It was and ne 〈…〉 shall wa st away Till all dissolves and Time decay Thou mappe of women and good name Sleepe on with Time rest still with fame Thou which most Scriptures hadâ—st by hart Now hast it for thy better part Marble empounded converts to dust Thy memory can never rust Who ' ere thou be that vewes this herse And with a sad eye reads this herse Know underneath this clod doth ly Eliza of bless'd memory Zealous in life happy in daies Worth all mens loves and Angells praise On Sir HENRY SHERLEY of STAVNTON Baronnet buried at Breedon in Leicester shire VVHy who would thinke it say the passers by That underneath this Marbled stone should ly So rich a treasurie can so small Earth Containe a spirit of so great a birth Can such a slender hill keepe in command Him that could tread o're leagues of his own Land Can honour and worship thus be undertrod And throwne as reliques under a poore clod Weake is the greatest Prince and cannot stand The angry darts of deaths commanding hand For he that treades o're Kingdomes of his owne In some few feet of Earth must be trod downe And therefore Sherley 't was in vaine for thee T' oppose the mastâ—r of a monarchie Let it suffize thy goodnes shall out-live All those inveteracies the world can give Thy love thy learning goodnes merit fame Shall as preservatives live in the name Of thy posterity and may they shine In Saint-like goodnes farre transcending thine That to their fathers name they may gaine praise And centuple their honord mothers dares Thus passenger when thou reflects thine eies Vpon this hill know that here under lies Thrice noble Harrie but all teares are vaine Hee s seated higher then we yet can gaine Waile thou his losse but still say Death is just For Sherley is what all the World once must On that much lamented gentleman Sir HENRY LEIGH of Egginton VVHy droope you Muses have you solely cause To blame the destinies whose fatall lawes Have wrought privation from us tane away Vertues Map like the Meridian day In up-right goodnes I must confesse Great are your griefes mine greater and not lesse Rivers lose course when trilling springs grow dry Life must decay when all our vitalls dy Yet though our bodies fall and spirits passe Our vertues live transparent in the glasse Of our lives steeradge though our losse be great Lend me your aides solemnly to entreat Of your deere losse and mine mine is asmuch And has like Marble a true Nâ—obes touch Three things there are indivisibly plast Which still in order stand first mid'st and last These he was all his parentage goodnes bred A midst he was nobly educated Lastly he was most zealous to his God With lambe-like patience he did beare his rod. Attributing Time tardy 'cause that he No
the Lady Katherin Baronesse Ogle worker to the right Honorable William Earle of Newcastle and the most noble Gentleman Sr. Charles Cavendish VVHen the two Tables first were writ in stone By the All-mighty which made all of none They certainly were left us for to show How in this life our times we should bestow Why may nâ—tâ— then boldly forrage on To write a truth without detraction Thy sacred vertues cannot lodged be Surer in Grave then in the memorie Of thy deare issueâ— that emboldens me To write thy merits in an elegy That Tree must needes be good when as the fruit Is alwaies ready for the taste and tooth I meane in leason For Divinity Allowes to each plant full maturity Hadst thou bene one of common birth or gone Above thy female sexe in but in one Rare gift my mournfull elegies then might As offred incense doe thee funerall rite But when so many rarities conspire In one selfe person fit for all t' admire Small wonder then if my amazed eies Are dazel'd with diviner rarities And I of sense and wonder quite bereft Si ce for to praise thee ther 's scarse one way left For thou wert all divinity so rare Few earthly creatures might with thee compare So sil'd with knowledge sanctitie love zeale As if by prophesie thou couldst un vaile All holy mysteries thy every word Had reference to the Almighty Lord In Hymns and Soliloquies thou didst pay Thy Orisons as incense every day Or balme powr'd on his Altars therefore we Counte it a blessing to remember thee Whose good deedes we may aime at but not touch 'T were a Herculcan labour and too much For women to aspire or match thy worth One Phoenix dead ther 's yet no more come forth Out of thy ashes and yet thine owne faire birth Has brought a second blessing to the Earth Like spreding Vines they bout his tables grow And like the lovely Olives stand in row In these thou still dost live thou art the Tree These stemmes of honour all are growne from thee 'T is not a few poore lines that can pourtray Thy ample worth the Muses lost their way Seeking to discribe thee then blame not me If I come short of thy known memory Whose every word was all perfection And what I now write meere detraction I cannot reach unto thy ample story That was so fraughted with Zeale Goodnes Glory Humility was thy hand-maide and she Has wafted thee to immortalitie Where sacred ravishingâ—s thou hear'st above Whiles we on Earth doe memorize thy love Bouls o're retaines thy Corpes the whole VVorld thy fame Ther 's nothing here dead of thee not thy Name On the right Honorable WILLIAM last Earle of Devon-shire who married the most noble Lady CHRISTIAN Sister to the Lord BRVSE and lyes inter 〈…〉 d in DERBY I Make no doubt but from the Muses quire Some more sweet singers nobler and higher Have offred to thy shrine yet let not me When others pay live in obscuritie Without acknowledgment 't were a sin indeede At which even Heathens doe us farre exceede Ingratitude is baâ—e my treas'ry poore Yet â— le lâ—nd some things from my Muses store Thy honours gain d not more unto thy name Then did thy vertues in thy Funerall flame Nay wert thou now alive there is none that dare Thy living vertues then for to compare For thou wouldst thinke we flattered but now Thy death shall all suspition disavow T is sin for to bely the dead yet we Hold goodnes speakes all truth not flatterie I want that rhetorique which the men of Rome Did joyntly beare unto dead Tullies tombe Yet I 'le not danbe thy utne since that there Can be no fowle things where ther 's no fowle eare Thine ancestors of noble birth and fames Whose good deedes have eternized their names Whose zeale of faith fealty to Prince Detracting envy can no whit convince With all those stratagems she workes to eate Into a free brest void of malices seat Th' art not more honourd by thine ancestrie Than they are triply dignifi'd by thee Since all their honours thou didst multiply And soe didst leave them to posterity For to be great-borne is not the meere cause Why men receive lowd popular applause But to be good-borne does transcend the great Goodnes makes greatnes for to be compleat And she was thine inherent vertue strove In various waies all vices to remove In France thy honours there did gaine renowne From the most Christian wearer of that Crowne Those courtly favorits that gazde on thee Said that thy lookes promisd maturitie Eâ—en the greatst Pheeres of France no more did wish But the Alliance of a Cavendish They thy admirers were and thou the Man In whom whole rivolets of vertue ran Not by conceiv'd hopes for in thy face Were Characters of honour set in grace With vertues never found out nor yet thought With sacred sanctity thy hart was fraught With còurtesie courage bounty wisdome What greater trophies can adorne a tombe Honour learning knowledge piety The holy blessings of some deity But that which makes these to perfection grow He who had all these could be humble too But that 's a blessing from eternity Successively given to thy family Humility is a robe of high renowne And 'mongst the card'nall vertues weares the Crowne These made the Princely Dolphin t' admire thee And all the French Pheeres in love desire thee And with a mourners sorrow waile thy losse When thou from France the English seas did crosse Thy parting from them was as if some groome Should leave his Bride and journey farre from home Yet hoping to enjoy her lord againe In ' midst of anguish gave release to paine He that from strangers had these favours showne VVhat graces then deserv'd he from his owne As great Embassadours of eminence From forreigne Princes doe their suites commense Are in all pompe and honourable port Receiv'd and grac'd by persons of the Court Such is the Princes will soe was this Man of men Vnto his native home receiv'd agen And married unto the Princely line Of noble Bruise beyond the River Tine Of whom some noble branches still remaine Whose honours part of their great worths retaine The one engraffd in warlike Rich's Armes The other ready to sing warr's Alarmes Then came each Poet with his sprigge of Bayes With all the Muses to set forth his praise Into whose Palmes he evermore did powre Such heapesas Jove in Danaes lap did showre Thus like a goodly Fabricke did he stand Admirde and honord by all in our Land Especially by sacred majesty In whose true service he did live and dy Lov'd of his Country honour'd of the state And his mortality dide free from hate For which the Muses to his memory Have now noe other song but Elegy On the right Honorable JANB Countesse of Shrewsbury Wife to the right Honorable EDVVARD Lord TALBOT of Shrewsbury last of that family dedicated to the right Honorable the Lady JANE CAVENDISH Daughter
he That thus is guarded to Eternity He had three Wives of blessed memory Who certaine are in heavens rich treasury By two he issue had by th'ould one none They and their of-sp'ring all to blisse are gone In peace they liv'd in love and peace they di'de Enjoying honse-roome with the lambe and bride Dame Fretchvill Bowes and Bellis were their names Whose good deedes doe perpetuate their fames A fourth survives whose goodnes 'mongst the rest From all the foure winds stiles her selfe by West She ranck'd in honours file does claime due share From the ennobled house of Dela-ware Deathes Image sleepe hath stolne his soule away His body till the last Trumpe restes in clay On Sir GILBERT KNIVETON Knight and Baronnet VVHen first thy active person made resort Both to the English and the Danish Court No favorite then liv'd in more reguard Then noble Kniveton Or freer gave reward Vpon desert and merit The stately Court Where men of all degrees of garbe and port Extant to practise some for complement Yet runne at randome from the Element Some to make faces Curtifies and Congees As if they were disjoynted in their knees Some meerly study fashions some paynt At pleasure making of a divell a Saint And some more sacred wits purer and fine That studied nothing but what was divine For there 's of all trades like a Mart or Faite And thither all soâ—tes of people make repaire Retir'd from thence thy â—leasures tane away Thou practis d gratitude a neerer way Zeale to thy God which evermore shall prove A living Monument of lasting Love A hand like harvest alwayes free and open Affable in lookes curteously spoken In thy Converse the poorest swaine might be Allow'd all language open firme and free An eye and brow that never frownd but when Grosse appetites predominated men A tongue that wisely could with cares dispence To 'th people love allegeance to his Prince Not covetous of Honor Pompe or State As free from enmity as love from hate Wise in thy countrys cause yet now and then Subject to errours like to other men Yet those that knew how faire a treasury Of goodnesse in thy noble brest did ly What all refined sweetnes well might sweare Thy rarenes thee proclamd they Muses heire Thy noble off-spring still does droope and groane Like crazy buldings thou there pillar gone Bradley laments thy losse for there thy name Long time hath livd in King and countrys fame But vaine are stately fabricks narrow roomes Will serue to beare us and our rotten toombes On the Lady Greffith Wife to Henry Greffith Baronnet and daughter of Henry Willoughby Baronnet T Is not a sin thus to expostulate And aske the causes why untimely fate Crops the bladed corne before ' its eard Kills fruite i th blossome and Lillies new appeard But 't is great pity that these goodly creatures The braverys and raritys of natures Should be untimely by Times Sythe cut downe Before their perfitenes and worthes are knowne Vnto the world and thereby to deprive The earth and Nature of what worthes they give If this be sin and pity then pale Death I le dare thee to a combat which whiles breath Retaines this mansion till thy fatall dart Those ould companions soule and body part Shall ne'r be finished and I know till then Thy hatred cannot cease to mortall men Yet I defie thee knowing that here tody Is but a preface to eternity Here has thy malice showd it selfe to steale That sacred lampe of love and perfect zeale Honors perfection patterne of Piety Light unto Grace Goodnes Nobility Was there one riches which this world did foulde That in her litle world she did not hould Yet rave'nous Tyger thou did'st her annoy Before she tasted of an earthly joy Just in the early Spring-time of her age Thou sent'st her on her short liv'd pilgrimage Hence questionles she did on Cherubs fly To the great Palace of eternity Where 'mongst the Hierarchies she sings in partes Joyes inexpessible by men or artes But that 's no thanks to death for the best will Thou hast in doing well is doing ill And how can that be good since there 's a text Divinely contradicts it and has annext Curses unto it but I waste my breath The law has limits none must kill save Death Thy sting oh Death thy cruell sting I say Destroid this goodly parragon of May This lovely Juni'an Rose that did display Those Cretan spices sweeter nor the day Those sacred leaves of honour lampes of love Which made pale Envies selfe her selfe reprove Earth held no ricâ—es which she could not finde For she had cabin'd goodnes in her minde Yet lent it out still I not on usury But for th' encrease of goodnes treasury Vnsated Caniball I 'le raile on still Although I know th' art limited to kill Could not the Earth suffize thee there to roame But that thy meager paunch must build a tombe Robbing a consecrated Temple thereby To steale true goodnes sacrilegiously Nay to subvert posterities that 's a bane That will perpetually on thee remaine She the faire prop of foure faire goodly towres Is undermind and falne but God-like powres Have left one goodly branch which spite of thee May propagate and make posterity Vn-numberlesse so shall Willoughby In Willoughby beget new heraldraie And Knowles shall tell thy malice and I pray The G 〈…〉 ffin may of thee beget the day As questionlesse th'All-seer has assignde it And tâ—y posterity shall surely finde it Then shall the Bird of Pallas change her note And clutch the Hare out of the Greyhoundes throate And the gould Griffin which is foe to none Still shall innovate this noble union The Elephant with his vast truncke shall turne Those eys to laughter that in sorrowes mourne All shall consigne in one and with this Ave Caution each other adsum cave Thus great destroyer know that silly I Lesse feare thy malice then did feare to dy This noble Lady all have from nature breath And all are sure nought's certainer then death On WILLIAM FARRINGTON of Salterstord Esquire March the 14. 1633. WILLIAM FARRINGTON Anagramma Farwell I am gon Which Anagramizde by conversion even Farwell I am gon from Earth to Heaven VVHat Epithete more shall I give Then for to say thou still dost live The Reader saith how may that be Does that man live noe man can see I answer thus all die to live Therefore that Epithete I 'le give I neede not praise thee goodnes known Needs no Laudare's But her own I must lament thee 'cause the Earth Growes barren and yields no such birth Known griefes are dumbe and such are mine Thy joyes aboundantly doe shine I adde but coale to flaming fuell Death has stolne away my jewell I dare not wrastle 'gainst harsh fate Yet needes must waile thee though to late Thou wert no wrangling contester No covetous poore-molester No plodding polititian But plainly a right honest man Say more that list more will not I