Selected quad for the lemma: death_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
death_n	day_n	die_v	king_n	6,051	5	3.6079	3	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A12817	Honour and vertue, triumphing over the grave Exemplified in a faire devout life, and death, adorned with the surviving perfections of Edward Lord Stafford, lately deceased; the last baron of that illustrious family: which honour in him ended with as great lustre as the sunne sets within a serene skye. A treatise so written, that it is as well applicative to all of noble extraction, as to him, and wherein are handled all the requisites of honour, together with the greatest morall, and divine vertues, and commended to the practise of the noble prudent reader. By Anth. Stafford his most humble kinsman. This worke is much embelish'd by the addition of many most elegant elegies penned by the most accute wits of these times.	Stafford, Anthony.	1640 (1640)	STC 23125; ESTC S117763	67,272	160

lesse infinite And man no more looke up since stars shine dim To vertues light and heaven was nigh in him Thy vertues growth hath our endeavours chid Wee le raise no Pile to thee great Pyramid B. Ollivier On the death of the Lord STAFFORD IF from thy Sacred Ashes did arise Another Phoenix breathing spiceries Such as thy blossomes did since funerall fire Refined in full age thine Honoured Sire In whom you both might seeme againe t' returne Our griefes had all beene buried in thy Vrne Nor vexe the quiet Muses for a Verse To be thy Off-spring or adorne thy Herse Who leav'st Succession unto none of thine And but in such liv'st in no other Line But now her selfe Nature begins to feare And startles to behold now here now there A family extinct which though she strive With all her Art and strength to keepe alive It vanisheth Great Stafford thou shalt be To Nature a sad instance and to me Lest by Inductions she her selfe might be Concluded in short time Vacuitie When the whole Fabricks into nothing hurld And the great fadeth as the lesser world Pillars of flesh not stones and Imagrie Preserve the dead in Living Memory The blossome cropt before 'ts growne to a Peare Is no more worth than if 't had ne're beene there Which grown might from its kernels have begun In other grounds a new Plantation The poore mans Only lamb should have bin spar'd It was his Onely One 's there no regard Of One and Onely One This One may grow In time into a number Whence may flow Succeeding Millions This One being lost The hopes of all futurity are crost Happy who first by his Victorious hand Won honour to his house whose Name did stand In the first front and after liv'd to see His sonnes continue his Nobilitie But he who ends his Honour and his Name In his sweete youth and early hopes when fame Is scarce upon the wing to tell the Earth His Ancestors his Honours and his birth Dies leaving teares his onely Legacie Which must be wept and payd from every eye This gives our teares new birth nor doth contract Our sad Laments onely into one Act Such as was thy appearance form'd of clay Array'd with and bereft of Honour in a day But will when ere we turne the booke of Fame Create new griefe when we shal read thy Name With this unhappie mention He dy'd Young And without issue Here doth end the Line Of th' Ancient Staffords Family Thus Time Becomes their Period also and the End Which should each action crowne to thee doth lend A double lesse in whose one death doe dye More than thy selfe Thy Auncient Family Tell me old Time Chiefe Register of Things Who writ'st the fates of Commons and of Kings Was not a Tribe once precious in the Eye Of the Almighty though once doom'd to dye And perish all yet some were left to be Preserv'd and raise up a new Progenie So lest no branch of David should be left To bud till Shiloh came Ioash by theft Escapes the bloody stroke onely this One Continues Kingdome and succession For one out of a numerous race to die We know is common when the race doth lie In One and that One leaves no one behind Besides a fruitlesse name Nature's unkind My owne Creation 's but a blisse begun Which is made perfect in succession E. Marow On the Death of the most Noble Lord STAFFORD IMpartiall Nature sham'st thou not that we Should ever brand thee thus with cruelty Must all feele the like death Must vertuous then Be subject to corruption like bad men Thus thou wouldst have it be but he whose breath Thou enviously hast stopt shall not know death He who by Children thou deni'dst should give A life to 's Name makes it himselfe to live He was borne Noble and his life did so Answer his birth that it was hard to know Which way he was most Noble which most good By his owne vertues or his Parents blood In him liv'd all his Ancestors his fall Proves not his onely but their funerall He was not his Stocks bare Epitomy Nor was he like but one o' th' Family He did resemble All What dyed in him Was seene againe reviv'd and live in him Life to the dead he gave And though a Son His Fathers Fathers Father was become And now he that was like his friends in all things tried To be more like 'hem and as they did dyed With him fals th' house of th' Staffords and t is well It might have longer stood not better fell R. Pul. Sacred to the Memory of the most Vertuous Edward Lord Stafford the last Baron of his Illustrious Family SO is the ancient Rocke that still sent forth Iewels of clearer light and constant worth By ruder hands still pillag'd of it's store Safe onely when they thought 't would yeild no more The Sun discov'ring a fresh drop of light That might contest with him and prove as bright Doth bid his beames that exudation steale Before the moisture into stone congeale So in the aged Rose tree whose buds were Such that we might affirme th'were stars grew there After it long had yeelded growing Fires Still snatch'd to seede the ravishers desires The cold doth kill that bud that last shoots forth And robs us of all hopes of afterworth Thus here the heat and there the frost doth more Spoile then the Robbers Fingers did before But we can pardon fate when that the crosse Extends it selfe unto no greater losse Then of a Gem or Flowre But when that hand Shall snatch such living Iewels let me stand Senselesse and stupid as that Rocke and be Wretched and fruitlesse as that wither'd tree Fancy a morne that promis'd all delight Day ere afforded yet unto the sight Clouded by suddaine darkenesse whiles the houres Were busie yet to dresse it with fresh flowres And you have fanci'd expectation Crost But not like that of him we now have lost Fancy a sparke that Time would soone have blowne Into a throng of flames that would have growne Vnto the pitch of lustre as it bore The Pyramid higher and fill'd more and more Dasht by a suddaine violent showre and then Know you are short of this as sparkes of men Witnesse thou Deity of my pensive Muse His Sacred soule that I no Art doe use To raise a noted griefe from fancy'd losse Making the teares when I have made the crosse Alas the causes are too just For where Hath Knowledge any glories that his cleare Mind did not reach at Where hath Action ought Of Fame and worth that he would not have sought No Flowre in all that Garden or in this That would not have been proud to be stil'd his Bays most retir'd from Light and Sun had beene By his search found and by his shewing seene For whereas others thinke high birth and blood Vertues entaild and all that 's well borne good Though he might boast in this an ample share As the world knowes Vertue and this Lord were As undivided still as Light and Heate That the Inherent Dowry he the seate Yet he nere would his Birth to Vertue swell But thought it onely might set Vertue well Made it the Ouch not Iewell and from thence Did raise new Titles of preheminence Thus each day added to him and we may Say if we view his mind he did die gray Nor let me suffer misbeliefe because You knew him yet not man by Time and Lawes Soules such as his sore and produce high things When others have as yet scarce hope of wings His Genius did rich glories then beget And shew when lower could not Bud as yet Thus Regions neare the Sun doe Fields afford Throng'd with the choysest Flowres and richly stor'd When the remoter places sleepe and show Onely a garment of benumming Snow When I consider all this snatcht I must Wish that my teares could animate his dust But being we cann't call backe lost good nor blesse Our selves with him reviv'd I here professe My brest his Marble and doe thence become Both the bewailer of him and the Tombe Anthony Stafford FINIS Where a worthy man of a faire Line is born and bred is necessary to be knowne it is here proved against all clownish Infidels that there is such a thing as a Gentleman Amongst all Nations the Dane is the greatest Adorer of Nobilitie A never fading Honour is not the gift of Fortune but of Vertue It is here proved by reason that Nobility depends not on the will of Fortune Nothing is more remote from the nature of true Nobility than an ancient stocke void of vertue It is here by example confirmed that Descent is no sound Argument of true Nobility Honour and Vertue conjoyned out-shine solitary Merit Arts Arms should be the study of the more Noble The Dukes of Buckingham have beene so great that Earles have bin Stewards of their Houses His pious Education Religion is to be suckt in with the milke His learned Education Though learning be not the Adaequate cause of Vertue it is the adjuvant Great men have declared themselves fautors of Learning Humillity extolled in it selfe and him Obedience commended in it selfe and him His obedience to his parents Two rare examples of filiall duty and pietie His obedience to his Tutors Charitie praised in it selfe and him His love to his Friends His curiositie in the choice of his friends A herd of Friends hee lov'd not His love to the poore His ready forgiving of injuries Valour magnified in it selfe and him All men admire few understand what valour is Two admirable signes of Cato's future valour discover'd in him yet a childe Temperancie extolled in it selfe and him Drunkennesse dispraised Gluttony reprehended Justice exalted in it selfe and him Two stupendious presidents of Justice Prudencie commended in it selfe and him His Death His Patience Two things to bee lamented in his Death His infortunity in dying so immaturely in the Reigne of so gracious a Prince The immaturity of his Death Brevity of life to be preferred before Longevity * Xerxes God hath set down a period beyond which Nature her selfe shall not passe This World compared to a Theatre Death to a Christian not a punishment but a tribute

seene lye coffind as in glasse Whiles thus his bud dims full flowres and his sole Beginning doth reproach anothers whole Comming so perfect up that there must needes Have beene found out new Titles for new deeds Though youth and lawes forbid which will not let Statues be rais'd or him stand Brasen yet Our mindes retaine this Royalty of Kings Not to be bound to time but judge of things And worship as they merit there we doe Place him at height and he stands golden too A comfort but not equall to the crosse A faire remainder but not like the losse For he that last pledge being gone we doe Not onely lose the Heire but th' honour too Set we up then this boast against our wrong He left no other signe that he was young And spight of fate his living vertues will Though he be dead keepe up the Barony still Will. Cartwright On the much lamented Death of the Lord Stafford T Is not t' enbalme his name or crowne his herse That our sad thoughts flow in our eyes verse Or t' adde a lustre to his dimmed name Which onely now must shine in Heaven and Fame This were to hold a Taper out by night And cry thus shone the glorious Suns faire light To view his rising splendor at our noone Were in a shadow to set out the Sun Nor doe we Cypresse bring in hope of Bayes As death makes many Poets now a dayes Our teares flow by instinct and a cold frost Seazing our Palsie-joynts told what was lost Before the fat all knell not a dirge sung Nere a sad peale of Elegies was rung No bearded wonder or propheticke flame Vsher'd the ruine of his house and name Yet then we melted in a chilling sweat And every fainting brest did something threat Not each dayes wonder some strange newes come Creeping upon us like the generall doome And this was Staffords death in his owne fall A world of people felt their funerall And lost a being they nere had for he Writ not a man but House or Familie Thus have I seene a little silken clew Of compleated twists at the first view Comprised in a palme but ravel'd out And drawne to lines the thread will winde about Countries or townes Great shade the fate was thine Who by the issue of thy Noble line Might soone have peopled Kingdomes but thy all Is now wound up in a small urne or ball And all thy vertues in sad weedes doe lye Onely spun out into thy memory Thus have we lost what goodnesse knew to dwell In flesh and clay more worth then we dare tell As for an Epitaph upon his stone Write this Here lie a thousand Lords in one Geo. Zouch A. M. N. C. OX On the Death of the Noble Lord STAFFORD OThers to Staffords Herse Encomiums give Not that his worth but that their wit may live My Muse hath no such aime it is lesse praise To beare Apollo's then his fun'rall Bayes Nor is 't the Lord I mourne what is 't to me Who am no Herald if a Baron die I doe not hope for fees I 'me none of those That pay downe teares for legacies or clothes My solemne griefe flowes in a Nobler tide Soone as I heard one so well qualifi'd Had put off clay the fright not newes strucke deepe And made my eye of Vnderstanding weepe He was no Pagiant Courtier such as can Onely make legs like a fine Gentleman Though 's outside shew'd all that the nicer eye Of critique Madams could desire to see Yet was his soule more gay his ample brest Was in a silken disposition drest And with Heroicke habits richly lin'd The Vertues had no Wardrob but his mind As th' Honours and the Lands so he alone The worth of all his Ancestours did owne And yet that He is dead so dead that here Is nought preserves his name but 's tombe sheire That Noble Stocke is spent injurious Fate To make a House so ancient desolate Felton kild Englands George and with his knife Onely not cut the thred of others life We had some comfort left in that his blood Was not quite spilt after his fall he stood Transcrib'd in pretty Emblems which we all Read as true Copies of th' Originall But none survives this Phaenix 't is our woe To have this Sunne not set but put out too The Gard'ner weepes not when his Lillies die If they their seed leave as a Legacie But should an onely Flower the Gardens gem Wither in her full pride and of her stem Bequeath no slip the poore mans eyes each plot Of ground would wet without his water-pot No wonder 't is that reverend Arundell And other Lords doe grone out Staffords knell Since at his fall a Race of Heroes dyed Which can't but by Creation be supply'd Ri. West On the Death of the Lord STAFFORD WHat trust to titles shame t' our hopes ther 's gone One who was none can say how many a one Muses you are too few to waite on 's Ghost Wandring in sorry sheetes to tell what 's lost His Peerelesse Body earth'd some eyes may weepe As if they had never seene him but asleepe But those who view'd with somewhat more then eye The finer beauties of thy mind put by The griefe of teares and call their Consistory Of inward Powers to lament thy story Perfection which might tempt the Scribes of Fate To voluntary pennance force their hate Recoyle upon themselves to Nature sweare Rebatement of such rigour Was 't not severe To cast the blackenesse of dead night so soone On Noble lustre entring into noone How is deluding Heav'n thus pleas'd to whet Our hopes for Harvest and then blight the Wheate This was not all great Ghost we connot free Thee from contempt of sad Mortalitie Thou thought'st enough thy star should guide the wise To honour which thy selfe meant to despise Thy high-borne Spirit ripening into Man Deem'd that so scant a measure must needs span Short of thy merit so sliding out o' th' roule Of earthy Titles thou wouldst shift thy soule But yet me thinkes though Heav'n envy our soyle Such vertuous Simples Mercy should not spoile A Garden of it's onely verdant pride Vntill some hopefull plants were set beside The plucks-up Olive that the same sweete veine Might spring and flourish in high bloud againe Our stocke of Honour's is rooted up yet greene Whose draught 's uncoppyed must no more be seene An ancient house in this new rubbish lyes Here urn'd the ashes of whole Families As if the Church in need of Ornaments Should hence her number have of monuments Proud exercise of Sextons who dare live By fatall dust and looke that piety give To see this shrine and know that in this One There liv'd and dy'd a Generation No member of a Tribe who fils this Tombe He 's Sepulchre of Staffords name in whom A Race and Field is lost a Pedegree And Catalogue of Heroes Could not presaging feares which oft divine i th' fall of one the

give their winking o're You doe no hurt there 's more to shine Which else perhaps had not beene seene Or if we take them All away We shall be blam'd no more than day But if we put out the Sunnes light We may bid the whole World Good-Night Not meerely 'cause it is the Sunne But chiefely 'cause it was but One For had we Two who could repine Though One did Set so One did shine Thus stands it with thee death and us That hast affronted the state thus Could not one House suffice nay Towne But must you pull our None-such downe Could your transcendent Envie ayme Not at the Person but the Name Must Stafford dye True States-men say That even Kingdomes have their day Nor dare Iavouch they erre A Kingdome 's a Particular A Name 's Eternall and a Race Is bound to neither Time nor Place Now therefore thinke what thou hast done And burst thou foolish Sceleton Sithence we shall beleeve your spite Not your Power infinite For though here lyes the Corps of Stafford dead His Name and Epitaph can't be Buried Io. Goad Ioan. Ox. On the much lamented death of the Lord STAFFORD A Name too great for numbers fit for those Let loose their eyes and weepe as 't were in prose And yet a theame too vast for eyes here The greatest thing lamented is the Teare And when we have sate up to hang the Herse We can't be thought to weep our Lord but verse So great that we but tole his flame and chime His gloryes growing Sextons but in Ryme Who when he is deliver'd best will beare A fame like moderne faces blotted faire Whom we conceale in phrase so vast a Taske We write him to a beauty in a maske Though he might blow a quil to vers whil'st men Envie to see the Poet in the Pen For who can thinke in Prose a man so cleere His thoughts did suffer sight and soule appeare That he that searcht his hearty words might find That breath was th' exhalation of his mind Such faith his tongue did weare you might have vow'd He spoke his brest only thought alowd You might his meaning through his blood have spyde Too pure deform'd dissembling to hide As to his Virgin soule Nature had drawne In so refined flesh a Vayle of Lawne So was he borne cut up that now we cou'd Learne vertues from the Doctrine of his bloud Which we might see preach Valtur and espye His veine to make an Auditor of the Eye And runne conclusions for from hence we try'd Which was a flood of valour which just Tyde Learning from his wise heat that in an Ill A spirit might couragiously sit still That one might dare be quiet and afford To thinke all mettall lyes not in the sword And Cutlers make no mindes Armour no doubt Does well but none can be inspir'd without So did her chide the Flame o th' wilder youth That fights for Ladyes hayre or lesse their truth His blood discreetly boyl'd did make it cleere It is the minde makes old and not the yeere That we may prompt his stone to say lyes here Stafford the Aged at his foure-teenth yeere Io. Howe Sacred to the Memory of the Right Honourable the Lord STAFFORD being the last Baron of his Name T' Is high Presumption in us that are The feete so almost excrement to dare Turne eyes and weeape a puddle rivulet Over thy herse which Nobles have beset We teem'd too fast and too much issue had That let us blood as rules of Physick bad But this gnawes our land's heart Nobilitie And is more cruell in Epitomie By making us in this one Staffords fall To celebrate the exequies of all Why wouldst thou yeeld so soone to death alas Thou hast too speedily finisht thy race Thou ought'st not pretty flowre have hung thy head Till thou wast ripe and blown hadst scattered Some seedes about thy bed where in a shade Thou mightst have slept by thy sonne-flowers made When with strong bulwork of posterity T' hadst fortify'd thy decay'd Ancestry Built up thy ruin'd house allay'd our feares And wert foure-score as wel in sons as yeares O then and not til then thou shouldst have tri'd Whether our tender love would let thee'ave di'd Tho. Snelling of S. Iohns Oxf. On the memory of the late Lord STAFFORD HAdst thou stood firme our eyes had yet bin dry Not in their Vrnes but in thy brest did lye All thy stockes honour Memphis never knew Amongst her wonders Pyramid like you Stately how ere great families they shroud And scepter'd lines yet farre beneath a cloud With pearly drops that all may cleerely see Thou wast the jewell of Nobility We cannot hope that our distracted cryes Will please amongst their well-tun'd harmonies Our Elegies not weepe but are to be Wept at and want themselves an Elegie Yet frowne not on our verse and teares of jet Ah never any sorrow truer let Who can but sluce his heart throughout his eyes When Youth Nobility Hope Stafford dyes I summe not up thy beauty comelinesse Nor thousand graces which thy soule did blesse For like to gamesters whom their lucks have crost We feare to know the utmost we have lost Thou didst not by Example States false glasse Dresse thy behaviour and thy life's face Nor wast sufficient ground that thou shouldst do This vice because Lord such a one did so Thy eyes when once had but a point let in Of lust the other spying the little sinne Would send a visive ray as messenger To tell that if it would not drop a teare And quench that sparke he would not his mate dwell Then wept the sinfull eye and all was well Thus each part just as in Philosophie Would Rule and Maxime to the other be O what disease then shall we wish may meete With that disease which took away this sweete That envious disease and which out-vies Even the Pestilence in cruelties For that mongst hundreds true its poyson thril'd But they were troope and so ill humour spil'd Thou in few yeares couldst such a height attaine Orelook'd the hills and peer'd above the raine Our teares are too too low and watry eyes Doe leese themselves in search of such a rise The losse was ours thy Pyramid did grow Still broad nigh heaven decreas'd to us below The Vertues built thee and the graces came And with all sweetnesse polished thy frame Honour thy Mistresse there with glorious hand Full often made her splendid impresse stand For she lov'd Stafford each adoring eye In thee insculpt read all nobility So wert thou to the world hy heaven lent The life of new old vertues monument Thy soule was large and able to containe More than the worthes of many ages gaine The Vertues of thy Ancestors all knit Could not it fill were proud to enter it And thou encreasd'st that happie stock so well As who will reckon all the starres may tell Of heaven which hath it and us rob'd in spite Or feare that they should be