Selected quad for the lemma: death_n
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A93175
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Poems, &c. By James Shirley.
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Shirley, James, 1596-1666.
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1646
(1646)
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Wing S3481; Wing S3480; Wing S3488; Thomason E1149_3; Thomason E1149_4; Thomason E1149_5; ESTC R18545; ESTC R202316; ESTC R203565
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27,049
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94
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Their Tribute paid close not the shrine see where The Treasure of his bosome doth appear Now coming to her Saint with her drown'd eyes For sorrow leads her where her dead Lord lies To whose pale Relique she devoutly payes A kisse as holy as his life and prayes With many tears till quite dissolv'd in them She seems contriv'd into a walking stream As Destiny had meant her to descend From Rivers but to satisfie this end More sorrow doth attend this herse for here 's A train of Lords that follow though no Peers For all the stock of honour is too low for competition yet upon this woe Wait all that in Nobility are good And he that weeps not hath no gentle blood Nor are these all the Mourners see how fast The Reer advances I suspect their hast And weight may overbear his Sepulcher Friends to the dead contain your selves nor fear You that were servants crowding to the urne Of your dead lord but you 'l have time to mourn This your immortal losse But why among Set shapes of mourning suffer ye to throng Those that prophane his monument the poor What make they at his tomb and leave his door He was their bread and miracles not gone They hope to find it in his Funeral stone He gave the blind men eyes too and they can Do no lesse now then weep them out again Be sorrow free for all men since he dies Worth love of heaven and the worlds sacrifice Vpon Mr. Charles Beaumont who died of a Consumption WHile others drop their tears upon thy herse Sweet Charles and sigh to increase the wind my verse Pious in naming thee cannot complain Of death or fate for they were lately slain By thy own conflict and since good men know What Heaven to such a Virgin Saint doth owe Though some will say they saw thee dead yet I Congratulate thy life and victory Thy flesh an upper garment that it might Aide thy eternal progresse first grew light Nothing but Angel now which thou wer 't neer Almost reduc'd to thy first Spirit here But fly fair soul while our complaints are just That cannot follow for our chains of dust The Passing Bell. HArk how chimes the Passing bell There 's no musick to a knell All the other sounds we hear Flatter and but cheat our ear This doth put us still in mind That our flesh must be resign'd And a general silence made The world be muffled in a shade He that on his pillow lies Tear enbalm'd before he dies Carries like a sheep his life To meet the sacrificers knife And for eternity is prest Sad Bell-weather to the rest Et longum Formosa vale FRIENDSHIP Or Verses sent to a Lover in Answer of a Copie which he had writ in praise of his Mistris O How I blush to have ador'd the face Of any Mistris when I gave the grace For which I rob'd the flowers How I did swear Her eyes were stars and loves soft nets her hair Disgrac'd the chiming of the Spheres to tell Her voice and in her breath profest to smell The Eastern spices on the Phoenix pile And for her Chin and Forehead did beguil Heaven of his milky way these trimmings must Be paid again they 're taken all on trust But let the Mistris thou dost serve be fair With her owne beauty as some such there are Compound with the whole sex to make a mind Include the Graces of fair woman-kind I shall not think her worth my praise or smile And yet I have a Mistris all this while But am a convert from that Sex and can Reduc'd to my discretion love a man With Honour and Religion Such a one As dares be singly vertuous gainst the Town A man that 's learned too and for his parts Is held a Prodigie of all the Arts A man of a cleer soul bold temperate free Fortune and Passion wear his liverie And do obey and when he will resigne To mirth is in at all things but the Wine Of an extraction Noble and to do Him and the wonder right he is young too As handsome as thy Mistris more divine And hath no fault but that I call him mine My jealousie doth cloud his name 't is fit Nor art thou ripe for thy conversion yet The Garden THis Garden does not take my eyes Though here you shew how art of men Can purchase Nature at a price Would stock old Paradise agen These glories while you dote upon I envie not your Spring nor pride Nay boast the Summer all your own My thoughts with lesse are safisfied Give me a little plot of ground Where might I with the Sun agree Though every day he walk the Round My Garden he should seldom see Those Tulips that such wealth display To court my eye shall lose their name Though now they listen as if they Expected I should praise their flame But I would see my self appear Within the Violets drooping head On which a melancholy tear The discontented Morne hath shed Within their budds let Roses sleep And virgin Lillies on their stemme Till sighes from Lovers glide and creep Into their leaves to open them I th' Center of my ground compose Of Bayes and Ewe my Summer room Which may so oft as I repose Present my Arbour and my Tombe No woman here shall find me out Or if a chance do bring one hither I le be secure for round about I le moat it with my eyes foul weather No Bird shall live within my pale To charme me with their shames of Art Unlesse some wandring Nightingale Come here to sing and break her heart Upon whose death I 'le try to write An Epitaph in some funeral stone So sad and true it may invite My self to die and prove mine owne Câ—rse WOman I cannot call thee worse For thy vow-break take this curse May that man whom thy embrace Shall make happy in my place At a time when all thy blood Lust hath poyson'd and no good Left in a thought strike with that aire He breathes upon thee next despair Some death in his curld forehead fit And every kisse more cold then it Yet live and my revenger be For when thou dost this Gorgon see Betwixt thy horror and no doubt But that thou art a stone throughout With some knife or poniard wound Thy heart till falling to the ground And pale the world beleeve thee dead But not one tear upon thee shed No matter where thy spirit flies Or whose pity close thine eyes To the proud M. PRoud woman know I am above As much thy anger as thy love I did once think thou hadst a face But when next thou tak'st thy glasse If thou canst see through so much paint Pray to thy owne no more my Saint Thy eyes those glouring twinnes shall be No more misleading fires to me Nor hope they shall continue bright For I will curse out all their light But this would shew that I were vext And so thy Tryimph might be next That thou
common place Be judg your selves that know what 't is to leave A friend then wisely teach me how to grieve Be judge you that did want him while he liv'd But more now since he then your lives repriv'd Forfeit to miseries and let me know What height and method you 'l prescribe your wo Be judge that were companions of his wit And knew with what wise Art he manag'd it When Natures darling bleeds who can be found Whose heart would not drop balme into the wound Last be you Judges who best teach the way And steer our erring souls to heaven then say How much Divinity is gone and by Your grief I le learn to write his Elegie Vpon the death of K. James WHen busie Fame was almost out of breath With telling to the world King James his death I gave the voice no credit not that I Beleev'd in Law That Kings can never die For though of purer mold at last they must Resolve to their cold principle the dust Distinguish'd onely from the common men That being dead their dust is Royal then What though the King were old as soon must they Be at home whose journey 's down-hill all the way But I would trust my eye not every sound The ear oft catches things at false rebound To cleer my doubts some told me that did bring By Torch-light the dead body of the King When every star like kinsmen to the dead That night close-mourners hid their golden head And had repos'd that Royal burden where His people might embalm him with their tear Sorrow finds quick direction I came To a fair House I cannot giv 't a name It had so many onely this I know It might be aptly call'd the House of wo Deaths Inne of late for Princes who there lay As taking but a Lodging in their way To the dark Grave Entred the Court I see Many attir'd in black but this might be Their abstinence for Lent for who is there That cannot fast from Colours once a yeer After some justling with the guard I came Toth' presence which but mockt me with a name For it presented nothing to my eye But blacks and tears for absent Majesty Thence to the Privie-chamber I did passe In hope to find him there but there alas I found new shapes of sorrow Men whose eyes Drunk up by tears shew'd life in a disguise The mourning state here did renew my wo For the lost Presence Velvet hangings too Made sorrow of more value which beheld The ' Scutcheon Royal in a Sable Field To the bed-chamber then the shrine some said Where the pale body of the King was laid My wild devotion brought me This sad room At first did fright me opening like a Tomb To shew me death where Tapers round about Flameles would tell me that our light was out But by that melancholy day was lent I might discover on his monument A King with subtle Artifice so set My sense did stagger at the Counterfet Alas was this the way to gain belief That he was dead to paint him now to life As if when we had lost him it had been Enough to have thought him but alive agen But to these sad Remonstrances I give No faith the King I sought might be alive For all these figures and their Makers be At least as my soul wish'd more dead then he From thence to hite-hall when I came with wing Nimble as fear could make I found the King I triumph'd here and boldly did revive King James not dead he was in Charles alive Vpon the death of Sr. Th. Nevill SWelling Eyes forbear to weep Can the marble that doth keep So rich a Nevill not appear Full of cold drops without your tear Or the Earth beneath his Tombe Not feel a labour in her wombe When with her profaner dust His ashes mingle Sure it must Break with burden of new pain And from her root he grow again An Elegie upon the honourable fair and vertuous M. Borlase COme hither Virgins that are good and fair Insteed of flowers here carelesse strew your hair Pay down the tribute due from all your eyes For underneath this dewy Marble lies One worth you all although you cannot make Her live again 't is justice for her sake To weep your selves blind for in vain you keep Your eye-sight while Marya's gone to sleep That was your path and Leader but away You are but common mourners for this day Hid in a storm of tears doth wait the name Of great Borlase wounded and led by fame The mist is blown away I see it come With temper'd hast to look into her Tomb To find an arme which from his body rent Does lie enbalmd in this white monument Forbear chief mourner and consent to be Without this limb more must be torne from thee And kept by death till the whole body meet And sleep together in one winding sheet Vpon the Death of C. D. Engineere who died upon service to which had no command IF we those men for gallant justifie Who when they are commanded on dare die Tell me how glorious shall their valour stand That dare like Dalby die without command Though order be the life of war the sword And bullet will not ask us for the word Nor did his courage know to make a pause When honour call'd so loud and such a cause As would untame a Hermit and make room With his own fire to meet the Martyrdome All that the sons of Flegm and fear can say Is that he might have liv'd and so will they Like earth-wormes safe in their owne slime and sleep Till the last Trumpet wake'em and then creep Into some Blind and wish this worthy then Alive to hide them in some Turfes agen But his soul wing'd with nobler flame found out Not to be active is the way about To Glory which he being fond to taste They are too wise that blame him for his haste Epitaph On the Duke of BVCKINGHAM HEre lies the best and worst of Fate Two Kings delight the peoples hate The Courtiers star the Kingdoms eye A man to draw an Angel by Fears despiser Villiers glory The Great mans volume all times story An Elegie upon the truly Honourable Tho. Viscount Savage IS Savage dead and can the Rock which bears His Name not strait dissolve it self in tears And weep into the Sea where it may have A Burial too whilst every frighted wave At this new guest may raise his curled head And in a storm tell all the world who 's dead But here 's no want of Flood for every eye Conspires in melting to an Elegie But first see where the King and Queen are come To pour their grief into their servants Tombe Let publike sorrow be first serv'd 't is cleer The Kingdom weeps in every Princes tear And now his children drop their pious rain Though none can soften his stiffe clay again And sigh they had a Father from whose care And wealth in vertue every Child 's an Heir