Selected quad for the lemma: death_n
Text snippets containing the quad
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A39233
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Poems, or, Epigrams, satyrs, elegies, songs and sonnets, upon several persons and occasions
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Eliot, John.
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1658
(1658)
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Wing E521; ESTC R40411
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49,129
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127
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I Can neither beg relief nor fly Yet to the hazard of thy Crown If I should perish by thy frown Where I a perfect Rebell fall The world shall me a Martyr call And I hope in revenge of me Abolish quite thy Laws and thee On Loves blindeness WHat is the reason Love is blinde Because for Love no cause we finde But here and there and this and that We doat on for I know not what Lust does somewhat rampart prove And straight is christned into Love So that though beasts we are in shame We must be Lovers all in name 2. The black we see do fair admire And fair there be that black desire A sort there is affects the crump And all alike but for the rump Love being now a Drunkard grown And can a Madam hug in Ioan Tell me then must not Love be blinde When Women lov'd are for their kinde 3. We men an Idoll Beauty make And do adore't for Fancies sake Our thoughts create the handsom creature And our tongues commend the Feature Or else the Breech first warms desire And then the face maintains the fire Does not then Cupids eye-sight fail That for the Heart does wound the Tayl. 4. For what should Love have Eyes to see When all his sports in Darknesse be But little is his use of Light Whose only work is done at night In that alone Loves pleasure lyes That for the hand is made not eyes Where let me lye and let me be Blinde Boy as dark and blinde as thee An Elogie on the Death of Love I Never yet wrote Love-lines Now a few Upon the Death of Love me thinks are due From every Pen And most unskilfull I That would be doing want Ability No Muse can I invoke unto my aid They are all dumb or suddenly afraid To touch this Subject They 'll not have it read In Crimson Characters that Love is dead No Muse What then Turne over Historie Or search the Poets Try if they can be Assistant by example Learn to move In their high strains Ovid wrote much of Love But not his Death His Art of Love was light And in the Elogies that he did write He could not frame perfection of that Ruth Which here is laid before us in a Truth Nor had Euripides in all his pack A Theam so ' Tragick or a Scean so black As is the Death of Love Stay Speak no more Nor study for expressions to deplore The losse of him The sense of these two words Love 's dead enough of Argument affords To melt dry eyes to Tears and hearts of stones To moulder into Sand by ceaseless grones While I was writing this to Earths great wonder The Heavens thick showres did weep and rore in thunder A Song GIve me a Preacher Whose Life is a Teacher Whose Sentences suit with his Actions Who rayls not at Rochets Nor preacheth odd Crochets Nor troubleth the Church with new Factions No Scoffer no Squibber No Ale or Wine Bibber No wrangler for Tith-Pigs or Geese But Truth teacheth plain And good house maintain And loves more the flock then the fleece On the Duke of Buckinghams Death An Elogie YEt were Bidentals sacred and the place Strucken with thunder was by special grace Nere after trampled over if this blow That struck me in my height and brought me low Came from the hand of Heaven let it suffice That God requir'd no other sacrifice Why do you bruse a Reed as if your rod Could wound me deeper then the hand of God Why do you judge me ere the judgement day As if your verdict could Gods judgements sway Why are you not contented with my blood For hate of me why make you Murder good He that commends the fact does it again And is the greater Murtherer of the twain Oh high-revealed malice that canst draw Heaven out of Hell check Gods proper Law Nadab and Abibu that thus accord To offer your strange fire before the Lord Take heed 't will burn you 't is a dangerous thing He that doth blesse a Murtherer kills a King I now have past your pikes and seen my Fare My Princes favour and the peoples hate Strange blear-ey'd Hatred whose repining sight Feeds all on darknesse and doth hate the Light Shews any goodnesse in me was I all Marra corrupta and stigmaticall Was I all ill Yet those that ript me found Some of my vitalls good some inward sound I had a Heart scorn'd danger and a Brain Beating for Honour life in every vein Nor was my Liver tainted but made Blood That might have serv'd to do my Country good Had you not let it out nor was my Minde So fixt on getting as to make me blinde And to forget mine Honour and my friend Witness those now who need no more depend And those whose merits I have made and rays'd Will finde out somthing more that may be prais'd All do not mourn in jest ther 's some one Eye Shed tears in earnest when it saw me dye And whatsoere those Remonstrants make I never lost my self but for their sake That God forgive them for the rest I le say I lov'd the King and Realm as well as they EITAPH REader stand still and look lo here I am That was of late the Mighty Buckingham God gave to me my being and my breath Two Kings their favour and a Slave my death And for my fame I claim and do not crave That thou beleev'st two Kings before a Slave An exortation for the battering down of those vanities of the Gentiles which are comprehended in a May pole written by a Zealous brother from Black-fryers THe mighty Zeal which thou hast new put on Neither by Prophet nor by Prophets son As yet prevented doth transport me so Beyond my self that though I ne'r could go Farr in a verse and all rimes have defy'd Since Hopkins and good Thomas Sternhold dy'd Except it were the little pains I tooke To please good people in some praier booke That I 've set forth or so yet must I raise My spirit for thee who shall in thy praise Gird up her loynes and furiously run All kind of feet but Satans cloven one Such is thy Zeale so well dost thou express it And wer 't not like a charme I 'de say Christ bless it I needs must say 't is a spirituall thing To raile against the Bishop or the King Nor are they mean adventures we have bin in About the wearing of the Churches linnen But these were private quarrells this doth fall Within the compass of the generall Whether it be a Pole painted and wrought Farr otherwise then from the wood 't is brought Whose head the Idolmakers hand doth crop Where a lewd bird towring upon the top Looks like the calf at Horeb at whose root The unyoakt youth doth exercise his foot Or whether it reserves its boughs befriended By neighbouring bushes and by them attended How canst thou chuse but seeing it complain That Baal's worship'd in the groves again Tell me
Would invite this my humble verse Some weeping eyes to wait upon this Herse But when I view who 't is that lodges here I know not then from whom to beg a tear To Ladies if I should this sute prefer So good this Ladie was all envyed her Such as had beauty whilst they stood alone If once compar'd with her they then had none Those spangle vertues that they gloried in To her Test brought prov'd then but gilded sin She was the Lyllie of the Field the rest But Daâ—ies Primrose Cowslips at the best This blazing star all others thus our shining Inferiour lights grow great by her declining Since Ladies then are better'd by her death To beg their tears were but to wast my breath Should I to vertuous men my self adress And crave some sighs from them they would confess That if a thought of her but crost their way Even in the Temple they no more could pray The fire of love their sparkes of Zeal put forth And they no text could studie but her worth The thickskind Boar that at high noon defies The scorching Sun was melted by her eyes The stiff-neckt Puritane doth not allow His god a knee yet to this Saint would bowe Her granest Chaplins in the midst of grace Stood often mute till gazing on her face They fâ—oâ— her Cheeks as from two well pend books Found graces store and read them in her looks And thus all men Idolatrie commit Some with her feature others with her wit All good men then how deer soe er'e they lov'd her Are glad e'n for their souls sake death remov'd her Shall I rub natures sores and once again From tender Parents eyes press drops of rain That were a Crime that would beget a storie To mourn for her they know is crown'd with glory But they religious are and will repent The sighs and groans and teares already spent For being married thus before they die To Ioyes Long liv'd as is eternitie Part of her hapiness they shall destroy That weep for her unless they weep for Ioye Should I awake her Lord and from his eyes Requier teares by way of sacrifice That were a Crueltie her gentle soul Would sharply in his sleeps and dreams controule For if the Saints our actions doe discover To weep for her would show he did not love her For being Crown'd with bliss 't were most unjust To wish her here again to dwell with dust What Ioy what honour can there be like this She that was once his wife an Angell is A piece of his own flesh with her is gone As in his right to take possession Of these eternall Ioyes long since decreed To godly Parents and their righteous seed Nor was high heaven content to grace him so But knowing nature apt to over throw Foundations that by faith are weakly laid This goodly Fabrick must not be decay'd By flow pac't time nor did those powers please To ruine it by surfeits or disease Sure common messengers were thought too mean This was a Temple pure and chast and clean And must not cancel'd be the Common way Or sink like houses built of Lyme and clay She was a Diamond and a Diamond must Be found to cut her er'e she fall to dust A Diamond of the self same Rock or none The Flesh of her own Flesh bone of her bone And this must cut and pollish either other The mother fit the Child the Child the mother For Gods own wearing O now tell me where A husband can find room to place a tear Or Parents ground whereon to drop a grone Happie unhappie Lady is their none Hath cause to mourn or to lament thy death Yes blessed soul more then doe yet draw breath Children unborne and ages yet to come Shal bring their offerings to thy honour'd Tombe Pilgrimes from furthest parts shall here arrive To kiss the earth thoâ— trod'st on being alive Chast virgins widows wives shall every spring Branches of Palme and Laurell hither bring And round about thy Sepulcher shall kneell And vent in sighs what their sad hearts do feel Infants shall to thy Infant every hower Offer a garland or at least a Flower And then the elder shall the Yonger tell That they must never hear a passing Bell But they must drop a tear in memorie Of those two blessed souls whose bones there lye And as each year that day shall bring about On which the Tyrant death those lights put out They must invent a curse and that curse lay So heavie that it prove a dismall day A day on which no work shall be begun No fruit be planted nor a seed be sow'n No traveller that conscience makes of â—in Shall dare a Journey on that day begin And if a Yew that day bring forth a Lamb Let it be Fatall to the sillie dam Let not a dove that day a dove disclose Nor hunts-man find a Fawn fal'n from his does Let Midwives only on that day be blest With what they seldom get sweet sleep sweet rest For on that day that dismall day the earth Lost all her pride by an untimely birth And this poor Isle was utterly undone And rob'd of such a mother such a Son As doting nature with her palsie fist Shall never frame again nor fates untwist Such gentle stuff so soft so debonayr As was this Child nor mother half so fair As was the lovely mould in which t was cast For never waâ—â—here womb so pure so chast Noâ— shall mankind so much as hope to see The world inricht with fruit from such a tree A â—â—iâ—d that saw the world and fell a Crying As if to live with us were worse then dying A mother wisely apprehending too One Phenix to one world was onely due And thus as by consent they both retire And both to ashes burn in their own fire Is it a sea that overwhelms each eye Or is it some black cloud that masks the skie Or is the Sun eclipst or hath the day Clapt on her swiftest wings and fled away And left me thus as if this subject might Be best pursude in solitarie night Or whence proceeds those mists that thus involves me â—as there dropt a tear and that resolves me 〈◊〉 heart surcharg'd with grief seeks ease and tries How sorrow may be vented by the eyes The blots of Inck that from my pen do fall Like hired mourners at a Funerall No power have to move the Lookers on To speaking actions of compassion Let others then sad Epitaphs invent And paste them up about thy moniment Let such whose sorrows are not great as mine With golden verses beautifie thy Shrine Whilst my poor muse contents it self that she Vents sighes not words unto thy memorie Nor canst thou want blest Soul an Elogie I see one writ in every Readers eye Rest then in peace the world to dust shall turne When tears are wanting to keep moyst thy urne In Praetorem WHen I behold thee proudly to advance Behinde thy sword and Cap of Maintenance