influence all impression came But by receivers impotencies lame Who though she could not transubstantiate All states to gold yet guilded every state So that some Princes have some temperance Some Counsellers some purpose to advance The common profit and some people have Some stay no more then Kings should give to crave Some women have some taciturnity Some nunneries some graines of chastitie She that did thus much and much more could doe But that our age was Iron and rustie too Shee she is dead she 's dead when thou knowst this Thou knowst how drie a Cinder this world is And learn'st thus much by our Anatomy That 't is in vaine to dew or mollifie It with thy teares or sweat or blood nothing Is worth our travaile griefe or perishing But those rich joyes which did possesse her heart Of which she 's now partaker and a part But as in cutting up a man that 's dead The body will not last out to have read On every part and therefore men direct Their speech to parts that are of most effect So the worlds carcasse would not last if I Were punctuall in this Anatomy Nor smels it well to hearers if one tell Them their disease who faine would think thy're well Here therefore be the end and blessed maid Of whom is meant what ever hath been said Or shall be spoken well by any tongue Whose name refines course lines and makes prose song Accept this tribute and his first yeares rent Who till his darke short tapers end be spent As oft as thy feast sees this widowed earth Will yearely celebrate thy second birth That is thy death for though the soule of man Be got when man is made 't is borne but than When man doth die our body 's as the wombe And as a Mid-wife death directs it home And you her creatures whom she workes upon And have your last and best concoction From her example and her vertue if you In reverence to her do thinke it due That no one should her praises thus rehearse As matter fit for Chronicle not verse Vouchsafe to call to minde that God did make A last and lasting'st peece a song He spake To Moses to deliver unto all That song because hee knew they would let fall The Law the Prophets and the History But keepe the song still in their memory Such an opinion in due measure made Me this great office boldly to invade Nor could incomprehensiblenesse deterre Mee from thus trying to emprison her Which when I saw that a strict grave could doe I saw not why verse might not do so too Verse hath a middle nature heaven keepes Soules The Grave keepes bodies Verse the Fame enroules A Funerall ELEGIE 'T Is lost to trust a Tombe with such a guest Or to confine her in a marble chest Alas what 's Marble Jeat or Porphyrie Priz'd with the Chrysolite of either eye Or with those Pearles and Rubies which she was Joyne the two Indies in one Tombe 't is glasse And so is all to her materials Though every inch were ten Escurials Yet she 's demolish'd can wee keepe her then In works of hands or of the wits of men Can these memorials ragges of paper give Life to that name by which name they must live Sickly alas short-liv'd aborted bee Those carcasse verses whose soule is not shee And can shee who no longer would be shee Being such a Tabernacle stoop to be In paper wrapt or when shee would not lie In such a house dwell in an Elegie But'tis no matter wee may well allow Verse to live so long as the world will now For her death wounded it The world containes Princes for armes and counsellors for braines Lawyers for tongues Divines for hearts and more The rich for stomackes and for backs the poore The officers for hands merchants for feet By which remote and distant Countries meet But those fine spirits which do tune and set This Organ are those peeces which beget Wonder and love and these were shee and shee Being spent the world must needs decrepit bee For since death will proceed to triumph still He can finde nothing after her to kill Except the world it selfe so great was shee Thus brave and confident may Nature bee Death cannot give her such another blow Because shee cannot such another show But must wee say she 's dead may 't not be said That as a sundred clocke is peecemeale laid Not to be lost but by the makers hand Repollish'd without errour then to stand Or as the Affrique Niger streame enwombs It selfe into the earth and after comes Having first made a naturall bridge to passe For many leagues farre greater then it was May 't not be said that her grave shall restore Her greater purer firmer then before Heaven may say this and joy in 't but can wee Who live and lacke her here this vantage see What is 't to us alas if there have beene An Angell made a Throne or Cherubin Wee lose by 't and as aged men are glad Being tastlesse growne to joy in joyes they had So now the sick starv'd world must feed upon This joy that we had her who now is gone Rejoyce then Nature and this World that you Fearing the last fires hastning to subdue Your force and vigour ere it were neere gone Wisely bestow'd and laid it all on one One whose cleare body was so pure and thinne Because it need disguise no thought within 'T was but a through-light scarfe her minde t'inroule Or exhalation breath'd out from her Soule One whom all men who durst no more admir'd And whom who ere had worke enough desir'd As when a Temple 's built Saints emulate To which of them it shall be consecrate But as when heaven lookes on us with new eyes Those new starres every Artist exercise VVhat place they should assigne to them they doubt Argue ' and agree not till those starres goe out So the world studied whose this peece should be Till shee can be no bodies else nor shee But like a Lampe of Balsamum desir'd Rather t' adorne then last she soone expir'd Cloath'd in her virgin white integritie For marriage though it doth not staine doth die To scape th'infirmities which wait upon VVoman she went away before sh'was one And the worlds busie noyse to overcome Tooke so much death as serv'd for opium For though she could not nor could chuse to dye She'ath yeelded to too long an extasie Hee which not knowing her said History Should come to reade the booke of destiny How faire and chast humble and high she'ad been Much promis'd much perform'd at not fifteene And measuring future things by things before Should turne the leafe to reade and reade no more VVould thinke that either destiny mistooke Or that some leaves were torne out of the booke But 't is not so Fate did but usher her To yeares of reasons use and then inferre Her destiny to her selfe which liberty She tooke but for thus much thus much
nature put thee in And to deliver up to God that state Of which he gave thee the vicariate Which is thy soule and body as intire As he who takes endeavours doth require But didst not stay t' enlarge his kingdome too By making others what thou didst to doe Why shouldst thou Triumph now when Heav'n no more Hath got by getting thee then t 'had before For Heav'n and thou even when thou livedst here Of one another in possession were But this from Triumph most disables thee That that place which is conquered must bee Left safe from present warre and likely doubt Of imminent commotions to breake out And hath he left us so or can it bee His territory was no more then Hee No we were all his charge the Diocis Of ev'ry exemplar man the whole world is And he was joyned in commission With Tutelar Angels sent to every one But though this freedome to upbraid and chide Him who Triumph'd were lawfull it was ty'd With this that it might never reference have Unto the Senate who this triumph gave Men might at Pompey jeast but they might not At that authoritie by which he got Leave to Triumph before by age he might So though triumphant soule I dare to write Mov'd with a reverentiall anger thus That thou so earely wouldst abandon us Yet I am farre from daring to dispute With that great soveraigntie whose absolute Prerogative hath thus dispens'd with thee ' Gainst natures lawes which just impugners bee Of early triumphs And I though with paine Lessen our losse to magnifie thy gaine Of triumph when I say It was more fit That all men should lacke thee then thou lack it Though then in our time be not suffered That testimonie of love unto the dead To die with them and in their graves be hid As Saxon wives and French soldarii did And though in no degree I can expresse Griefe in great Alexanders great excesse Who at his friends death made whole townes devest Their walls and bullwarks which became them best Doe not faire soule this sacrifice refuse That in thy grave I doe interre my Muse Who by my griefe great as thy worth being cast Behind hand yet hath spoke and spoke her last Elegie AS the sweet sweat of Roses in a Still As that which frō chaf'd muskats pores doth trill As the Almighty Balme of th' early East Such are the sweat drops of my Mistris breast And on her necke her skin such lustre sets They seeme no sweat drops but pearle coronets Ranke sweaty froth thy Mistresse's brow defiles Like spermatique issue of ripe menstruous boiles Or like the skumme which by needs lawlesse law Enforc'd Sanserra's starved men did draw From parboild shooes and bootes and all the rest Which were with any soveraigne fatnes blest And like vile stones lying in saffrond tinne Or warts or wheales it hangs upon her skinne Round as the world 's her head on every side Like to the fatall Ball which fell on Ide Or that whereof God had such jealousie As for the ravishing thereof we die Thy head is like a rough-hewne statue of jeat Where marks for eyes nose mouth are yet scarce set Like the first Chaos or flat seeming face Of Cynthia when th' earths shadowes her embrace Like Proserpines white beauty-keeping chest Or Joues best fortunes urne is her faire brest Thine's like worme eaten trunkes cloth'd in seals skin Or grave that 's dust without and stinke within And like that slender stalke at whose end stands The wood-bine quivering are her armes and hands Like rough bark'd elmboughes or the russet skin Of men late scurg'd for madnes or for sinne Like Sun-parch'd quarters on the citie gate Such is thy tann'd skins lamentable state And like a bunch of ragged carrets stand The short swolne fingers of her gouty hand Then like the Chymicks masculine equall fire Which in the Lymbecks warme wombe doth inspire Into th' earths worthlesse part a soule of gold Such cherishing heat her best lov'd part doth hold Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gunne Or like hot liquid metalls newly runne Into clay moulds or like to that Aetna Where round about the grasse is burnt away Are not your kisses then as filthy and more As a worme sucking an invenom'd sore Doth not thy fearefull hand in feeling quake As one which gath'ring flowers still feares a snake Is not your last act harsh and violent As where a Plough a stony ground doth rent So kisse good Turtles so devoutly nice Are Priests in handling reverent sacrifice And nice in searching wounds the Surgeon is As wee when wee embrace or touch or kisse Leave her and I will leave comparing thus She and comparisons are odious Elegie The Autumnall NO Spring nor Summer Beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one Autumnall face Yong Beauties force our love and that 's a Rape This doth but counsaile yet you cannot scape If t' were a shame to love here t' were no shame Affections here take Reverences name Were her first yeares the Golden Age That 's true But now they' are gold oft tried and ever new That was her torrid and inflaming time This is her tolerable Tropique clyme Faire eyes who askes more heate then comes from hence He in a fever wishes pestilence Call not these wrinkles graves If graves they were They were Loves graves for else he is no where Yet lies not love dead here but here doth sit Vow'd to this trench like an Anachorit And here till hers which must be his death come He doth not digge a Grave but build a Tombe Iere dwells he though he sojourne ev'ry where In Progresse yet his standing house is here Iere where still Evening is not noone nor night Where no voluptuousnesse yet all delight In all her words unto all hearers fit You may at Revels you at counsaile sit This is loves timber youth his under-wood There he as wine in Iune enrages blood Which then comes seasonabliest when our tast And appetite to other things is past Xerxes strange Lydian love the Platane tree Was lov'd for age none being so large as shee Or else because being yong nature did blesse Her youth with ages glory Barrennesse If we love things long sought Age is a thing Which we are fifty yeares in compassing If transitory things which soone decay Age must be lovelyest at the latest day But name not Winter-faces whose skin 's slacke Lanke as an unthrifts purse but a soules sacke Whose Eyes seeke light within for all here 's shade Whose mouthes are holes rather worne out then made Whos 's every tooth to a severall place is gone To vexe their soules at Resurrection Name not these living Deaths-heads unto mee For these not Ancient but Antique be I hate extreames yet I had rather stay With Tombs then Cradles to weare out a day Since such loves motion natural is may still My love descend and journey downe the hill Not panting after growing beauties so I shall ebbe out
to thee More then these faint lines A loud Elegie That did proclaime in a dumbe eloquence The death of all the Arts whose influence Growne feeble in these panting numbers lies Gasping short winded Accents and so dies So doth the swiftly turning wheele not stand In th' instant we withdraw the moving hand But some small time maintaine a faint weake course By vertue of the first impulsive force And so whil'st I cast on thy funerall pile Thy crowne of Bayes Oh let it crack a while And spit disdaine till the devouring flashes Suck all the moysture up then turne to ashes I will not draw the envy to engrosse All thy perfections or weepe all our losse Those are too numerous for an Elegie And this too great to be express'd by mee Though every pen should share a distinct part Yet art thou Theme enough to tyre all Art Let others carve the rest it shall suffice I on thy Tombe this Epitaph incise Here lies a King that rul'd as hee thought fit The universall Monarchy of wit Here lie two Flamens and both those the best Apollo's first at last the true Gods Priest An Elegie on Dr. DONNE By Sir Lucius Carie. POets attend the Elegie I sing Both of a doubly-named Priest and King In stead of Coates and Pennons bring your Verse For you must bee chiefe mourners at his Hearse A Tombe your Muse must to his Fame supply No other Monuments can never die And as he was a two-fold Priest in youth Apollo's afterwards the voice of Truth Gods Conduit-pipe for grace who chose him for His extraordinary Embassador So let his Liegiers with the Poets joyne Both having shares both must in griefe combine Whil'st Johnson forceth with his Elegie Teares from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye Like Moses at whose stroke the waters gusht From forth the Rock and like a Torrent rusht Let Lawd his funerall Sermon preach and shew Those vertues dull eyes were not apt to know Nor leave that Piercing Theme till it appeares To be good friday by the Churches Teares Yet make not griefe too long oppresse our Powers Least that his funerall Sermon should prove ours Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence With which he did the bread of life dispense Preacher and Orator discharg'd both parts With pleasure for our sense health for our hearts And the first such Though a long studied Art Tell us our soule is all in every part None was so marble but whil'st him he heares His Soule so long dwelt only in his eares And from thence with the fiercenesse of a flood Bearing downe vice victual'd with that blest food Their hearts His seed in none could faile to grow Fertile he found them all or made them so No Druggist of the Soule bestow'd on all So Catholiquely a curing Cordiall Nor only in the Pulpit dwelt his store His words work'd much but his example more That preach't on worky dayes His Poetrie It selfe was oftentimes divinity Those Anthemes almost second Psalmes he writ To make us know the Crosse and value it Although we owe that reverence to that name Wee should not need warmth from an under flame Creates a fire in us so neare extreme That we would die for and upon this theme Next his so pious Litany which none can But count Divine except a Puritan And that but for the name nor this nor those Want any thing of Sermons but the prose Experience makes us see that many a one Owes to his Countrey his Religion And in another would as strongly grow Had but his Nurse and Mother taught him so Not hee the ballast on his Judgement hung Nor did his preconceit doe either wrong He labour'd to exclude what ever sinne By time or carelessenesse had entred in Winnow'd the chaffe from wheat but yet was loath A too hot zeale should force him burne them both Nor would allow of that so ignorant gall Which to save blotting often would blot all Nor did those barbarous opinions owne To thinke the Organs sinne and faction none Nor was there expectation to gaine grace From forth his Sermons only but his face So Primitive a looke such gravitie With humblenesse and both with Pietie So milde was Moses countenance when he prai'd For them whose Satanisme his power gain said And such his gravitie when all Gods band Receiv ' his word through him at second hand Which joyn'd did flames of more devotion move Then ever Argive Hellens could of love Now to conclude I must my reason bring Where fore I call'd him in his title King That Kingdome the Philosophers beleev'd To excell Alexanders nor were griev'd By feare of losse that being such a Prey No stronger then ones selfe can force away The Kingdome of ones selfe this he enjoy'd And his authoritie so well employ'd That never any could before become So Great a Monarch in so small a roome He conquer'd rebell passions rul'd them so As under-spheares by the first Mover goe Banish't so farre their working that we can But know he had some for we knew him man Then let his last excuse his first extremes His age saw visions though his youth dream'd dreams On Dr. DONNES death By Mr. Mayne of Christ-Church in Oxford WHo shall presume to mourn thee Donne unlesse He could his teares in thy expressions dresse And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearse To weepe lines learned as thy Anniverse A Poëme of that worth whose every teare Deserves the title of a severall yeare Indeed so farre above its Reader good That wee are thought wits when 't is understood There that blest maid to die who now should grieve After thy sorrow 't were her losse to live And her faire vertues in anothers line Would faintly dawn which are made Saints in thine Hadst thou beene shallower and not writ so high Or left some new way for our pennes or eye To shed a funerall teare perchance thy Tombe Had not beene speechlesse or our Muses dumbe But now wee dare not write but must conceale Thy Epitaph lest we be thought to steale For who hath read thee and discernes thy worth That will not say thy carelesse houres brought forth Fancies beyond our studies and thy play Was happier then our serious time of day So learned was thy chance thy haste had wit And matter from thy pen flow'd rashly fit What was thy recreation turnes our braine Our rack and palenesse is thy weakest straine And when we most come neere thee 't is our blisse To imitate thee where thou dost amisse Here light your muse you that do onely thinke And write and are just Poëts as you drinke In whose weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow Just as your recknings rise that wee may know In your whole carriage of your worke that here This flash you wrote in Wine and this in Beere This is to tap your Muse which running long Writes flat and takes our eare not halfe so strong Poore Suburbe wits who if you want your cup Or if a Lord recover