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
forbeare To come abroad knowing Thou art not here Late her great Patron Whose Prerogative Maintain'd and cloth'd her so as none alive Must now presume to keepe her at thy rate Though he the Indies for her dowre estate Or else that awfull fire which once did burne In thy cleare Braine now falne into thy Urne Lives there to fright rude Empiricks from thence Which might prophane thee by their Ignorance Who ever writes of Thee and in a stile Unworthy such a Theme does but revile Thy precious Dust and wake a learned Spirit Which may revenge his Rapes upon thy Merit For all a low pitch't phansie can devise Will prove at best but Hallow'd Injuries Thou like the dying Swanne didst lately sing Thy Mournfull Dirge in audience of the King When pale lookes and faint accents of thy breath Presented so to life that peece of death That it was fear'd and prophesi'd by all Thou thither cam'st to preach thy Funerall O! had'st Thou in an Elegiacke Knell Rung out unto the world thine owne farewell And in thy High Victorious Numbers beate The solemne measure of thy griev'd Retreat Thou might'st the Poets service now have mist As well as then thou did'st prevent the Priest And never to the world beholding bee So much as for an Epitaph for thee I doe not like the office Nor is 't fit Thou who did'st lend our Age such summes of wit Should'st now re-borrow from her bankrupt Mine That Ore to Bury Thee which once was Thine Rather still leave us in thy debt And know Exalted Soule more glory 't is to owe Unto thy Hearse what we can never pay Then with embased Coine those Rites defray Commit we then Thee to Thy selfe Nor blame Our drooping loves which thus to thy owne Fame Leave Thee Executour Since but thine owne No pen could doe Thee Justice nor Bayes Crowne Thy vast desert Save that wee nothing can Depute to be thy Ashes Guardian So Jewellers no Art or Metall trust To forme the Diamond but the Diamonds dust H. K. To the deceased Author Upon the Promiscuous printing of his Poems the Looser sort with the Religious WHen thy Loose raptures Donne shall meet with Those That doe confine Tuning unto the Duller line And sing not but in Sanctified Prose How will they with sharper eyes The Fore-skinne of thy phansie circumcise And feare thy wantonnesse should now begin Example that hath ceased to be Sin And that Feare fannes their Heat whilst knowing eyes Will not admire At this Strange Fire That here is mingled with thy Sacrifice But dare reade even thy Wanton Story As thy Confession not thy Glory And will so envie Both to future times That they would buy thy Goodnesse with thy Crimes Tho Browne On the death of Dr DONNE I Cannot blame those men that knew thee well Yet dare not helpe the world to ring thy knell In tunefull Elegies there 's not language knowne Fit for thy mention but 't was first thy owne The Epitaphs thou writst have so bereft Our tongue of wit there is not phansie left Enough to weepe thee what henceforth we see Of Art or Nature must result from thee There may perchance some busie gathering friend Steale from thy owne workes and that varied lend Which thou bestow'st on others to thy Hearse And so thou shalt live still in thine owne verse Hee that shall venture farther may commit A pitied errour shew his zeale not wit Fate hath done mankinde wrong vertue may aime Reward of conscience never can of fame Since her great trumpet's broke could onely give Faith to the world command it to beleeve Hee then must write that world define thy parts Here lyes the best Divinitie All the Arts. Edw. Hyde On Doctor Donne By Dr C. B. of O. HEe that would write an Epitaph for thee And do it well must first beginne to be Such as thou wert for none can truly know Thy worth thy life but he that hath liv'd so He must have wit to spare and to hurle downe Enough to keepe the gallants of the towne He must have learning plenty both the Lawes Civill and Common to judge any cause Divinity great store above the rest Not of the last Edition but the best Hee must have language travaile all the Arts Judgement to use or else he wants thy parts He must have friends the highest able to do Such as Mecoenas and Augustus too He must have such a sicknesse such a death Or else his vaine descriptions come beneath Who then shall write an Epitaph for thee He must be dead first let'it alone for mee An Elegie upon the incomparable Dr DONNE ALl is not well when such a one as I Dare peepe abroad and write an Elegie When smaller Starres appeare and give their light Phoebus is gone to bed Were it not night And the world witlesse now that DONNE is dead You sooner should have broke then seene my head Dead did I say Forgive this Injury I doe him and his worthes Infinity To say he is but dead I dare averre It better may be term'd a Massacre Then Sleepe or Death See how the Muses mourne Upon their oaten Reeds and from his Vrne Threaten the World with this Calamity They shall have Ballads but no Poetry Language lyes speechlesse and Divinity Lost such a Trump as even to Extasie Could charme the Soule and had an Influence To teach best judgements and please dullest Sense The Court the Church the Vniversitie Lost Chaplaine Deane and Doctor All these Three It was his Merit that his Funerall Could cause a losse so great and generall If there be any Spirit can answer give Of such as hence depart to such as live Speake Doth his body there vermiculate Crumble to dust and feele the lawes of Fate Me thinkes Corruption Wormes what else is foule Should spare the Temple of so faire a Soule I could beleeve they doe but that I know What inconvenience might hereafter grow Succeeding ages would Idolatrize And as his Numbers so his Reliques prize If that Philosopher which did avow The world to be but Mores was living now He would affirme that th' Atomes of his mould Were they in severall bodies blended would Produce new worlds of Travellers Divines Of Linguists Poets sith these severall Lines In him concentred were and flowing thence Might fill againe the worlds Circumference I could beleeve this too and yet my faith Not want a President The Phoenix hath And such was He a power to animate Her ashes and herselfe perpetuate But busie Soule thou dost not well to pry Into these Secrets Griefe and Iealousie The more they know the further still advance And finde no way so safe as Ignorance Let this suffice thee that his Soule which flew A pitch of all admir'd known but of few Save those of purer mould is now translated From Earth to Heavên and there Constellated For if each Priest of God shine as a Starre His Glory is as his Gifts 'bove others farre HEN. VALENTINE An Elegie upon
his Clergie not to pray Though of the learn'dst sort Me thinkes that they Of the same trade are Judges not so fit There 's no such emulation as of wit Of such the Envy might as much perchance Wrong him and more then th' others ignorance It was his Fate I know 't to be envy'd As much by Clerkes as lay men magnifi'd And why but ' cause he came late in the day And yet his Penny earn'd and had as they No more of this least some should say that I Am strai'd to Satyre meaning Elegie No no had DONNE need to be judg'd or try'd A Jury I would summon on his side That had no sides nor factions past the touch Of all exceptions freed from Passion such As nor to feare nor fratter e'r were bred These would I bring though called from the dead Southampton Hambleton Pēbrooke Dorsets Earles Huntingdon Bedfords Countesses the Pearles Once of each sexe If these suffice not I Ten decem tales have of Standers by All which for DONNE would such a verdict give As can belong to none that now doth live But what doe I A diminution 't is To speake of him in verse so short of his Whereof he was the master All indeed Compar'd with him pip'd on an Oaten reed O that you had but one ' mongst all your brothers Could write for him as he hath done for others Poets I speake to When I see 't I 'll say My eye-sight betters as my yeares decay Meane time a quarrell I shall ever have Against these doughty keepers from the grave Who use it seemes their old Authoritie When Verses men immortall make they cry Which had it been a Recipe true tri'd Probatum esset DONNE had never dy'd For mee if e'r I had least sparke at all Of that which they Poetique fire doe call Here I confesse it fetched from his hearth Which is gone out now he is gone to earth This only a poore flash a lightning is Before my Muses death as after his Farewell faire soule and deigne receive from mee This Type of that devotion I owe thee From whom while living as by voice and penne I learned more then from a thousand men So by thy death am of one doubt releas'd And now beleeve that miracles are ceas'd Epitaph HEere lies Deane Donne Enough Those words Shew him as fully as if all the stone His Church of Pauls contains were through inscrib'd alone Or all the walkers there to speake him brib'd None can mistake him for one such as Hee DONNE Deane or Man more none shall ever see Not man No though unto a Sunne each eye Were turn'd the whole earth so to overspie A bold brave word Yet such brave Spirits as knew His Spirit will say it is lesse bold then true Epitaph upon Dr. DONNE By Endy Porter THis decent Urne a sad inscription weares Of Donnes departure from us to the spheares And the dumbe stone with silence seemes to tell The changes of this life wherein is well Exprest A cause to make all joy to cease And never let our sorrowes more take ease For now it is impossible to finde One fraught with vertues to inrich a minde But why should death with a promiscuous hand At one rude stroke impoverish a land Thou strict Attorney unto stricter Fate Didst thou confiscate his life out of hate To his rare Parts Or didst thou throw thy dart With envious hand at some Plebeyan heart And he with pious vertue stept betweene To save that stroke and so was kill'd unseene By thee O 't was his goodnesse so to doe Which humane kindnesse never reacht unto Thus the hard lawes of death were satisfi'd And he left us like Orphan friends and di'de Now from the Pulpit to the peoples eares Whose speech shall send repentant sighes and teares Or tell mee if a purer Virgin die Who shall hereafter write her Elegie Poets be silent let your numbers sleepe For he is gone that did all phansie keepe Time hath no Soule but his exalted verse Which with amazements we may now reherse FINIS The sicknes of the World Impossibility of health Shortnesse of life Smalnesse of stature Decay of nature in other parts Disformity of parts Disorder in the world Weaknesse in the want of correspondence of heaven and earth Conclusion A iust disestimation of this world Contemplation of our state in our death-bed Her liberty by death Of our company in this life and in the next Of essentiall joy in this life and in the next Of accidentall joyes in both places Conclusion La Corona