Selected quad for the lemma: virtue_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
virtue_n	faith_n	love_n	temperance_n	1,648	5	11.0080	5	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A11434	Virtus post funera viuit or, Honour tryumphing over death Being true epitomes of honorable, noble, learned, and hospitable personages. By VVilliam Sampson.; Virtus post funera vivit.	Sampson, William, 1590?-1636.	1636 (1636)	STC 21687; ESTC S110636	32,683	73

all mens hartes Liberall and Authenticke Artes. If love to musique does deserve A thankefullnes from every nerve Chiefly the Organ of the eare Whose atribute is all to heare If charity deserve to be A vertue for necessity Since hee that gives unto the poore Hourely encreaseth his large store He wisely does his Talent lend And may it doubly so expend If love to subject Prince and state Free from envious pride or hate One that ne're us'd for to oppresse Without thoughts of covetousnesse One that his whole life so d●d sway As meerely careing for to day If one in whom these worthes did dwell Deserv'd to bee the non Pareill Of goodnes surely such a one Deserv'd from us a parting groane Nay a Rich Trophe o're his herse Adorned round with his owne Verse If such a one was worthy praise Then he deserv'd the sprig and Baies For he had these from natures store And a thousand vertues more Which ab●e are to tell his story Fraught with honour fame and glory Which are able for to depaint His life a mans his death a Saint On William Willoughby of Mascam Esquire who died at Celson SOme say Death does brave things I thinke it true ●nd yet it stands ambiguously too Some say thou slew 〈◊〉 w●th a sling A tricke to scare P●ds with a pretty thing And bravely thou knockest Sisera ith'head A manly part to Naile a man starke dead Wolves facilely doe prey upon the sheepe When as the carelesse Shepheard lies asleepe 'Mongst multitudes of Pagans Sampson fell Bragge of that Trophe there thou quit'st thee well Yet boast not much of that poore sacrifize He would have killd thee had he had his eies Great Alexander of an Ague dide And Tailour-like thou bodkindste Casars side And Troyes great Hector fell too not alone Thou kill'dst him cowardly hundreds to one But here thou kill'dst perfection in this man Rivolets nay Seas of sacred vertue ran For this sweet man of men this Willoughby The Graces mourn'd and cruell Destiny That never yet did good for him did moane 'Cause he from earth so suddenly was gone Just in the Summer of his growing age Began thy malice to breake forth in rage And like a trembling theefe thou didst steale in And murder'dst him that scarse knew how to sin Well thou hast done thy worst the best is ours He lives in spight of thee 'mongst sacred Powers Time will not court thee as she us'd to doe Because thou kill'dst his Sonne not twenty two Thrice happy he that lives well and so dies Growing a Prime-rose in Gods Paradice Reader behold that Pho●n●x here he lies Vntill another from his ashes rise On HENRY VVORRALL of wysoll Esquire VVHo lies there thinke von Read and see 'T is not the Map of miserie Nor he which does this world controule Whose money is his life and soule His feeling sense his eies and eares Hee s dumbe hee s deafe he nothing heares Without it beyond these t is his god For that absented he lives odde Tenne i' th' hundred hundreds to one His god and he will keepe one roome Thou art deceiv'd hee s not here Then reade not lest thou shed a teare This sacred place affoords not rome For such a one to reare a tombe No Tempe ever had a birth Of so much goodnes love and worth Who though in honour hee s not great In goodnes he is all compleat VVoo't have mee speake a verity Here lies the Mappe of charity One that did daily at his Doore VVith his owne hands releive the poore One that did never lend on use And yet to lend did ne're refuse One that did never once engrosse Yet sould to all and liv'd by losse One of those men lov'd not to make Actes for Law but conscience sake He 'mongst the wisest was held one Most fit to write on his own stone For which high heavens have enrold Him in a Throne of purest gould From hence he was translated there To be a Starre fixde in the spheare For us to wonder and admire A man compos'd of heavenly fire He never did the poore oppresse But in their wants did give redresse His countries griefe he left behinde They can no more such fathers finde Worrall though dead we have thee still In thought in word in deed in will Thy memory cannot decay Till all dissolves and turnes to clay Wood'st thou have truths Epitomie Know Vertue dy'd and then dy'd hee On the Worshipfull Mrs GREASLEY Mother of the Lady BVRDEAVT of Formarke LEt it suflize that all I speake of thee Will come farre short of thy great memory But as small briefes great Volumes do containe So those few lines may at thy goodnesse aime In part though not in whole 〈◊〉 and therefore I Offer up these to thy posterity Thy Birth was noble thy education such As had from Vertue Vertues sacred touch In truth and true religion thou did'st stand Full many yeeres as Sea-markes to the land Guiding the Mariners that in dangers were Vnto their wished Ports and havens cleare And unto those that did the truth approve Thou wert a lampe of faith burning in love With Christ and with his spouse the Bride and Groome What greater Pillars can support thy tombe She needes not many beautys t' adorne her That has the Bridegroome for her chiefe mourner She was in Children happy in parents bless'd Of her cheife happynes she 's now possess'd In patience calme as sleepe her Love Zeale True emblemes of a pious common weale To Anger flow the winds did not contract More swift motion then she to a good act Then Madam 't is your comfort that she is Emparadic'd in perfectnes of blisse No soothing after Toombes and ashes shee Is absolute in true felicitie For which in stead of Cipres Olive Baies May best be worne by you that live her praise On the Renowned JOHN Lord DARCY of the North. GReat buildings by their owne contexture stand So doe thy honours propp'd up by no hand True glory was thy aime marke and renowne And thou in heaven hast a glorious Crowne Great vessells of their owne weights never sinke 'T is overpoising or that which they drinke Which makes them sande thy well trim'd Boate Did on this Worlds Sea a long time floate Ballans'd with honour without wracke or leake No stormes nor tempests could her strong keele breake Till heaven emparadic'd her in the haven Of blesse eternall making all joyes even What was her fraught Religion Piety Repentance servent Zeale Anxiety Goodnes Grace and Honour Pilots were Guiding the ste●ne vnto the Starry Spheare Where Angell brightnes yields reflexion Ambassadour-like to greet this paragon The cardinall Vertues follow Humility That sacred sister of Nobility True love in whom all noble honour staith Sweet Charity the first borne child of Faith Patience Diligence Liberality That yields a hand to due necessity Rich Temperance that does all ills controule And Chastity the Beauty of mans soule A happy guard but thrice more happy

to the right Honorable WILLIAM Earle of New-Castle YE sonns of Phoebus were ye drownd in Sacke Or Lethe did dull security slacke Your feeble spirits knew ye not she was gone That was sole governesse of Helicon She was the soule of learning love and grace Row●e up your sack-braines die not in disgrace Let not each misers Herse adorned ly With your strong Verses stead of heraldry She was sole Queene of the Castalian spring Then to her feete your flowing numbers bring Come sprightly on and offer here your Bayes For she deservedly was worth your praise Since most ingratefull braine-sicke murtherers Court Parasites Vertues smotherers False Sonnes of Phoebus bastards of the Nine Since they their own worthes sing and conceale thine May that rare miracle ne're Created be Nor found amongst 'em wealth in Poetrie Well though I cannot sing yet you shall see Honour and ●ruth kisse in an Elegie Thy funerall Ode was not more full of fame Then mine shall be of truth let spite spite shame For Temper Goodnesse Liberality Stedfastnesse in faith Hospitality She was inimitable beyond compare No earthly Saint was so compleated rare Each day the poore kept market at her gates And tasted largly of her wonted Cates Had all commodities the mart afforded Yet payd for nothing all went backe rewarded Rich Charity the whiles when every buyer Has all for nothing and is payd for hyre Here goodnesse floated Hospitality Is the first staire leades to Eternity These she at Rufford every day did show As duely as she payd her morning Vow Which sweet Oblations every day did fly As incense offered to the Trinity Her soule set in her body was a Jem Inclosd within a Glorious Diadem Whose sparkling Inster reachd unto the Skyes Where like a starre it stands fix'd in our eyes Her minde was the gold cabinet of Art Richly compleated in every part Love Honour Knowledge Learning farre beyond The common straine of Ladies in our Land Who are not so annexed to the tie Of sacred knowledge as to nicetie Her youth spoke rare things her vertues greater She was rare 'i th first 'i th last compleater Such sacred comforts her sweet soule did give As that she fear'd not death 't was feare to live Was her affliction honoured she No TALBOT left of that great progenie That progenie I say even at whose looke All France have stood as with an earth-quake shooke Like crazy buildings when their pillars gone So have they trembl'd and for refuge flowne The name of TALBOT as a Bugge-beare still Affrightes their children from attempting ill If twatling rumour said but TALBOT's come At her report all mutinies were dumbe That famous TALBOT whose authentique name Was never touchd by tainture blot nor staine Not to historifie their high renowne A Shrewsbury was keeper of the Crowne Such were the unstain'd TALBOTS honours there Though now scarse mention of them is made here But honourd urnes and ashes what are those But reliques which our rotten tombes enclose What can out-last time rust weares l'ron away Small wonder then if our great names decay And yet her name and honourd memory Shall never fade till all consume and dy Her servants are her Chroniclers they found Those vertues from her cannot fall to 'th ground Northumberland thy deere losse does lament In them thy goodnes still is eminent What shall I say of her she was compleat And in two Maxim's rare borne good and great Great-borne by birth joynd with that stile of bloud But that which nobler was she was borne good Nay adde to that which may all mankinde vexe All vertues liv'd in one of weaker sexe Then sweetest Madam noblest Lady JANE You beare her memory her worth and fame And may you fairest Lady ever be As neere to her in deeds as pedegree You cannot misse her worth you have the shrine Of goodnes in you all parts speake Divine On the right Honorable ELIZABETH Countesse of Huntington Wife to the right Honorable FERDINAND Earle of Huntington VVomen lament her losse for here she lyes That from your female sexe deserv'd the prize The Graces met in this bright paragon And but for her had perishd long agon The Lacedemonians usde to sacrifize Vnto the Muses in most solemne wise To th' end their deedes might all be registred And Chronicl'd for theirs when they were dead If they did thus Ladies why should not you Pay to this pious Dame a holy due She to her sexe did all their vertues give Envy cannot deface them they shall live Till Time dissolves and this huge fabricke passe And all to Chaos turne as first it was What s'ever worth or merit could define In her as in a mirrour cleare did shine Those rich endowments sacred vertue claimes To be sole Queene of those she wore as chaines Making a true loves knot of goodnes she The Lady was of bles'd Humilitie Charity Love Zeale Religion Were the Ideas that she doated on Shee knew Court Ladies faults and did not tie Her faith unto her fashion her eye Aimd at the starry Court of Majesty Absolute in Love Zeale Brightnes Glory Honour loves not applausive multitudes But vertues selfe which verity includes Her soule was so engraffd in piety That she despisd all popularity She needed not those Platonicall Rings Of whom an ould Philosopher thus sings The vertue made invisible no no she Express'd all vertues in her modestie She on true honours Maxime did depend That conscience was the honorablest friend From dead Eliza of bles'd memory She did receive her Christianity A happy Mother makes a happy Childe She had her spirit and her nature milde Till pale Consumption made the way for Death Then sweet Eliza yeelded up her Breath On ELIZABETH WILLOVGH BY First Wife to HENRY WILLOVGH BY of RISLEY Baronet who lieth interr'd in the Parish of Wilne in Derby-shire VVHy did the birds 'i th hight of Summers prime Their wonted Chirpings leave which usd to chime Like silver sounding bells from springs or woods Which Echo iterates from running floodes The sil'y robinet did leave to hop And senseles sat upon the cold house top The Larke lay downe lothing to get on winge The Thrush had quite forgot her sonneting Sad Philomela from her pensive brest In all dull sorrows tunes her notes exprest Such mournfull dirges were by her begun As if that sorrow sorrow would strike dumbe Thy losse best woman was the cause why thus Both man and creatures were incongruous The Birds bless'd woman ruefully did mone Thinking their Phoenix was to Ashes stone But from thy flames few more such will arise In thee th' Arabicke perfection dies Thou Orphant's Mother and the Churches praise Great pity Time did not protract thy daies But let a stocke of vertues fall in thee Which able were to make an Historie Of ample goodnes these for to looke upon And dare to write 'em were detraction Thou hast bene long lamented yet no verse Nor showres of rhetorique can grace thy Herse Thou hast out-gone