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Invited him no more to hide
Within himselfe the purple pride
Of his forward flower, when lo
While he sweetly 'gan to show
His swelling Gloryes, Auster spide him,
Cruell Auster thither hy'd him,
And with the rush of one rude blast,
Sham'd not spitefully to wast
All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,
And lay them trembling at his feet.
I've seen the Mornings lovely Ray,
Hover o're the new-borne Day,
With rosie wings so richly Bright,
As if he scorn'd to thinke of Night;
When a ruddy storme whose scoule
Made Heavens radiant face looke foule,
Call'd for an untimely Night,
To blot the newly blossom'd Light.
But were the Roses blush so rare,
Were the Mornings smile so faire
As is he, nor cloud, nor wind
But would be courteous, would be kind.
Spare him Death, ô spare him then,
Spare the sweetest among men.
Let not pitty with her Teares,
Keepe such distance from thine Eares.
But ô thou wilt not, canst not spare,
Haste hath never time to heare.
Therefore if he needs must go,
And the Fates will have it so,
Softly may he be possest,
Of his monumentall rest.
Safe, thou darke home of the dead,
Safe ô hide his loved head.
For Pitties sake ô hide him quite,
From his Mother Natures sight:
Lest for Griefe his losse may move
All her Births abortive prove.
F ever Pitty were acquainted
With sterne Death, if e're he fainted, Or forgot the cruell vigour
Of an Adamantine rigour,
Here, here we should have knowne it,
Here or no where hee'd have showne it.
For hee whose pretious memory,
Bathes in Teares of every eye:
Hee to whom our sorrow brings,
All the streames of all her springs:
Was so rich in Grace and Nature,
In all the gifts that blesse a Creature ;
The fresh hopes of his lovely Youth,
Flourisht in so faire a growth;
So sweet the Temple was, that shrin'd
The Sacred sweetnesse of his mind;
That could the Fates know to relent,
Could they know what mercy meant;
Or had ever learnt to beare,
The soft tincture of a Teare:
Teares would now have flow'd so deepe,
As might have taught Griefe how to weepe.
Now all their steely operation,
Would quite have lost the cruell fashion.
Sicknesse would have gladly been,
Sick himselfe to have sav'd him:
And his Feaver wish'd to prove,
Burning onely in his Love.
Him when wrath it selfe had seen,
Wrath its selfe had lost his spleen.
Grim Destruction here amaz'd,
In stead of striking would have gaz'd.
Even the Iron-pointed pen,
That notes the Tragick Doomes of men
Wet with teares still'd from the eyes,
Of the flinty Destinies;
Would have learn't a softer style,
And have been asham'd to spoyle
His lives sweet story, by the hast,
Of a cruell stop ill plac't.
In the darke volume of our fate,
Whence each leafe of Life hath date,
Where in sad particulars,
The totall summe of Man appeares.
And the short clause of mortall Breath,
Bound in the period of Death,
In all the Booke if any where
Such a tearme as this, spare here
Could have been found 'twould have been read,
Writ in white Letters o're his head :
Or close unto his name annext,
The faire glosse of a fairer Text.
In briefe, if any one were free,
Hee was that one, and onely he.
But he, alas! even hee is dead,
And our hopes faire harvest spread
In the dust. Pitty now spend
All the teares that griefe can lend.
Sad mortality may hide;
In his ashes all her pride;
With this inscription o're his head
All hope of never dying, here lyes dead.
Assenger who e're thou art,
Stay a while, and let thy Heart
Take acquaintance of this stone,
Before thou passest further on.
This stone will tell thee that beneath,
Is entomb'd the Crime of Death;
The ripe endowments of whose mind
Left his Yeares so much behind,
That numbring of his vertues praise,
Death lost the reckoning of his Dayes;
And believing what they told,
Imagin'd him exceeding old.
In him perfection did set forth
The strength of her united worth.
Him his wisdomes pregnant growth
Made so reverend, even in Youth,
That in the Center of his brest
(Sweet as is the Phænix nest)
Every reconciled Grace
Had their Generall meeting place.
In him Goodnesse joy'd to see
Learning learne Humility.
The splendor of his Birth and Blood
Was but the glosse of his owne Good.
The flourish of his sober Youth
Was the Pride of Naked Truth.
In composure of his face,
Liv'd a faire, but manly Grace.
His mouth was Rhetoricks best mold,
His tongue the Touchstone of her Gold.
What word so e're his Breath kept warme,
Was no word now but a charme:
For all persuasive Graces thence
Suck't their sweetest Influence.
His vertue that within had root,
Could not chuse but shine without.
And th'heart-bred lustre of his worth,
At each corner peeping forth,
Pointed him out in all his wayes,
Circled round in his owne Rayes:
That to his sweetnesse, all mens eyes
Were vow'd Loves flaming Sacrifice.
Him while fresh and fragrant Time
Cherisht in his Golden Prime;
E're Hebe's hand had overlaid
His smooth cheekes with a downy shade;
The rush of Death's unruly wave,
Swept him off into his Grave.
Enough, now (if thou canst) passe on,
For now (alas) not in this stone
(Passenger who e're thou art)
Is he entomb'd, but in thy Heart.
Upon Doctor Brooke.
Brooke whose streame so great, so good,
Was lov'd, was honour'd, as a flood:
Whose Bankes the Muses dwelt upon,
More than their owne Helicon ;
Here at length, hath gladly found
A quiet passage under ground;
Meane while his loved bankes now dry,
The Muses with their teares supply.
Upon Ford's two Tragedies.
Hou cheat'st us Ford, mak'st one seeme two by Art.
What is Loves Sacrifice, but The broken Heart.