My heavie lookes, and all my surdging mones,
My moaning lamentations that complayne,
When will you cease? or shall paine, never ceasing,
Seaze on my heart? oh, mollifie your rage,
Least your assaults, with over-swift increasing,
Procure my death, or call on tymeles age.
She lives in peace, whome I do mourne for so;
She lives in heaven, and yet my soule laments.
Since shee's so happie, I'le converte my woe;
To present joy turne all my languishments;

And with my sorrowes see the time doth wast,
The day is come, and mid-day wel nigh past.

Gaze, greedy eye; note what thou dost beholde,
Our horizon is of a perfect hew,

As cleere as christall, and the day not olde,

Yet thousand blackes present them to thy view. Three thousand and od hundred clowds appere

Upon the earthly element belowe,

As blacke as night trampling the lower sphere,
As by degrees from place to place they goe.
They passe away: oh, whither passe they then?
Into a further climate, out of sight,

Like clowds they were, but yet like clowded men,
Whose presence turn'd the day to sable night.

They vanish thence: note what was after seene-
The lively picture of a late dead Queene.

Who, like to Phoebus in his golden car,
Was the bright eye of the obscured day;
And though her glorious prograce* was not far,
Yet, like the smiling sunne, this semblance lay,
Drawne in a jetty charriot vayl'd with blacke,
By four faire palfraies, that did hang the head,

I Progress.]

As if their Lady-mistris they did lacke,
And they but drew the figure of the dead.
Oh, yee spectators, which did view that sight!
Say, if you truelie say, could you refraine
To shed a sea of teares in Deathe's despight,

That reft her hence, whom Art brought back againe?
He that knew her, and had Eliza seene,

Would swear that figure were faire England's Queene.

"Faire England's Queene, e'en to the life, tho' dead;"
Speake, if I write not true, did you not crye?
Cry foorth amaine? and say-" Her princely head
Lay on a pillowe of a crimson dye,

Like a sweet beauty in a harmless slumber :-
She is not dead: no, sure, it cannot be."
Thus with unlikely hopes the vulgar number
Flatter themselves :-(oh, sweet lyv'd flatterie!)
Indeed, a man of judgment would have thought,
Had he not known her dead, but seene her so
Tryumphant drawne, in robes so richly wrought,
Crowne on her head, in hand her sceptre to;

At this rare sight he would have sworn and said-
"To parliament rides this sweet slumb'ring maid."

But that my warrant's seal'd by Truthe's one* hand,
That in her counterfeit+ Art did excell;

I would not say, that in this little land

Pigmalion's equal doth admired dwell.

Enough of that:-and now my teares are done;
Since she that dy'd lives now above the spheres:
Luna's extinct; and now beholde the sunne,

Whose beames soake up the moysture of all teares.
A phoenix from her ashes doth arise,

A King, at whose faire crowne all glory ayms.

• [own.]

↑ [i. c. resemblance, likeness.]

God graunt his zoyafl vertues simpathize
With late Eliza's!-so, God save king James!

He that, in love to this, saies not Amen,

Pray God the villaine never speake agen! Amen."

England's Cæsar. His Majestie's most royall Coronation. Together with the manner of the solemne shewes prepared for the Honour of his entry into the Cittie of London. Eliza, her Coronation in Heaven: and London's sorrow for her Visitation. By Henry

Petowe.

London, printed by John Windet for Mathew Law, and are to be sold at his shop at the signe of the Fox in Paule's Church-yarde, 1603.

[Quarto, sixteen leaves.]

THIS very rare, and perhaps unique production, was written by the author of Elizabetha quasi vivens, as a supplementary tribute to King James. It is thus opaquely inscribed to a plurality of persons.

"To the curteous and wise yong Gentlemen, united in love, Master N. H. Master Ro. W. Master J. H. Master L. K. Master H. 4. and Master Tho. S. Henry Petowe wisheth ~increase of vertue, and prosperous successe in all their affaires.

I have adventured (curteous, virtuous, and wise,) with the strong wrastlers of Olympia, though not to winne yet to worke

vours.

for the garland; I meane the laurell wreath of your gentle faThe judgement of my labours relyeth on vour severall censures, whereof, if your opinions rellish but one small taste of content, I presume upon a general liking of others: such is the sufficiencie I conceave of your discrete judgements. Therefore, touch and taste, taste and disgest; but with such contentment, that you may applaud the fruitfull operation: How it will proove I know not, but I hope pleasant in disgesture. For however the fruits of my toyle now rellish, after the long gathering I dare protest, the tree from whence they were pluckt, came of a royall stocke. Make, therefore, your severall choyces of the best; and if you finde some more greene than others, impute it to their want of growth, in that they are but yong, and not come to their true perfection; or rather, blame my rashnes, that make sale of them for mellow fruite, when indeede they are not ripe. But in hope they will all prove delicious, according to your expectations, I present them in all love to your kinde acceptances; promising as much in affection, as any other can performe in perfection. Therefore, looke and like of such as you finde; and I promise you (under your favourable incouragements) to imploy all my best designes and studies to your severall good likings.

Yours in all that he may,

H. P.

AD LECTOREM.

Go, princely writ, apparelled in love,
The poyson of all sorrows to remoove :
Inrich thy selfe and me, by thy selfe-riches,
And strive to mount beyond our poet's pitches.
And thou, kind reader, reading this my writ,
Applaud the invention of an infant wit;

Thoug yoong it be, it hath as good a hart

t

To merite well, as those of high desert.
Then blame it not, although for fame it strive,
For, after death, Fame still remaines alive.

Thine in all love,

H. P.

THE INDUCTION.

Now turne I, wandring all my hopes againe,
And loose them from the prison of despaire;
Ceasing my teares, that did bedew the plaine,
And clearing sighes which did eclipse the ayre.
My mourning weeds are off, and sigh I may not,
Joy stops my teares, and (joying) weepe I cannot.

Nor tongue, nor penne, nor witte can truly sing
His wondrous worth, and matchlesse dignitie;
I meane the glory of the English King,
Which wraps my Muse 'in all felicitie.
Oh, were my penne so rich in poetrie,
As to pourtray his royall Majestie !

But since she is not, as I would she were,
And since I cannot as I wish I could;
No marvell, though her weakness doe forbeare,
To sing that royall song which all pennes should.
Yet what she can she will for love compile,
Not seeking glory for a stately stile.

Goe, joyfull truce-men, in your virgin weedes,
Under a royall patron I have past you;
Soake up the teares of every hart that bleeds,

And on the wings of Fame hence quickly hast you.