Wide fra al ther (vseeno comer blowes
Tht me 1 fate, to W his life he owes ;
By Parthians Low the soldier lookes to die,
(WI huds an fighting, while their feet doe flie.)
The Partlin starts at Rome's imperiall name,
Fled 'd with her eagle's wing: the very chaine
Of his captivity rings in his eares,
This, ô thus fondly doe wee pitch our feares
Fure distant from our fates, our fates, that mocke
Our giddy feares with an vnlook't for shocke.
A little more, & I had surely scene
Thyrisly Majesty, Hell's blackest Queene;
And Exens on his tribunall too,
Sitting the soules of guilt; & you, oh you!)
You euer blushing meads, where doe the blest
Faire from darke horrors home appeale to rest.
There amorous Sappho plaines vpon her lute
Her lote's crosse fortune, that the sad dispute
Runnes murmuring on the strings. Aleaus there
In high built numbers wakes his golden lyre
To tell the world, Low hard the matter went,
How hard by sea, by warre, by banishment.
There these braue soules deale to each wondring eare
Such words, soe precious, as they may not weare
Without religious silence; aboue all
Wane's atling tumults, or some tyrant's fall.
The thronggang clotted multicude doth feast:
What wonder when the hundred-headed beast
Hangs his black lugges, stroakt with those heavenly
The Furies' curl'd snakes meet in gentle twines,
And stretch their cold limbes in a pleasing fire.
Prometheus selfe, and Pelops stervèd sire
Are cheated of their paines; Orion thinkes
Of lions now noe more, or spotted linx.
O Dea, siderei seu tu stirps alma tonantis, &c.
BRIGHT goddesse (whether Joue thy father be,
Or Jove a father will be made by thee)
Oh crowne these praiers (mov'd in a happy bower)
But with one cordiall smile for Cloe. That power
Of Loue's all-daring hand, that makes me burne,
Makes me confess't. Oh, doe not thou with scorne,
Great nymph, o'relooke my lownesse. Heau'n you know
And all their fellow-deities will bow
Eu'n to the naked'st vowes. Thou art my fate;
To thee the Parcæ haue given vp of late
My threds of life: if then I shall not live
By thee, by thee yet lett me die; this giue,
High Beautie's soveraigne, that my funerall flames
May draw their first breath from thy starry beames.
The phoenix' selfe shall not more proudly burne,
That fetcheth fresh life from her fruitfull vrne.
AN ELEGY VPON THE DEATH OF
MR. STANNINOW,
FELLOW OF QUEENE'S COLLEDGE.'
HATI aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine,
To frozen Caucasus his flight now tane?
Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd
His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a fleecy clowd?
Is th' Earth disrobed of her apron white,
Kind Winter's guift, & in a greene one dight?
Doth she beginne to dandle in her lappe
Her painted infants, fedd with pleasant pappe,
Wh their bright father in a pretious showre
From heaven's sweet milky streame doth gently poure?
Doth blith Apollo cloath the heavens with joye,
And with a golden waue wash cleane away
Those durty smutches, wh their faire fronts wore,
And make them laugh, wth frown'd, & wept before?
If heaven hath now forgot to weepe; ô then
What meane these shoures of teares amongst vs men?
These cataracts of griefe, that dare eu'n vie
With th' richest clowds their pearly treasurie?
1 See notice of Stamough in our Essay, as before, G,
If Winters gone, whence this vntimely cold,
That on these snowy limmes hath laid such hold?
What more than winter hath that dire art found,
These purple currents hedg'd with violets round.
To corrallize, wh softly wont to slide
In crimson waueletts, & in scarlet tide?
If Flora's darlings now awake from sleepe,
And out of their greene mantletts dare to peepe
O tell me then, what rude outragious blast
Forc't this prime flowre of youth to make such hast?
To hide his blooming glories, & bequeath
His balmy treasure to the bedd of death?
'Twas not the frozen zone; one sparke of fire,
Shott from his flaming eye, had thaw'd its ire,
And made it burne in loue: 'twas not the rage,
And too vngentle nippe of frosty age:
'Twas not the chast, & purer snow, whose nest
Was in the modest nunnery of his brest :
Noe, none of these ravish't those virgin roses,
The Muses, & the Graces fragrant posies.
Wch, while they smiling sate vpon his face,
They often kist, & in the sugred place
Left many a starry teare, to thinke how soone
The golden harvest of our joyes, the noone
Of all our glorious hopes should fade,
And be eclipsed with an envious shade.
Noe 'twas old doting Death, who stealing by,
Dragging his crooked burthen, look't awry,
While from another (vnseene) corner blowes
The storme of fate, to w his life he owes;
By Parthians how the soldier lookes to die,
(Whose hands are fighting, while their feet doe flie.)
The Parthian starts at Rome's imperiall name,
Fledg'd with her eagle's wing; the very chaine
Of his captivity rings in his cares.
Thus, thus fondly doe wee pitch our feares
Farre distant from our fates, our fates, that mocke
Our giddy feares with an vnlook't for shocke.
A little more, & I had surely seene
Thy grisly Majesty, Hell's blackest Queene;
And Facus on his tribunall too,
Sifting the soules of guilt; & you, (oh you!)
You euer blushing meads, where doe the blest
Farre from darke horrors home appeale to rest.
There amorous Sappho plaines vpon her lute
Her loue's crosse fortune, that the sad dispute
Runnes murmuring on the strings. Alcaus there
In high built numbers wakes his golden lyre
To tell the world, how hard the matter went,
How hard by sea, by warre, by banishment.
There these braue soules deale to each wondring eare
Such words, soe precious, as they may not weare
Without religious silence; aboue all
Ware's ratling tumults, or some tyrant's fall.
The thronging clotted multitude doth feast:
What wonder? when the hundred-headed beast
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