« PreviousContinue »
In Picturam Reverendissimi Episcopi, D. Andrews.
Ec charta monstrat, Fama quem monstrat magis,
Sed & ipsa quem dum fama quem non monstrat satis, Ille, ille solus totam implevit Tubam,
Tot ora solus domuit & famam quoque
Fecit modestam: mentis ignea pater
Agilig radio Lucis æternæ vigil,
Per alta rerum pondera indomito Vagus
Cucurrit Animo, Quippe naturam ferox
Exhausit ipsam, mille Foetus artibus,
Et mille Linguis ipse se ingentes procul
Variavit omnes, fuitģ toti simul
Cognatus orbi: sic sacrum & solidum jubar
Saturum cælo pectus ad patrios Libens
Porrexit ignes: hac eum (Lector) vides
Hac (ecce) charta: O utinam & audires quoģ.
Upon Bishop Andrews Picture before his Sermons.
His reverend shadow cast that setting Sun,
Whose glorious course through our Horrizon run, Left the dimme face of this du Hemisphæare, All one great eye, all drown'd in one great Teare. Whose faire illustrious soule, led his free thought Through Learnings Universe, and (vainly) sought Room for her spatious selfe, until at length Shee found the way home, with an holy strength Snatch't her self hence to Heaven: fill'd a bright place, 'Mongst those immortall fires, and on the face Of her great Maker fixt her flaming eye,
There still to read true pure divinity.
And now that grave aspect hath deign'd to shrinke
Into this lesse appearance; If you thinke,
'Tis but a dead face, art doth here bequeath :
Looke on the following leaves, and see him breath.
Fond and faithlesse thing! that thus,
In our best hopes beguilest us.
What a reckoning hast thou made,
Of the hopes in him we laid?
For Life by volumes lengthened,
A Line or two, to speake him dead.
For the Laurell in his verse,
The sullen Cypresse o're his Herse.
For a silver-crowned Head,
A durty pillow in Death's Bed.
For so deare, so deep a trust,
Sad requitall, thus much dust!
Now though the blow that snatch him hence,
Stopt the Mouth of Eloquence,
Though shee be dumbe e're since his Death,
Not us'd to speake but in his Breath,
Yet if at least shee not denyes,
The sad language of our eyes,
Wee are contented: for then this
Language none more fluent is.
Nothing speakes our Griefe so well
As to speak Nothing. Come then tell
Thy mind in Teares who e're Thou be,
That ow'st a Name to misery.
Eyes are vocall, Teares have Tongues,
And there be words not made with lungs;
Sententious showers, ô let them fall,
Their cadence is Rhetoricall.
Here's a Theame will drinke th'expence,
Of all thy watry Eloquence.
Weepe then, onely be exprest
Thus much, Hee's Dead, and weep the rest.
Upon the Death of Mr. Herrys.
Plant of noble stemme, forward and faire,
As ever whisper'd to the Morning Aire,
Thriv'd in these happy Grounds, the Earth's just pride, Whose rising Glories made such haste to hide
His head in Cloudes, as if in him alone.
Impatient Nature had taught motion
To start from time, and cheerfully to fly
Before, and seize upon Maturity.
Thus grew this gratious plant, in whose sweet shade,
The Sunne himselfe oft wisht to sit, and made
The Morning Muses perch like Birds, and sing
Among his Branches: yea, and vow'd to bring
His owne delicious Phoenix from the blest
Arabia, there to build her Virgin nest,
To hatch her selfe in; 'mongst his leaves the Day
Fresh from the Rosie East rejoyc't to play.
To them shee gave the first and fairest Beame
That waited on her Birth: she gave to them
The purest Pearles, that wept her evening Death.
The balmy Zephirus got so sweet a Breath
By often kissing them, and now begun
Glad Time to ripen expectation.
The timorous Maiden-Blossomes on each Bough,
Peept forth from their first blushes: so that now
A Thousand ruddy hopes smil'd in each Bud,
And flatter'd every greedy eye that stood
Fixt in Delight, as if already there
Those rare fruits dangled, whence the Golden Yeare
His crowne expected, when (ô Fate, ô Time
That seldome lett'st a blushing youthfull Prime
Hide his hot Beames in shade of silver Age;
So rare is hoary vertue) the dire rage
Of a mad storme these bloomy joyes all tore,
Ravisht the Maiden Blossoms, and downe bore
The trunke. Yet in this Ground his pretious Root
Still lives, which when weake Time shall be pour'd out
Into Eternity, and circular joyes
Dance in an endlesse round, again shall rise
The faire son of an ever-youthfull Spring,
To be a shade for Angels while they sing,
Meane while who e're thou art that passest here,
O doe thou water it with one kind Teare.
Uc hospes, oculos flecte, sed lacrimis cæcos,
Legit optime hæc, Quem legere non sinit fletus.
Ars nuper & natura, forma, virtusģ
Emulatione fervida, paciscuntur
Probare in uno juvene quid queant omnes,
Fuere tanta terra nuper fuit liti
Ergo hic ab ipso Judicem manent cœlo.
Upon the Death of the most desired Mr. Herrys.
Death, what dost? & hold thy Blow,
What thou dost, thou dost not know.
Death thou must not here be cruell,
This is Natures choycest Jewell.
This is hee in whose rare frame,
Nature labour'd for a Name,
And meant to leave his pretious feature,
The patterne of a perfect Creature.
Joy of Goodnesse, Love of Art,
Vertue weares him next her heart.
Him the Muses love to follow,
Him they call their vice-Apollo.
Apollo golden though thou bee,
Th'art not fairer then is hee.
Nor more lovely lift'st thy head,
Blushing from thine Easterne Bed.
The Glories of thy Youth ne're knew,
Brighter hopes then he can shew.
Why then should it e're be seen,
That his should fade, while thine is Green?
And wilt Thou, (ô cruell boast!)
Put poore Nature to such cost?
O'twill undoe our common Mother,
To be at charge of such another.
What? thinke we to no other end,
Gracious Heavens do use to send
Earth her best perfection,
But to vanish and be gone?
Therefore onely give to day,
To morrow to be snatcht away
I've seen indeed the hopefull bud,
Of a ruddy Rose that stood
Blushing, to behold the Ray
Of the new-saluted Day;
(His tender toppe not fully spread)
The sweet dash of a shower now shead,