POEMS (continued 2)

I envy not thy mortal triumphs, Death (Thou enemy to Virtue, as to breath), Nor do I wonder much, nor yet complain The weekly numbers by thy arrow slain. The whole world is thy factory, and we, Like traffic, driven and retail'd by Thee: And where the springs of life fill up so fast, Some of the waters needs must run to waste. It is confess'd, yet must our griefs dispute 10That which thine own conclusion doth refute, Ere we begin. Hearken! for if thy ear Be to thy throat proportion'd, thou canst hear. Is there no order in the work of Fate? Nor rule, but blindly to anticipate Our growing seasons? or think'st thou 'tis just, To sprinkle our fresh blossoms with thy dust, Till by abortive funerals, thou bring That to an Autumn, Nature meant a Spring? Is't not enough for thee, that wither'd age 20Lies the unpitied subject of thy rage; But like an ugly amorist, thy crest Must be with spoils of Youth and Beauty drest? In other camps, those which sat down to-day March first to-morrow, and they longest stay, Who last came to the service: but in thine, Only confusion stands for discipline. We fall in such promiscuous heaps, none can Put any diff'rence 'twixt thy rear or van; Since oft the youngest lead thy files. For this, 30The grieved world here thy accuser is, And I a plaintiff, 'mongst those many ones, Who wet this Lady's urn with zealous moans; As if her ashes, quick'ning into years, Might be again embodied by our tears. But all in vain; the moisture we bestow Shall make as soon her curled marble grow, As render heat or motion to that blood, Which through her veins branch't like an azure flood; Whose now still current in the grave is lost, 40Lock'd up, and fetter'd by eternal frost. Desist from hence, doting Astrology! To search for hidden wonders in the sky; Or from the concourse of malignant stars, Foretell diseases, gen'ral as our wars: What barren droughts, forerunners of lean dearth, Threaten to starve the plenty of the earth: What horrid forms of darkness must affright The sickly world, hast'ning to that long night Where it must end. If there no portents are, 50No black eclipses for the Kalendar, Our times sad annals will rememb'red be I' th' loss of bright Northumberland and Thee: Two stars of Court, who in one fatal year By most untimely set drop'd from their sphere. She in the winter took her flight, and soon As her perfections reach'd the point of noon, Wrapt in a cloud, contracted her wish'd stay Unto the measure of a short-liv'd day. But Thou in Summer, like an early rose, 60By Death's cold hand nipp'd as Thou didst disclose, Took'st a long day to run that narrow stage, Which in two gasping minutes summ'd thy age. And, as the fading rose, when the leaves shed, Lies in its native sweetness buried, Thou in thy virtues bedded and inhearst, Sleep'st with those odours thy pure fame disperst, Where till that Rising Morn thou must remain, In which thy wither'd flowers shall spring again, And greater beauties thy wak'd body vest, 70Than were at thy departure here possest. So with full eyes we close thy vault. Content (With what thy loss bequeaths us) to lament, And make that use of thy griev'd funeral, As of a crystal broken in the fall; Whose pitied fractures, gather'd up, and set, May smaller mirrors for thy sex beget; There let them view themselves, until they see The end of all their glories shown in Thee. Whilst in the truth of this sad tribute, I 80Thus strive to canonize thy memory.

For all the shipwracks, and the liquid graves Lost men have gain'd within the furrow'd waves, The Sea hath fin'd, and for our wrongs paid use, When its wrought foam a Venus did produce. But what repair wilt thou, unhappy Thames, Afford our loss? thy dull unactive streams Can no new beauty raise, nor yet restore Her who by thee was ravish'd from our shore: Whose death hath stain'd the glory of thy flood, 10And mix'd the guilty channel with her blood. O Neptune! was thy favour only writ In that loose element where thou dost sit? That, after all this time, thou shouldst repent Thy fairest blessing to the continent? Say, what could urge this Fate? is Thetis dead, Or Amphitrite from thy wet arms fled? Wast thou so poor in Nymphs, that thy moist love Must be maintain'd with pensions from above? If none of these, but that, whilst thou didst sleep 20Upon thy sandy pillow in the deep, This mischief stole upon us; may our grief Waken thy just revenge on that sly thief, Who, in thy fluid empire, without leave, And unsuspected, durst her life bereave. Henceforth, invert thy order, and provide In gentlest floods a pilot for our guide. Let rugged seas be lov'd, but the brook's smile Shunn'd like the courtship of a crocodile; And where the current doth most smoothly pass, 30Think for her sake, that stream Death's looking-glass, To show us our destruction is most near, When pleasure hath begot least sense of fear. Else break thy forked sceptre 'gainst some rock, If thou endure a flatt'ring calm to mock Thy far-fam'd pow'r, and violate that law Which keeps the angry Ocean in awe. Thy trident will grow useless, which doth still Wild tempests, if thou let tame rivers kill. Meantime, we owe thee nothing. Our first debt 40Lies cancell'd in thy wat'ry cabinet. We have for Her thou sent'st us from the main, Return'd a Venus back to thee again.

Whether thy father's, or disease's rage, More mortal prov'd to thy unhappy age, Our sorrow needs not question; since the first Is known for length and sharpness much the worst. Thy fever yet was kind; which the ninth day For thy misfortunes made an easy way. When th' other barbarous and hectic fit, In nineteen winters did not intermit. I therefore vainly now not ask thee why 10Thou didst so soon in thy youth's mid-way die: But in my sense the greater wonder make, Thy long oppressed heart no sooner brake. Of force must the neglected blossom fall, When the tough root becomes unnatural, And to his branches doth that sap deny, Which them with life and verdure should supply. For parents' shame, let it forgotten be, And may the sad example die with thee. It is not now thy grieved friend's intent 20To render thee dull Pity's argument. Thou hast a bolder title unto fame, And at Edge Hill thou didst make good the claim; When, in thy Royal Master's cause and war, Thy ventur'd life brought off a noble scar. Nor did thy faithful services desist, Till death untimely strook thee from the list. Though in that prouder vault, then, which doth tomb Thy ancestors, thy body find not room, Thine own deserts have purchas'd thee a place, 30Which more renowned is than all thy race; For in this earth thou dost ennobled lie With marks of valour and of loyalty.

I see that wreath, which doth the wearer arm 'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm To keep off Death's pale dart. For, Jonson, then Thou hadst been number'd still with living men. Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade, Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made. Amongst those many votaries who come To offer up their garlands at thy tomb; Whilst some more lofty pens, in their bright verse 10(Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearse), Shall light the dull and thankless world to see, How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee; Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I Pay meaner rites unto thy memory; And since I nought can add but in desire, Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine own fire. What ends soever others' quills invite, I can protest, it was no itch to write, Nor any vain ambition to be read, 20But merely love and justice to the dead, Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bring These drops, as tribute thrown into that spring, To whose most rich and fruitful bead we owe The purest streams of language which can flow. For 'tis but truth, thou taught'st the ruder age To speak by grammar, and reform'dst the stage: Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense, A Lucrece might have heard without offence. Amongst those soaring wits that did dilate 30Our English, and advance it to the rate And value it now holds, thyself was one Help'd lift it up to such proportion; That thus refin'd and rob'd, it shall not spare With the full Greek or Latin to compare. For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translate Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's state? Both which in their unblemish'd lustre shine, From Chapman's pen, and from thy Catiline. All I would ask for thee, in recompense 40Of thy successful toil and time's expense, Is only this poor boon; that those who can Perhaps read French, or talk Italian, Or do the lofty Spaniard affect, To show their skill in foreign dialect, Prove not themselves so unnaturally wise, They therefore should their mother-tongue despise (As if her poets, both for style and wit, Not equall'd, or not pass'd, their best that writ), Until by studying Jonson they have known 50The height and strength and plenty of their own. Thus in what low earth or neglected room Soe'er thou sleep'st, thy book shall be thy tomb. Thou wilt go down a happy corse, bestrew'd With thine own flowers; and feel thyself renew'd, Whilst thy immortal, never-with'ring bays Shall yearly flourish in thy readers' praise. And when more spreading titles are forgot, Or spite of all their lead and cere-cloth rot, Thou wrapp'd and shrin'd in thine own sheets wilt lie, 60A relic fam'd by all posterity.

Keep station, Nature, and rest, Heaven, sure On thy supporters' shoulders, lest, past cure, Thou dash'd in ruin fall, by a grief's weight Will make thy basis shrink, and lay thy height Low as the centre. Hark! and feel it read Through the astonish'd Kingdom, Henry's dead. It is enough; who seeks to aggravate One strain beyond this, prove[s] more sharp his fate Than sad our doom. The world dares not survive 10To parallel this woe's superlative. O killing Rhetoric of Death! two words Breathe stronger terrors than plague, fire, or swords Ere conquer'd. This were epitaph and verse, Worthy to be prefix'd in Nature's hearse, Or Earth's sad dissolution; whose fall Will be less grievous, though more general: For all the woe ruin e'er buried Sounds in these fatal accents, Henry's dead. Cease then, unable Poetry; thy phrase 20Is weak and dull to strike us with amaze Worthy thy vaster subject. Let none dare To copy this sad hap, but with despair Hanging at his quill's point. For not a stream Of ink can write, much less improve, this theme. Invention highest wrought by grief or wit Must sink with him, and on his tombstone split; Who, like the dying Sun, tells us the light And glory of our Day set in his Night.

Death and horror wed To vent their teeming mischief: Henry's dead.

Through the astonisht world, Henry is dead.

I will not weep, for 'twere as great a sin To shed a tear for thee, as to have bin An actor in thy death. Thy life and age Was but a various scene on fortune's stage, With whom thou tugg'st and strov'st ev'n out of breath In thy long toil: ne'er master'd till thy death; And then, despite of trains and cruel wit, Thou didst at once subdue malice and it. I dare not then so blast thy memory 10As say I do lament or pity thee. Were I to choose a subject to bestow My pity on, he should be one as low In spirit as desert;—that durst not die, But rather were content by slavery To purchase life: or I would pity those, Thy most industrious and friendly foes; Who, when they thought to make thee scandal's story, Lent thee a swifter flight to Heav'n and glory;— That thought, by cutting off some wither'd days 20(Which thou couldst spare them), to eclipse thy praise; Yet gave it brighter foil, made thy ag'd fame Appear more white and fair, than foul their shame: And did promote an execution Which (but for them) Nature and Age had done. Such worthless things as these were only born To live on Pity's alms (too mean for scorn). Thou diedst an envious wonder, whose high fate The world must still admire, scarce imitate.

Sad relic of a blessed soul! whose trust We sealed up in this religious dust: O do not thy low exequies suspect, As the cheap arguments of our neglect. 'Twas a commanded duty, that thy grave As little pride as thou thyself should have. Therefore thy covering is an humble stone, And but a word for thy inscription. When those that in the same earth neighbour thee, 10Have each his chronicle and pedigree: They have their waving pennons and their flags (Of matches and alliance formal brags), When thou (although from ancestors thou came, Old as the Heptarchy, great as thy name,) Sleep'st there inshrin'd in thy admired parts, And hast no heraldry but thy deserts. Yet let not them their prouder marbles boast, For they rest with less honour, though more cost. Go, search the world, and with your mattocks wound 20The groaning bosom of the patient ground: Dig from the hidden veins of her dark womb All that is rare and precious for a tomb; Yet when much treasure, and more time, is spent, You must grant his the nobler monument, Whose Faith stands o'er him for a hearse, and hath The Resurrection for his epitaph.

To have lived eminent, in a degree Beyond our loftiest flights, that is, like thee; Or t' have had too much merit is not safe; For such excesses find no epitaph. At common graves, we have poetic eyes, Can melt themselves in easy elegies; Each quill can drop his tributary verse, And pin it, with the hatchments, to the hearse: But at thine, poem or inscription 10(Rich soul of wit and language!) we have none; Indeed a silence does that tomb befit, Where is no herald left to blazon it. Widow'd invention justly doth forbear To come abroad, knowing thou art not here, Late her great patron; whose prerogative Maintain'd and cloth'd her so, as none alive Must now presume to keep her at thy rate, Though he the Indies for her dower estate: Or else that awful fire, which once did burn 20In thy clear brain, now fall'n into thy urn, Lives there to fright rude empirics from thence, Which might profane thee by their ignorance. Who ever writes of thee, and in a style Unworthy such a theme, does but revile Thy precious dust, and wake a learned spirit Which may revenge his rapes upon thy merit. For all a low-pitch'd fancy can devise, Will prove, at best, but hallow'd injuries. Thou, like the dying swan, didst lately sing 30Thy mournful dirge in audience of the king; When pale looks, and faint accents of thy breath, Presented so to life that piece of death, That it was fear'd and prophesied by all Thou thither cam'st to preach thy funeral. O! hadst thou in an elegiac knell Rung out unto the world thine own farewell; And in thy high victorious numbers beat The solemn measure of thy griev'd retreat, Thou might'st the poet's service now have miss'd, 40As well as then thou didst prevent the priest: And never to the world beholden be So much as for an epitaph for thee. I do not like the office. Nor is 't fit, Thou, who didst lend our age such sums of wit, Shouldst now reborrow from her bankrupt mine That ore to bury thee, which once was thine. Rather still leave us in thy debt; and know (Exalted soul!) more glory 'tis to owe Unto thy hearse what we can never pay, 50Than with embased coin those rites defray. Commit we then thee to thyself: nor blame Our drooping loves, which thus to thine own fame Leave thee executor; since, but thy own, No pen could do thee justice, nor bays crown Thy vast desert; save that, we nothing can Depute to be thy ashes' guardian. So jewellers no art or metal trust To form the diamond, but the diamond's dust.

A king who ruled as he thought fit The universal monarchy of Wit.

Like a cold fatal sweat which ushers death, My thoughts hang on me, and my lab'ring breath Stopp'd up with sighs, my fancy, big with woes, Feels two twinn'd mountains struggle in her throes,— Of boundless sorrow one,—t' other of sin;— For less let no one rate it, to begin Where honour ends.—In great Gustavus' flame, That style burnt out, and wasted to a name, Does barely live with us. As when the stuff 10That fed it, fails, the taper turns to snuff, With this poor snuff, this airy shadow, we Of Fame and Honour must contented be; Since from the vain grasp of our wishes fled Their glorious substance is, now He is dead. Speak it again, and louder, louder yet; Else, whilst we hear the sound, we shall forget What it delivers. Let hoarse rumour cry, Till she so many echoes multiply, Those may like num'rous witnesses confute 20Our unbelieving souls, that would dispute And doubt this truth for ever. This one way Is left our incredulity to sway; To waken our deaf sense, and make our ears As open and dilated as our fears; That we may feel the blow, and feeling, grieve, At what we would not fain, but must believe. And in that horrid faith, behold the world From her proud height of expectation hurl'd, Stooping with him, as if she strove to have 30No lower centre now than Sweden's grave. O could not all thy purchas'd victories Like to thy fame thy flesh immortalize? Were not thy virtue nor thy valour charms To guard thy body from those outward harms Which could not reach thy soul? could not thy spirit Lend somewhat which thy frailty might inherit From thy diviner part, that Death, nor Hate, Nor Envy's bullets e'er could penetrate? Could not thy early trophies in stern fight 40Torn from the Dane, the Pole, the Moscovite? Which were thy triumph's seeds, as pledges sown, That when thy honour's harvest was ripe grown, With full-summ'd wing thou falcon-like wouldst fly, And cuff the Eagle in the German sky: Forcing his iron beak and feathers feel They were not proof 'gainst thy victorious steel. Could not all these protect thee? or prevail To fright that coward Death, who oft grew pale To look thee and thy battles in the face? 50Alas! they could not: Destiny gives place To none; nor is it seen that princes' lives Can saved be by their prerogatives. No more was thine; who, clos'd in thy cold lead, Dost from thyself a mournful lecture read Of man's short-dated glory: learn, you kings, You are, like him, but penetrable things; Though you from demi-gods derive your birth You are at best but honourable earth: And howe'er sifted from that coarser bran, 60Which does compound and knead the common man, Nothing's immortal, or from earth refin'd About you, but your office and your mind. Here then break your false glasses, which present You greater than your Maker ever meant: Make truth your mirror now, since you find all That flatter you, confuted by his fall. Yet, since it was decreed, thy life's bright Sun Must be eclips'd ere thy full course was run, Be proud thou didst, in thy black obsequies, 70With greater glory set, than others rise. For in thy death, as life, thou heldest one Most just and regular proportion. Look how the circles drawn by compass meet Indivisibly joined, head to feet, And by continued points which them unite, Grow at once circular and infinite: So did thy Fate and Honour now contend To match thy brave beginning with thy end. Therefore thou hadst, instead of passing bells, 80The drums' and cannons' thunder for thy knells; And in the field thou didst triumphing die, Closing thy eyelids with a victory: That so by thousands who there lost their breath, King-like thou might'st be waited on in death. Lived Plutarch now, and would of Caesar tell, He could make none but Thee his parallel; Whose tide of glory, swelling to the brim, 90Needs borrow no addition from him. When did great Julius, in any clime, Achieve so much, and in so small a time? Or if he did, yet shalt Thou in that land Single, for him, and unexampled stand. When o'er the Germans first his Eagle towr'd, What saw the legions which on them he pour'd? But massy bodies, made their swords to try, Subjects, not for his fight, but slavery. In that so vast expanded piece of ground 100(Now Sweden's theatre and tomb), he found Nothing worth Caesar's valour or his fear, No conqu'ring army, nor a Tilly there, Whose strength, nor wiles, nor practice in the war Might the fierce torrent of thy triumphs bar, But that thy winged sword twice made him yield, Both from his trenches beat, and from the field. Besides, the Roman thought he had done much, Did he the bank of Rhenus only touch. But though his march was bounded by the Rhine, 110Not Oder nor the Danube thee confine; And, but thy frailty did thy fame prevent, Thou hadst thy conquests stretch'd to such extent, Thou might'st Vienna reach, and after span From Mulda to the Baltic Ocean. But death hath spann'd thee: nor must we divine What heir thou leav'st to finish thy design, Or who shall thee succeed, as champion For liberty and for religion. Thy task is done; as in a watch, the spring, 120Wound to the height, relaxes with the string: So thy steel nerves of conquest, from their steep Ascent declin'd, lie slack'd in thy last sleep. Rest then, triumphant soul! for ever rest! And, like the Phœnix in her spicy nest, Embalm'd with thine own merit, upward fly, Born in a cloud of perfume to the sky. Whilst as in deathless urns, each noble mind Treasures thy ashes which are left behind. And if perhaps no Cassiopeian spark 130(Which in the North did thy first rising mark) Shine o'er thy hearse; the breath of our just praise Shall to the firmament thy virtues raise; Then fix, and kindle them into a star, Whose influence may crown thy glorious war. ——O Famâ ingens, ingentior armis, Rex Gustave, quibus Coelo te laudibus aequem? Virgil. Aeneid. lib. 2. [11?]

Sir, I must ever own myself to be Possess'd with human curiosity Of seeing all that might the sense invite By those two baits of profit and delight: And since I had the wit to understand The terms of native or of foreign land; I have had strong and oft desires to tread Some of those voyages which I have read. Yet still so fruitless have my wishes prov'd, 10That from my Country's smoke I never mov'd: Nor ever had the fortune (though design'd) To satisfy the wand'rings of my mind. Therefore at last I did with some content, Beguile myself in time, which others spent; Whose art to provinces small lines allots, And represents large kingdoms but in spots. Thus by Ortelius and Mercator's aid Through most of the discover'd world I stray'd. I could with ease double the Southern Cape, 20And in my passage Afric's wonders take: Then with a speed proportion'd to the scale Northward again, as high as Zemla sail. Oft hath the travel of my eye outrun (Though I sat still) the journey of the Sun: Yet made an end, ere his declining beams Did nightly quench themselves in Thetis' streams. Oft have I gone through Egypt in a day, Not hinder'd by the droughts of Lybia; In which, for lack of water, tides of sand 30By a dry deluge overflow the land. There I the Pyramids and Cairo see, Still famous for the wars of Tomombee, And its own greatness; whose immured sense Takes forty miles in the circumference. Then without guide, or stronger caravan Which might secure the wild Arabian, Back through the scorched deserts pass, to seek Once the world's Lord, now the beslaved Greek, Made by a Turkish yoke and fortune's hate 40In language as in mind, degenerate. And here all wrapp'd in pity and amaze I stand, whilst I upon the Sultan gaze; To think how he with pride and rapine fir'd So vast a territory hath acquir'd; And by what daring steps he did become The Asian fear, and scourge of Christendom: How he achiev'd, and kept, and by what arts He did concentre those divided parts; And how he holds that monstrous bulk in awe, 50By settled rules of tyranny, not Law: So rivers large and rapid streams began, Swelling from drops into an Ocean. Sure who e'er shall the just extraction bring Of this gigantic power from the spring; Must there confess a higher Ordinance Did it for terror to the earth advance. For mark how 'mongst a lawless straggling crew, Made up of Arab, Saracen, and Jew, The world's disturber, faithless Mahomet 60Did by impostures an opinion get: O'er whom he first usurps as Prince, and than As prophet does obtrude his Alcoran. Next, how fierce Ottoman his claim made good From that unblest religion, by blood; Whilst he the Eastern kingdoms did deface, To make their ruin his proud Empire's base. Then like a comet blazing in the skies, How death-portending Amurath did rise, When he his horned crescents did display 70Upon the fatal plains of Servia; And farther still his sanguine tresses spread, Till Croya life and conquests limited. Lastly, how Mahomet thence styl'd the Great, Made Constantine's his own Imperial seat; After that he in one victorious bond Two Empires grasp'd, of Greece and Trebizond. This, and much more than this, I gladly read, Where my relators it had storyed; Besides that people's manners and their rites, 80Their warlike discipline and order'd fights; Their desp'rate valour, hard'ned by the sense Of unavoided Fate and Providence: Their habit, and their houses, who confer Less cost on them than on their sepulchre: Their frequent washings, and the several bath Each Meschit to itself annexed hath: What honour they unto the Mufty give, What to the Sovereign under whom they live: What quarter Christians have; how just and free 90To inoffensive travellers they be: Though I confess, like stomachs fed with news, I took them in for wonder, not for use, Till your experienc'd and authentic pen Taught me to know the places and the men; And made all those suspected truths become Undoubted now, and clear as axiom. Sir, for this work more than my thanks is due; I am at once inform'd and cur'd by you. So that, were I assur'd I should live o'er 100My periods of time run out before; Ne'er needed my erratic wish transport Me from my native lists to that resort, Where many at outlandish marts unlade Ingenuous manners, and do only trade For vices and the language. By your eyes I here have made my full discoveries; And all your countries so exactly seen, As in the voyage I had sharer been. By this you make me so; and the whole land 110Your debtor: which can only understand How much she owes you, when her sons shall try The solid depths of your rare history, Which looks above our gadders' trivial reach, The commonplace of travellers, who teach But table-talk; and seldomly aspire Beyond the country's diet or attire; Whereas your piercing judgement does relate The policy and manage of each State. And since she must here without envy grant 120That you have further journey'd the Levant Than any noble spirit by her bred Hath in your way as yet adventured; I cannot less in justice from her look, Than that she henceforth canonize your book A rule to all her travellers, and you The brave example; from whose equal view Each knowing reader may himself direct, How he may go abroad to some effect, And not for form: what distance and what trust 130In those remoter parts observe he must: How he with jealous people may converse, Yet take no hurt himself by that commerce. So when he shall embark'd in dangers be, Which wit and wary caution not foresee; If he partake your valour and your brain, He may perhaps come safely off again, As you have done; though not so richly fraught As this return hath to our staple brought. I know your modesty shuns vulgar praise, 140And I have none to bring; but only raise This monument of Honour and of Love, Which your long known deserts so far improve, They leave me doubtful in what style to end, Whether more your admirer or your friend.

It is, Sir, a confess'd intrusion here That I before your labours do appear, Which no loud herald need, that may proclaim Or seek acceptance, but the Author's fame. Much less that should this happy work commend, Whose subject is its licence, and doth send It to the world to be receiv'd and read, Far as the glorious beams of truth are spread. Nor let it be imagin'd that I look 10Only with custom's eye upon your book; Or in this service that 'twas my intent T' exclude your person from your argument: I shall profess, much of the love I owe, Doth from the root of our extraction grow; To which though I can little contribute, Yet with a natural joy I must impute To our tribe's honour, what by you is done Worthy the title of a Prelate's son. And scarcely have two brothers farther borne 20A father's name, or with more value worn Their own, than two of you; whose pens and feet Have made the distant points of Heav'n to meet; He by exact discoveries of the West, Yourself by painful travels in the East Some more like you might pow'rfully confute Th' opposers of Priests' marriage by the fruit. And (since 'tis known for all their straight vow'd life, They like the sex in any style but wife) Cause them to change their cloister for that state 30Which keeps men chaste by vows legitimate: Nor shame to father their relations, Or under nephews' names disguise their sons. This child of yours, born without spurious blot, And fairly midwiv'd as it was begot, Doth so much of the parent's goodness wear, You may be proud to own it for your heir. Whose choice acquits you from the common sin Of such, who finish worse than they begin: You mend upon yourself, and your last strain 40Does of your first the start in judgement gain; Since what in curious travel was begun, You here conclude in a devotion. Where in delightful raptures we descry As in a map, Sion's chorography Laid out in so direct and smooth a line, Men need not go about through Palestine: Who seek Christ here will the straight road prefer, As nearer much than by the Sepulchre. For not a limb grows here, but is a path; 50Which in God's City the blest centre hath: And doth so sweetly on each passion strike, The most fantastic taste will somewhat like. To the unquiet soul Job still from hence Pleads in th' example of his patience. The mortified may hear the wise King preach, When his repentance made him fit to teach. Nor shall the singing Sisters be content To chant at home the Act of Parliament, Turn'd out of reason into rhyme by one 60Free of his trade, though not of Helicon, Who did in his poetic zeal contend Others' edition by a worse to mend. Here are choice Hymns and Carols for the glad, With melancholy Dirges for the sad: And David (as he could his skill transfer) Speaks like himself by an interpreter. Your Muse rekindled hath the Prophet's fire, And tun'd the strings of his neglected lyre; Making the note and ditty so agree, 70They now become a perfect harmony. I must confess, I have long wish'd to see The Psalms reduc'd to this conformity: Grieving the songs of Sion should be sung In phrase not diff'ring from a barbarous tongue. As if, by custom warranted, we may Sing that to God we would be loath to say. Far be it from my purpose to upbraid Their honest meaning, who first offer made That book in metre to compile, which you 80Have mended in the form, and built anew: And it was well, considering the time, Which hardly could distinguish verse and rhyme. But now the language, like the Church, hath won More lustre since the Reformation; None can condemn the wish or labour spent Good matter in good words to represent. Yet in this jealous age some such there be, So without cause afraid of novelty, They would not (were it in their pow'r to choose) 90An old ill practice for a better lose. Men who a rustic plainness so affect, They think God served best by their neglect. Holding the cause would be profan'd by it, Were they at charge of learning or of wit. And therefore bluntly (what comes next) they bring Coarse and unstudied stuffs for offering; Which like th' old Tabernacle's cov'ring are, Made up of badgers' skins, and of goat's hair. But these are paradoxes they must use 100Their sloth and bolder ignorance t'excuse. Who would not laugh at one will naked go, 'Cause in old hangings truth is pictur'd so? Though plainness be reputed honour's note, They mantles use to beautify the coat; So that a curious (unaffected) dress Adds much unto the body's comeliness: And wheresoe'er the subject's best, the sense Is better'd by the speaker's eloquence. But, Sir, to you I shall no trophy raise 110From other men's detraction or dispraise: That jewel never had inherent worth, Which ask'd such foils as these to set it forth. If any quarrel your attempt or style, Forgive them; their own folly they revile. Since, 'gainst themselves, their factious envy shall Allow this work of yours canonical. Nor may you fear the Poet's common lot, Read, and commended, and then quite forgot: The brazen mines and marble rocks shall waste, 120When your foundation will unshaken last. 'Tis Fame's best pay, that you your labours see By their immortal subject crowned be. For ne'er was writer in oblivion hid Who firm'd his name on such a Pyramid.

Woe to the worldly men, whose covetous Ambition labours to join house to house, Lay field to field, till their enclosures edge The plain, girdling a country with one hedge: That leave no place unbought, no piece of earth Which they will not engross, making a dearth Of all inhabitants, until they stand Unneighbour'd, as unblest, within their land. This sin cries in God's ear, who hath decreed 10The ground they sow shall not return the seed. They that unpeopled countries to create Themselves sole Lords,—made many desolate To build up their own house,—shall find at last Ruin and fearful desolation cast Upon themselves. Their mansion shall become A desert, and their palace prove a tomb. Their vines shall barren be, their land yield tares; Their house shall have no dwellers, they no heirs. Woe unto those, that with the morning Sun 20Rise to drink wine, and sit till he have run His weary course; not ceasing until night Have quench'd their understanding with the light: Whose raging thirst, like fire, will not be tam'd, The more they pour, the more they are inflam'd. Woe unto them that only mighty are To wage with wine; in which unhappy war They who the glory of the day have won, Must yield them foil'd and vanquish'd by the tun. Men that live thus, as if they liv'd in jest, 30Fooling their time with music and a feast; That did exile all sounds from their soft ear But of the harp, must this sad discord hear Compos'd in threats. The feet which measures tread Shall in captivity be fettered: Famine shall scourge them for their vast excess; And Hell revenge their monstrous drunkenness; Which hath enlarg'd itself to swallow such, Whose throats ne'er knew enough, though still too much. Woe unto those that countenance a sin, 40Siding with vice, that it may credit win By their unhallow'd vote: that do benight The truth with error, putting dark for light, And light for dark; that call an evil good, And would by vice have virtue understood: That with their frown can sour an honest cause, Or sweeten any bad by their applause. That justify the wicked for reward; And, void of moral goodness or regard, Plot with detraction to traduce the fame 50Of him whose merit hath enroll'd his name Among the just. Therefore God's vengeful ire Glows on his people, and becomes a fire, Whose greedy and exalted flame shall burn, Till they like straw or chaff to nothing turn. Because they have rebell'd against the right, To God and Law perversely opposite, As plants which Sun nor showers did ever bless, So shall their root convert to rottenness; And their succession's bud, in which they trust, 60Shall (like Gomorrah's fruit) moulder to dust. Woe unto those that, drunk with self-conceit, Value their own designs at such a rate Which human wisdom cannot reach; that sit Enthron'd, as sole monopolists of wit; That outlook reason, and suppose the eye Of Nature blind to their discovery, Whilst they a title make to understand Whatever secret's bosom'd in the land. But God shall imp their pride, and let them see 70They are but fools in a sublime degree: He shall bring down and humble those proud eyes, In which false glasses only they look'd wise; That all the world may laugh, and learn by it, There is no folly to pretended wit. Woe unto those that draw iniquity With cords, and by a vain security Lengthen the sinful trace, till their own chain Of many links, form'd by laborious pain, Do pull them into Hell; that, as with lines 80And cart-ropes, drag on their unwilling crimes: Who, rather than they will commit no sin, Tempt all occasions to let it in. As if there were no God, who must exact The strict account for every vicious fact; Nor judgement after death. If any be, Let him make speed (say they), that we may see. Why is his work retarded by delay? Why doth himself thus linger on the way? If there be any judge, or future doom, 90Let It and Him with speed together come. Unhappy men, that challenge and defy The coming of that dreadful Majesty! Better by much for you, he did reverse His purposed sentence on the Universe; Or that the creeping minutes might adjourn Those flames in which you, with the earth, must burn; That time's revolting hand could lag the year, And so put back his day which is too near. Behold his signs advanc'd like colours fly, 100To tell the world that his approach is nigh; And in a furious march, he's coming on Swift as the raging inundation, To scour the sinful world; 'gainst which is bent Artillery that never can be spent: Bows strung with vengeance, and flame-feather'd darts Headed with death, to wound transgressing hearts; His chariot wheels wrapp'd in the whirlwind's gyre, His horses hoov'd with flint, and shod with fire: In which amaze, where'er they fix their eye, 110Or on the melting earth, or up on high, To seek Heaven's shrunk lights, nothing shall appear, But night and horror in their hemisphere: Nor shall th' affrighted sense more objects know Than dark'ned skies above, and Hell below.

A prison is in all things like a grave, Where we no better privileges have Than dead men, nor so good. The soul once fled Lives freer now, than when she was cloistered In walls of flesh; and though she organs want To act her swift designs, yet all will grant Her faculties more clear, now separate, Than if the same conjunction, which of late Did marry her to earth, had stood in force, 10Uncapable of death, or of divorce: But an imprison'd mind, though living, dies, And at one time feels two captivities; A narrow dungeon which her body holds, But narrower body which herself enfolds. Whilst I in prison lie, nothing is free, Nothing enlarg'd, but thought and misery; Though every chink be stopp'd, the doors close barr'd, Despite of walls and locks, through every ward These have their issues forth; may take the air, 20Though not for health, but only to compare How wretched those men are who freedom want, By such as never suffer'd a restraint. In which unquiet travel could I find Aught that might settle my distemper'd mind, Or of some comfort make discovery, It were a voyage well employ'd: but I, Like our raw travellers that cross the seas To fetch home fashions, or some worse disease, Instead of quiet, a new torture bring 30Home t' afflict me, malice and murmuring. What is't I envy not? no dog nor fly But my desires prefer, and wish were I; For they are free, or, if they were like me, They had no sense to know calamity. But in the grave no sparks of envy live, No hot comparisons that causes give Of quarrel, or that our affections move Any condition, save their own, to love. There are no objects there but shades and night, 40And yet that darkness better than the light. There lives a silent harmony; no jar Or discord can that sweet soft consort mar. The grave's deaf ear is clos'd against all noise Save that which rocks must hear, the angel's voice: Whose trump shall wake the world, and raise up men Who in earth's bosom slept, bed-rid till then. What man then would, who on death's pillow slumbers, Be re-inspired with life, though golden numbers Of bliss were pour'd into his breast; though he 50Were sure in change to gain a monarchy? A monarch's glorious state compar'd with his, Less safe, less free, less firm, less quiet is. For ne'er was any Prince advanc'd so high That he was out of reach of misery: Never did story yet a law report To banish fate or sorrow from his Court; Where ere he moves, by land, or through the main, These go along, sworn members of his train. But he whom the kind earth hath entertain'd, 60Hath in her womb a sanctuary gain'd, Whose charter and protection arm him so, That he is privileg'd from future woe. The coffin 's a safe harbour, where he rides Land-bound, below cross winds, or churlish tides. For grief, sprung up with life, was man's half-brother, Fed by the taste, brought forth by sin, the mother. And since the first seduction of the wife, God did decree to grief a lease for life; Which patent in full force continue must, 70Till man that disobey'd revert to dust. So that life's sorrows, ratifi'd by God, Cannot expire, or find their period, Until the soul and body disunite, And by two diff'rent ways from each take flight. But they dissolved once, our woes disband, Th' assurance cancell'd by one fatal hand; Soon as the passing bell proclaims me dead, My sorrows sink with me, lie buried In the same heap of dust, the self-same urn 80Doth them and me alike to nothing turn. If then of these I might election make Whether I would refuse, and whether take, Rather than like a sullen anchorite I would live cas'd in stone, and learn to write A Prisoner's story, which might steal some tears From the sad eyes of him that reads or hears; Give me a peaceful death, and let me meet My freedom seal'd up in my winding sheet. Death is the pledge of rest, and with one bail 90Two prisons quits, the Body and the Jail.

Life is a crooked labyrinth, and we Are daily lost in that obliquity. 'Tis a perplexed circle, in whose round Nothing but sorrows and new sins abound. How is the faint impression of each good Drown'd in the vicious channel of our blood? Whose ebbs and tides by their vicissitude Both our great Maker and ourselves delude. O wherefore is the most discerning eye 10Unapt to make its own discovery? Why is the clearest and best judging mind In her own ills' prevention dark and blind? Dull to advise, to act precipitate, We scarce think what to do, but when too late. Or if we think, that fluid thought, like seed, Rots there to propagate some fouler deed. Still we repent and sin, sin and repent; We thaw and freeze, we harden and relent. Those fires, which cool'd to-day, the morrow's heat 20Rekindles. Thus frail nature does repeat What she unlearnt, and still, by learning on, Perfects her lesson of confusion. Sick soul! what cure shall I for thee devise, Whose leprous state corrupts all remedies? What medicine or what cordial can be got For thee, who poison'st thy best antidote? Repentance is thy bane, since thou by it Only reviv'st the fault thou didst commit. Nor griev'st thou for the past, but art in pain, 30For fear thou mayst not act it o'er again. So that thy tears, like water spilt on lime, Serve not to quench, but to advance the crime. My blessed Saviour! unto thee I fly For help against this homebred tyranny. Thou canst true sorrows in my soul imprint, And draw contrition from a breast of flint. Thou canst reverse this labyrinth of sin, My wild affects and actions wander in. O guide my faith! and, by thy grace's clew, 40Teach me to hunt that kingdom at the view Where true joys reign, which like their day shall last; Those never clouded, nor that overcast.

Perhaps 'twas but conceit. Erroneous sense! Thou art thine own distemper and offence. Imagine then, that sick unwholesome steam Was thy corruption breath'd into a dream. Nor is it strange, when we in charnels dwell, That all our thoughts of earth and frailty smell. Man is a Candle, whose unhappy light Burns in the day, and smothers in the night. 10And as you see the dying taper waste, By such degrees does he to darkness haste. Here is the diff'rence: When our bodies' lamps Blinded by age, or chok'd with mortal damps, Now faint, and dim, and sickly 'gin to wink, And in their hollow sockets lowly sink; When all our vital fires ceasing to burn, Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our urn: God will restore those fallen lights again, And kindle them to an eternal flame.

Like to the falling of a star; Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh springs gaudy hue; Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chafes the flood; Or bubbles which on water stood; Even such is man, whose borrow'd light Is straight call'd in, and paid to night. The wind blows out; the bubble dies; 10The Spring entomb'd in Autumn lies; The dew dries up; the star is shot; The flight is past; and man forgot.

Like as the damask rose you see; Or like the blossom on the tree; Or like the dainty flower of May; Or like the morning to the day; Or like the Sun; or like the shade; Or like the gourd which Jonas had; Even such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. The rose withers; the blossom blasteth; The flower fades; the morning hasteth; The sun sets; the shadow flies; The gourd consumes; and man he dies.

Like to the Grass that's newly sprung; Or like a tale that's new begun; Or like the bird that's here to-day; Or like the pearled dew of May; Or like an hour; or like a span; Or like the singing of a swan; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life, and death. The grass withers; the tale is ended; The bird is flown; the dew's ascended; The hour is short; the span not long; The swan's near death; man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brook; Or, in a glass, much like a look; Or like a shuttle in weaver's hand; Or like the writing on the sand; Or like a thought; or like a dream; Or like the gliding of the stream; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life, and death. The bubble's cut; the look's forgot; The shuttle's flung; the writing's blot; The thought is past; the dream is gone; The water glides; man's life is done.

Like to an arrow from the bow; Or like swift course of watery flow; Or like the time twixt flood and ebb; Or like the spider's tender web; Or like a race; or like a goal; Or like the dealing of a dole; Even such is man whose brittle state Is always subject unto fate. The arrow's shot; the flood soon spent; The time no time; the web soon rent; The race soon run; the goal soon won; The dole soon dealt; man's life first done.

Like to the lightning from the sky; Or like a post that quick doth hie; Or like a quaver in short song; Or like a journey three days long; Or like the snow when summer's come; Or like the pear; or like the plum; Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow, The lightning's past; the post must go; The song is short; the journey's so; The pear doth rot; the plum doth fall; The snow dissolves; and so must all.

Like to the damask Rose you see, &c.

Like to the blaze of fond delight; Or like a morning clear and bright; Or like a post; or like a shower; Or like the pride of Babel's Tower; Or like the hour that guides the time; Or like to beauty in her prime; Even such is man, whose glory lends His life a blaze or two, and ends. Delights vanish; the morn o'er casteth; The frost breaks; the shower hasteth; The Tower falls; the hour spends; The beauty fades; and man's life ends.

Like to a silkworm of one year; Or like a wronged lover's tear; Or on the waves a rudder's dint; Or like the sparkles of a flint: Or like to little cakes perfum'd; Or fireworks made to be consum'd; Even such is man, and all that trust In weak and animated dust. The silkworm droops; the tear's soon shed; The ship's way lost; the sparkle dead; The cake is burnt; the firework done; And man as these as quickly gone.

Like to the rolling of an eye: Or like a star shot from the sky; Or like a hand upon a clock; Or like a wave upon a rock; Or like a wind; or like a flame; Or like false news which people frame; Even such is man, of equal stay Whose very growth leads to decay. The eye is turned; the star down bendeth; The hand doth steal; the wave descendeth; The wind is spent; the flame unfir'd; The news disprov'd; man's life expir'd.

Like to an eye which sleep doth chain; Or like a star whose fall we faine [ = feign]; Or like a shade on A[t]haz' watch: Or like a wave which gulfs do snatch; Or like a wind or flame that's past; Or smother'd news confirm'd at last; Even so man's life, pawn'd in the grave, Waits for a rising it must have The eye still sees; the star still blazeth; The shade goes back; the wave escapeth; The wind is turn'd, the flame reviv'd, The news renew'd; and man new liv'd.

Ill busi'd man! why shouldst thou take such care To lengthen out thy life's short kalendar? When every spectacle thou look'st upon Presents and acts thy execution. Each drooping season and each flower doth cry, Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die. The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well) Is just the tolling of thy passing bell: Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopy 10Covers alike deceased day and thee. And all those weeping dews which nightly fall, Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.

Hearken, O God, unto a wretch's cries, Who low dejected at thy footstool lies. Let not the clamour of my heinous sin Drown my requests, which strive to enter in At those bright gates, which always open stand To such as beg remission at thy hand. Too well I know, if thou in rigour deal, I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal: To my hoarse voice, heaven will no audience grant, 10But deaf as brass, and hard as adamant Beat back my words; therefore I bring to thee A gracious Advocate to plead for me. What though my leprous soul no Jordan can Recure, nor floods of the lav'd Ocean Make clean? yet from my Saviour's bleeding side Two large and medicinable rivers glide. Lord, wash me where those streams of life abound, And new Bethesdas flow from ev'ry wound. If I this precious lather may obtain, 20I shall not then despair for any stain; I need no Gilead's balm, nor oil, nor shall I for the purifying hyssop call: My spots will vanish in His purple flood, And crimson there turn white, though wash'd with blood. See, Lord! with broken heart and bended knee, How I address my humble suit to Thee; O give that suit admittance to Thy ears, Which floats to Thee, not in my words, but tears: And let my sinful soul this mercy crave, 30Before I fall into the silent grave.

Well did the Prophet ask, Lord, what is Man? Implying by the question none can But God resolve the doubt, much less define What elements this child of dust combine. Man is a stranger to himself, and knows Nothing so naturally as his woes. He loves to travel countries, and confer The sides of Heaven's vast diameter: Delights to sit in Nile or Bætis' lap, 10Before he hath sail'd over his own map; By which means he returns, his travel spent, Less knowing of himself than when he went. Who knowledge hunt kept under foreign locks, May bring home wit to hold a paradox, Yet be fools still. Therefore, might I advise, I would inform the soul before the eyes: Make man into his proper optics look, And so become the student and the book. With his conception, his first leaf, begin; 20What is he there but complicated sin? When riper time, and the approaching birth Ranks him among the creatures of the earth, His wailing mother sends him forth to greet The light, wrapp'd in a bloody winding sheet; As if he came into the world to crave No place to dwell in, but bespeak a grave. Thus like a red and tempest-boding morn His dawning is: for being newly born He hails th' ensuing storm with shrieks and cries, 30And fines for his admission with wet eyes. How should that plant, whose leaf is bath'd in tears, Bear but a bitter fruit in elder years? Just such is this, and his maturer age Teems with event more sad than the presage. For view him higher, when his childhood's span Is raised up to youth's meridian; When he goes proudly laden with the fruit Which health, or strength, or beauty contribute; Yet,—as the mounted cannon batters down 40The towers and goodly structures of a town,— So one short sickness will his force defeat, And his frail citadel to rubbish beat. How does a dropsy melt him to a flood, Making each vein run water more than blood? A colic wracks him like a northern gust, And raging fevers crumble him to dust. In which unhappy state he is made worse By his diseases than his Maker's curse. God said in toil and sweat he should earn bread, 50And without labour not be nourished: There, though like ropes of falling dew, his sweat Hangs on his lab'ring brow, he cannot eat. Thus are his sins scourg'd in opposed themes, And luxuries reveng'd by their extremes. He who in health could never be content With rarities fetch'd from each element, Is now much more afflicted to delight His tasteless palate, and lost appetite. Besides, though God ordain'd, that with the light 60Man should begin his work, yet he made night For his repose, in which the weary sense Repairs itself by rest's soft recompense. But now his watchful nights and troubled days Confused heaps of fear and fancy raise. His chamber seems a loose and trembling mine; His pillow quilted with a porcupine; Pain makes his downy couch sharp thorns appear, And ev'ry feather prick him like a spear. Thus, when all forms of death about him keep, 70He copies death in any form, but sleep. Poor walking-clay! hast thou a mind to know To what unblest beginnings thou dost owe Thy wretched self? fall sick a while, and than Thou wilt conceive the pedigree of Man. Learn shalt thou from thine own anatomy, That earth his mother, worms his sisters be. That he's a short-liv'd vapour upward wrought, And by corruption unto nothing brought. A stagg'ring meteor by cross planets beat, 80Which often reels and falls before his set; A tree which withers faster than it grows; A torch puff'd out by ev'ry wind that blows; A web of forty weeks spun forth in pain, And in a moment ravell'd out again. This is the model of frail man: then say That his duration's only for a day: And in that day more fits of changes pass, Than atoms run in the turn'd hour-glass. So that th' incessant cares which life invade 90Might for strong truth their heresy persuade, Who did maintain that human souls are sent Into the body for their punishment: At least with that Greek sage still make us cry, Not to be born, or, being born, to die. But Faith steers up to a more glorious scope, Which sweetens our sharp passage; and firm hope Anchors our torn barks on a blessed shore, Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er. To this, Death is our pilot, and disease 100The agent which solicits our release. Though crosses then pour on my restless head, Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed: Let this my thought's eternal comfort be, That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see. And when by fortune's or by nature's stroke My body's earthen pitcher must be broke, My soul, like Gideon's lamp, from her crack'd urn Shall Death's black night to endless lustre turn.

What is th' existence of Man's life But open war, or slumber'd strife? Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements; And never feels a perfect peace, Till Death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm, where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood; And each loud passion of the mind 10Is like a furious gust of wind, Which beats his bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave. It is a flower, which buds and grows, And withers as the leaves disclose; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, Like fits of waking before sleep: Then shrinks into that fatal mould, Where its first being was enroll'd. It is a dream, whose seeming truth 20Is moraliz'd in age and youth: Where all the comforts he can share As wand'ring as his fancies are; Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away. It is a dial, which points out The sun-set as it moves about: And shadows out in lines of night The subtile stages of Time's flight, Till all obscuring earth hath laid 30The body in perpetual shade. It is a weary interlude Which doth short joys, long woes include. The World the stage, the Prologue tears, The Acts vain hope, and varied fears; The Scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no Epilogue but Death.

Whilst it demonstrates Time's swift flight In the black lines of shady night.

Light'ned by that dim torch our sorrow bears, We sadly trace thy coffin with our tears; And though the ceremonious rites are past Since thy fair body into earth was cast, Though all thy hatchments into rags are torn, Thy funeral robes and ornaments outworn; We still thy mourners, without show or art, With solemn blacks hung round about our heart, Thus constantly the obsequies renew, 10Which to thy precious memory are due. Yet think not that we rudely would invade The dark recess of thine untroubled shade, Or give disturbance to that happy peace, Which thou enjoy'st at full since thy release: Much less in sullen murmurs do complain Of His decree who took thee back again, And did, ere Fame had spread thy virtue's light, Eclipse and fold thee up in endless night. This, like an act of envy, not of grief, 20Might doubt thy bliss, and shake our own belief, Whose studied wishes no proportion bear With joys which crown thee now in glory's sphere. Know then, blest Soul! we for ourselves, not thee, Seal our woe's dictate by this elegy: Wherein our tears, united in one stream, Shall to succeeding times convey this theme, Worth all men's pity, who discern, how rare Such early growths of fame and goodness are. Of these, part must thy sex's loss bewail, 30Maim'd in her noblest patterns through thy fail; For 'twould require a double term of life To match thee as a daughter or a wife; Both which Northumberland's dear loss improve, And make his sorrow equal to his love. The rest fall for ourselves, who, cast behind, Cannot yet reach the peace which thou dost find; But slowly follow thee in that dull stage Which most untimely posted hence thy age. Thus, like religious pilgrims, who design 40A short salute to their beloved shrine, Most sad and humble votaries we come, To offer up our sighs upon thy tomb, And wet thy marble with our dropping eyes, Which, till the spring which feeds their current dries, Resolve each falling night and rising day, This mournful homage at thy grave to pay.