Volume 1 — ELEGIES UPON THE AUTHOR

TO have liv'd eminent, in a degree Beyond our lofty'st flights, that is, like Thee, Or t'have had too much merit, is not safe; For, such excesses finde no Epitaph. 5At common graves we have Poetique eyes Can melt themselves in easie Elegies, Each quill can drop his tributary verse, And pin it, like the Hatchments, to the Hearse: But at Thine, Poeme, or Inscription 10(Rich soule of wit, and language) we have none. Indeed a silence does that tombe befit, Where is no Herald left to blazon it. Widow'd invention justly doth forbeare To come abroad, knowing Thou art not here, 15Late her great Patron; Whose Prerogative Maintain'd, and cloth'd her so, as none alive Must now presume, to keepe her at thy rate, Though he the Indies for her dowre estate. Or else that awfull fire, which once did burne 20In thy cleare Braine, now falne into thy Urne Lives there, to fright rude Empiricks from thence, Which might prophane thee by their Ignorance. Who ever writes of Thee, and in a stile Unworthy such a Theme, does but revile 25Thy precious Dust, and wake a learned Spirit Which may revenge his Rapes upon thy Merit. For, all a low pitch't phansie can devise, Will prove, at best, but Hallow'd Injuries. Thou, like the dying Swanne, didst lately sing 30Thy Mournfull Dirge, in audience of the King; When pale lookes, and faint accents of thy breath, Presented so, to life, that peece of death, That it was fear'd, and prophesi'd by all, Thou thither cam'st to preach thy Funerall. 35O! had'st Thou in an Elegiacke Knell Rung out unto the world thine owne farewell, And in thy High Victorious Numbers beate The solemne measure of thy griev'd Retreat; Thou might'st the Poets service now have mist 40As well, as then thou did'st prevent the Priest; And never to the world beholding bee So much, as for an Epitaph for thee. I doe not like the office. Nor is't fit Thou, who did'st lend our Age such summes of wit, 45Should'st now re-borrow from her bankrupt Mine, That Ore to Bury Thee, which once was Thine, Rather still leave us in thy debt; And know (Exalted Soule) more glory 'tis to owe Unto thy Hearse, what we can never pay, 50Then, with embased Coine those Rites defray. Commit we then Thee to Thy selfe: Nor blame Our drooping loves, which thus to thy owne Fame Leave Thee Executour. Since, but thine owne, No pen could doe Thee Justice, nor Bayes Crowne 55Thy vast desert; Save that, wee nothing can Depute, to be thy Ashes Guardian. So Jewellers no Art, or Metall trust To forme the Diamond, but the Diamonds dust. H. K.

WHEN thy Loose raptures, Donne, shall meet with Those That doe confine Tuning, unto the Duller line, And sing not, but in Sanctified Prose; 5How will they, with sharper eyes, The Fore-skinne of thy phansie circumcise? And feare, thy wantonnesse should now, begin Example, that hath ceased to be Sin? And that Feare fannes their Heat; whilst knowing eyes 10Will not admire At this Strange Fire, That here is mingled with thy Sacrifice: But dare reade even thy Wanton Story, As thy Confession, not thy Glory. 15And will so envie Both to future times, That they would buy thy Goodnesse, with thy Crimes. Tho: Browne.

I CANNOT blame those men, that knew thee well, Yet dare not helpe the world, to ring thy knell In tunefull Elegies; there's not language knowne Fit for thy mention, but 'twas first thy owne; 5The Epitaphs thou writst, have so bereft Our tongue of wit, there is not phansie left Enough to weepe thee; what henceforth we see Of Art or Nature, must result from thee. There may perchance some busie gathering friend 10Steale from thy owne workes, and that, varied, lend, Which thou bestow'st on others, to thy Hearse, And so thou shalt live still in thine owne verse; Hee that shall venture farther, may commit A pitied errour, shew his zeale, not wit. 15Fate hath done mankinde wrong; vertue may aime Reward of conscience, never can, of fame, Since her great trumpet's broke, could onely give Faith to the world, command it to beleeve; Hee then must write, that would define thy parts: 20Here lyes the best Divinitie, All the Arts. Edw. Hyde.

HEE that would write an Epitaph for thee, And do it well, must first beginne to be Such as thou wert; for, none can truly know Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv'd so; 5He must have wit to spare and to hurle downe: Enough, to keepe the gallants of the towne. He must have learning plenty; both the Lawes, Civill, and Common, to judge any cause; Divinity great store, above the rest; 10Not of the last Edition, but the best. Hee must have language, travaile, all the Arts; Judgement to use; or else he wants thy parts. He must have friends the highest, able to do; Such as Mecœnas, and Augustus too. 15He must have such a sicknesse, such a death; Or else his vaine descriptions come beneath; Who then shall write an Epitaph for thee, He must be dead first, let'it alone for mee.

A LL is not well when such a one as I Dare peepe abroad, and write an Elegie; When smaller Starres appeare, and give their light, Phœbus is gone to bed: Were it not night, 5And the world witlesse now that Donne is dead, You sooner should have broke, then seene my head. Dead did I say? Forgive this Injury I doe him, and his worthes Infinity, To say he is but dead; I dare averre 10It better may be term'd a Massacre, Then Sleepe or Death; See how the Muses mourne Upon their oaten Reeds, and from his Vrne Threaten the World with this Calamity, They shall have Ballads, but no Poetry. 15Language lyes speechlesse; and Divinity, Lost such a Trump as even to Extasie Could charme the Soule, and had an Influence To teach best judgements, and please dullest Sense. The Court, the Church, the Vniversitie, 20Lost Chaplaine, Deane, and Doctor, All these, Three. It was his Merit, that his Funerall Could cause a losse so great and generall. If there be any Spirit can answer give Of such as hence depart, to such as live: 25Speake, Doth his body there vermiculate, Crumble to dust, and feele the lawes of Fate? Me thinkes, Corruption, Wormes, what else is foule Should spare the Temple of so faire a Soule. I could beleeve they doe; but that I know 30What inconvenience might hereafter grow: Succeeding ages would Idolatrize, And as his Numbers, so his Reliques prize. If that Philosopher, which did avow The world to be but Motes, was living now: 35He would affirme that th' Atomes of his mould Were they in severall bodies blended, would Produce new worlds of Travellers, Divines, Of Linguists, Poets: sith these severall lines In him concentred were, and flowing thence 40Might fill againe the worlds Circumference. I could beleeve this too; and yet my faith Not want a President: The Phœnix hath (And such was He) a power to animate Her ashes, and herselfe perpetuate. 45But, busie Soule, thou dost not well to pry Into these Secrets; Griefe, and Iealousie, The more they know, the further still advance, And finde no way so safe as Ignorance. Let this suffice thee, that his Soule which flew 50A pitch of all admir'd, known but of few, (Save those of purer mould) is now translated From Earth to Heaven, and there Constellated. For, if each Priest of God shine as a Starre, His Glory is as his Gifts, 'bove others farre. Hen. Valentine.

I S Donne, great Donne deceas'd? then England say Thou 'hast lost a man where language chose to stay And shew it's gracefull power. I would not praise That and his vast wit (which in these vaine dayes 5Make many proud) but as they serv'd to unlock That Cabinet, his minde: where such a stock Of knowledge was repos'd, as all lament (Or should) this generall cause of discontent. And I rejoyce I am not so severe, 10But (as I write a line) to weepe a teare For his decease; Such sad extremities May make such men as I write Elegies. And wonder not; for, when a generall losse Falls on a nation, and they slight the crosse, 15God hath rais'd Prophets to awaken them From stupifaction; witnesse my milde pen, Not us'd to upbraid the world, though now it must Freely and boldly, for, the cause is just. Dull age, Oh I would spare thee, but th'art worse, 20Thou art not onely dull, but hast a curse Of black ingratitude; if not, couldst thou Part with miraculous Donne, and make no vow For thee and thine, successively to pay A sad remembrance to his dying day? 25Did his youth scatter Poetrie, wherein Was all Philosophie? Was every sinne, Character'd in his Satyres? made so foule That some have fear'd their shapes, and kept their soule Freer by reading verse? Did he give dayes 30Past marble monuments, to those, whose praise He would perpetuate? Did hee (I feare The dull will doubt:) these at his twentieth yeare? But, more matur'd: Did his full soule conceive, And in harmonious-holy-numbers weave La Corona. 35A Crowne of sacred sonets, fit to adorne A dying Martyrs brow: or, to be worne On that blest head of Mary Magdalen: After she wip'd Christs feet, but not till then? Did hee (fit for such penitents as shee 40And hee to use) leave us a Litany? Which all devout men love, and sure, it shall, As times grow better, grow more classicall. Did he write Hymnes, for piety and wit Equall to those great grave Prudentius writ? 45Spake he all Languages? knew he all Lawes? The grounds and use of Physicke; but because 'Twas mercenary wav'd it? Went to see That blessed place of Christs nativity? Did he returne and preach him? preach him so 50As none but hee did, or could do? They know (Such as were blest to heare him know) 'tis truth. Did he confirme thy age? convert thy youth? Did he these wonders? And is this deare losse Mourn'd by so few? (few for so great a crosse.) 55But sure the silent are ambitious all To be Close Mourners at his Funerall; If not; In common pitty they forbare By repetitions to renew our care; Or, knowing, griefe conceiv'd, conceal'd, consumes 60Man irreparably, (as poyson'd fumes Do waste the braine) make silence a safe way To'inlarge the Soule from these walls, mud and clay, (Materialls of this body) to remaine With Donne in heaven, where no promiscuous paine 65Lessens the joy wee have, for, with him, all Are satisfyed with joyes essentiall. My thoughts, Dwell on this Ioy, and do not call Griefe backe, by thinking of his Funerall; Forget he lov'd mee; Waste not my sad yeares; 70(Which haste to Davids seventy, fill'd with feares And sorrow for his death;) Forget his parts, Which finde a living grave in good mens hearts; And, (for, my first is daily paid for sinne) Forget to pay my second sigh for him: 75Forget his powerfull preaching; and forget I am his Convert. Oh my frailtie! let My flesh be no more heard, it will obtrude This lethargie: so should my gratitude, My vowes of gratitude should so be broke; 80Which can no more be, then Donnes vertues spoke By any but himselfe; for which cause, I Write no Encomium, but an Elegie. Iz. Wa.

Our Donne is dead; England should mourne, may say We had a man where language chose to stay And shew her gracefull power 1635-69

C AN we not force from widdowed Poetry, Now thou art dead (Great Donne) one Elegie To crowne thy Hearse? Why yet dare we not trust Though with unkneaded dowe-bak't prose thy dust, 5Such as the uncisor'd Churchman from the flower Of fading Rhetorique, short liv'd as his houre, Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay Upon thy Ashes, on the funerall day? Have we no voice, no tune? Did'st thou dispense 10Through all our language, both the words and sense? 'Tis a sad truth: The Pulpit may her plaine, And sober Christian precepts still retaine, Doctrines it may, and wholesome Uses frame, Grave Homilies, and Lectures, But the flame 15Of thy brave Soule, that shot such heat and light, As burnt our earth, and made our darknesse bright, Committed holy Rapes upon our Will, Did through the eye the melting heart distill; And the deepe knowledge of darke truths so teach, 20As sense might judge, what phansie could not reach; Must be desir'd for ever. So the fire, That fills with spirit and heat the Delphique quire, Which kindled first by thy Promethean breath, Glow'd here a while, lies quench't now in thy death; 25The Muses garden with Pedantique weedes O'rspred, was purg'd by thee; The lazie seeds Of servile imitation throwne away; And fresh invention planted, Thou didst pay The debts of our penurious bankrupt age; 30Licentious thefts, that make poëtique rage A Mimique fury, when our soules must bee Possest, or with Anacreons Extasie, Or Pindars, not their owne; The subtle cheat Of slie Exchanges, and the jugling feat 35Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong By ours was done the Greeke, or Latine tongue, Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd Us a Mine Of rich and pregnant phansie, drawne a line Of masculine expression, which had good 40Old Orpheus seene, Or all the ancient Brood Our superstitious fooles admire, and hold Their lead more precious, then thy burnish't Gold, Thou hadst beene their Exchequer, and no more They each in others dust, had rak'd for Ore. 45Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time, And the blinde fate of language, whose tun'd chime More charmes the outward sense; Yet thou maist claime From so great disadvantage greater fame, Since to the awe of thy imperious wit 50Our stubborne language bends, made only fit With her tough-thick-rib'd hoopes to gird about Thy Giant phansie, which had prov'd too stout For their soft melting Phrases. As in time They had the start, so did they cull the prime 55Buds of invention many a hundred yeare, And left the rifled fields, besides the feare To touch their Harvest, yet from those bare lands Of what is purely thine, thy only hands (And that thy smallest worke) have gleaned more 60Then all those times, and tongues could reape before; But thou art gone, and thy strict lawes will be Too hard for Libertines in Poetrie. They will repeale the goodly exil'd traine Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just raigne 65Were banish'd nobler Poems, now, with these The silenc'd tales o'th'Metamorphoses Shall stuffe their lines, and swell the windy Page, Till Verse refin'd by thee, in this last Age, Turne ballad rime, Or those old Idolls bee 70Ador'd againe, with new apostasie; Oh, pardon mee, that breake with untun'd verse The reverend silence that attends thy herse, Whose awfull solemne murmures were to thee More then these faint lines, A loud Elegie, 75That did proclaime in a dumbe eloquence The death of all the Arts, whose influence Growne feeble, in these panting numbers lies Gasping short winded Accents, and so dies: So doth the swiftly turning wheele not stand 80In th'instant we withdraw the moving hand, But some small time maintaine a faint weake course By vertue of the first impulsive force: And so whil'st I cast on thy funerall pile Thy crowne of Bayes, Oh, let it crack a while, 85And spit disdaine, till the devouring flashes Suck all the moysture up, then turne to ashes. I will not draw the envy to engrosse All thy perfections, or weepe all our losse; Those are too numerous for an Elegie, 90And this too great, to be express'd by mee. Though every pen should share a distinct part, Yet art thou Theme enough to tyre all Art; Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice I on thy Tombe this Epitaph incise. 95Here lies a King, that rul'd as hee thought fit The universall Monarchy of wit; Here lie two Flamens, and both those, the best, Apollo's first, at last, the true Gods Priest.

POETS attend, the Elegie I sing Both of a doubly-named Priest, and King: In stead of Coates, and Pennons, bring your Verse, For you must bee chiefe mourners at his Hearse, 5A Tombe your Muse must to his Fame supply, No other Monuments can never die; And as he was a two-fold Priest; in youth, Apollo's; afterwards, the voice of Truth, Gods Conduit-pipe for grace, who chose him for 10His extraordinary Embassador, So let his Liegiers with the Poets joyne, Both having shares, both must in griefe combine: Whil'st Johnson forceth with his Elegie Teares from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye, 15(Like Moses at whose stroke the waters gusht From forth the Rock, and like a Torrent rusht.) Let Lawd his funerall Sermon preach, and shew Those vertues, dull eyes were not apt to know, Nor leave that Piercing Theme, till it appeares 20To be goodfriday, by the Churches Teares; Yet make not griefe too long oppresse our Powers, Least that his funerall Sermon should prove ours. Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence, With which he did the bread of life dispense, 25Preacher and Orator discharg'd both parts With pleasure for our sense, health for our hearts, And the first such (Though a long studied Art Tell us our soule is all in every part,) None was so marble, but whil'st him he heares, 30His Soule so long dwelt only in his eares. And from thence (with the fiercenesse of a flood Bearing downe vice) victual'd with that blest food Their hearts; His seed in none could faile to grow, Fertile he found them all, or made them so: 35No Druggist of the Soule bestow'd on all So Catholiquely a curing Cordiall. Nor only in the Pulpit dwelt his store, His words work'd much, but his example more, That preach't on worky dayes, His Poetrie 40It selfe was oftentimes divinity, Those Anthemes (almost second Psalmes) he writ To make us know the Crosse, and value it, (Although we owe that reverence to that name Wee should not need warmth from an under flame.) 45Creates a fire in us, so neare extreme That we would die, for, and upon this theme. Next, his so pious Litany, which none can But count Divine, except a Puritan, And that but for the name, nor this, nor those 50Want any thing of Sermons, but the prose. Experience makes us see, that many a one Owes to his Countrey his Religion; And in another, would as strongly grow, Had but his Nurse and Mother taught him so, 55Not hee the ballast on his Judgement hung; Nor did his preconceit doe either wrong; He labour'd to exclude what ever sinne By time or carelessenesse had entred in; Winnow'd the chaffe from wheat, but yet was loath 60A too hot zeale should force him, burne them both; Nor would allow of that so ignorant gall, Which to save blotting often would blot all; Nor did those barbarous opinions owne, To thinke the Organs sinne, and faction, none; 65Nor was there expectation to gaine grace From forth his Sermons only, but his face; So Primitive a looke, such gravitie With humblenesse, and both with Pietie; So milde was Moses countenance, when he prai'd 70For them whose Satanisme his power gainsaid; And such his gravitie, when all Gods band Receiv'd his word (through him) at second hand, Which joyn'd, did flames of more devotion move Then ever Argive Hellens could of love. 75Now to conclude, I must my reason bring, Wherefore I call'd him in his title King, That Kingdome the Philosophers beleev'd To excell Alexanders, nor were griev'd By feare of losse (that being such a Prey 80No stronger then ones selfe can force away) The Kingdome of ones selfe, this he enjoy'd, And his authoritie so well employ'd, That never any could before become So Great a Monarch, in so small a roome; 85He conquer'd rebell passions, rul'd them so, As under-spheares by the first Mover goe, Banish't so farre their working, that we can But know he had some, for we knew him man. Then let his last excuse his first extremes, 90His age saw visions, though his youth dream'd dreams.

WHO shall presume to mourn thee, Donne, unlesse He could his teares in thy expressions dresse, And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearse, To weepe lines, learned, as thy Anniverse, 5A Poëme of that worth, whose every teare Deserves the title of a severall yeare. Indeed so farre above its Reader, good, That wee are thought wits, when 'tis understood, There that blest maid to die, who now should grieve? 10After thy sorrow, 'twere her losse to live; And her faire vertues in anothers line, Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine. Hadst thou beene shallower, and not writ so high, Or left some new way for our pennes, or eye, 15To shed a funerall teare, perchance thy Tombe Had not beene speechlesse, or our Muses dumbe; But now wee dare not write, but must conceale Thy Epitaph, lest we be thought to steale, For, who hath read thee, and discernes thy worth, 20That will not say, thy carelesse houres brought forth Fancies beyond our studies, and thy play Was happier, then our serious time of day? So learned was thy chance; thy haste had wit, And matter from thy pen flow'd rashly fit, 25What was thy recreation turnes our braine, Our rack and palenesse, is thy weakest straine. And when we most come neere thee, 'tis our blisse To imitate thee, where thou dost amisse. Here light your muse, you that do onely thinke, 30And write, and are just Poëts, as you drinke, In whose weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow, Just as your recknings rise, that wee may know In your whole carriage of your worke, that here This flash you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere, 35This is to tap your Muse, which running long Writes flat, and takes our eare not halfe so strong; Poore Suburbe wits, who, if you want your cup, Or if a Lord recover, are blowne up. Could you but reach this height, you should not need 40To make, each meale, a project ere you feed, Nor walke in reliques, clothes so old and bare, As if left off to you from Ennius were, Nor should your love, in verse, call Mistresse, those, Who are mine hostesse, or your whores in prose; 45From this Muse learne to Court, whose power could move A Cloystred coldnesse, or a Vestall love, And would convey such errands to their eare, That Ladies knew no oddes to grant and heare; But I do wrong thee, Donne, and this low praise 50Is written onely for thy yonger dayes. I am not growne up, for thy riper parts, Then should I praise thee, through the Tongues, and Arts, And have that deepe Divinity, to know, What mysteries did from thy preaching flow, 55Who with thy words could charme thy audience, That at thy sermons, eare was all our sense; Yet have I seene thee in the pulpit stand, Where wee might take notes, from thy looke, and hand; And from thy speaking action beare away 60More Sermon, then some teachers use to say. Such was thy carriage, and thy gesture such, As could divide the heart, and conscience touch. Thy motion did confute, and wee might see An errour vanquish'd by delivery. 65Not like our Sonnes of Zeale, who to reforme Their hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit storme, And beate the cushion into worse estate, Then if they did conclude it reprobate, Who can out pray the glasse, then lay about 70Till all Predestination be runne out. And from the point such tedious uses draw, Their repetitions would make Gospell, Law. No, In such temper would thy Sermons flow, So well did Doctrine, and thy language show, 75And had that holy feare, as, hearing thee, The Court would mend, and a good Christian bee. And Ladies though unhansome, out of grace, Would heare thee, in their unbought lookes, and face. More I could write, but let this crowne thine Urne, 80Wee cannot hope the like, till thou returne.

WHO dares say thou art dead, when he doth see (Unburied yet) this living part of thee? This part that to thy beeing gives fresh flame, And though th'art Donne, yet will preserve thy name. 5Thy flesh (whose channels left their crimsen hew, And whey-like ranne at last in a pale blew) May shew thee mortall, a dead palsie may Seise on't, and quickly turne it into clay; Which like the Indian earth, shall rise refin'd: 10But this great Spirit thou hast left behinde, This Soule of Verse (in it's first pure estate) Shall live, for all the World to imitate, But not come neer, for in thy Fancies flight Thou dost not stoope unto the vulgar fight, 15But, hovering highly in the aire of Wit, Hold'st such a pitch, that few can follow it; Admire they may. Each object that the Spring (Or a more piercing influence) doth bring T'adorne Earths face, thou sweetly did'st contrive 20To beauties elements, and thence derive Unspotted Lillies white; which thou did'st set Hand in hand, with the veine-like Violet, Making them soft, and warme, and by thy power, Could'st give both life, and sense, unto a flower. 25The Cheries thou hast made to speake, will bee Sweeter unto the taste, then from the tree. And (spight of winter stormes) amidst the snow Thou oft hast made the blushing Rose to grow. The Sea-nimphs, that the watry cavernes keepe, 30Have sent their Pearles and Rubies from the deepe To deck thy love, and plac'd by thee, they drew More lustre to them, then where first they grew. All minerals (that Earths full wombe doth hold Promiscuously) thou couldst convert to gold, 35And with thy flaming raptures so refine, That it was much more pure then in the Mine. The lights that guild the night, if thou did'st say, They looke like eyes, those did out-shine the day; For there would be more vertue in such spells, 40Then in Meridians, or crosse Parallels: What ever was of worth in this great Frame, That Art could comprehend, or Wit could name, It was thy theme for Beauty; thou didst see, Woman, was this faire Worlds Epitomie. 45Thy nimble Satyres too, and every straine (With nervy strength) that issued from thy brain, Will lose the glory of their owne cleare bayes, If they admit of any others praise. But thy diviner Poëms (whose cleare fire 50Purges all drosse away) shall by a Quire Of Cherubims, with heavenly Notes be set (Where flesh and blood could ne'r attaine to yet) There purest Spirits sing such sacred Layes, In Panegyrique Alleluiaes. Arth. Wilson.

D ONNE dead? 'Tis here reported true, though I Ne'r yet so much desir'd to heare a lye, 'Tis too too true, for so wee finde it still, Good newes are often false, but seldome, ill: 5But must poore fame tell us his fatall day, And shall we know his death, the common way, Mee thinkes some Comet bright should have foretold The death of such a man, for though of old 'Tis held, that Comets Princes death foretell, 10Why should not his, have needed one as well? Who was the Prince of wits, 'mongst whom he reign'd, High as a Prince, and as great State maintain'd? Yet wants he not his signe, for wee have seene A dearth, the like to which hath never beene, 15Treading on harvests heeles, which doth presage The death of wit and learning, which this age Shall finde, now he is gone; for though there bee Much graine in shew, none brought it forth as he, Or men are misers; or if true want raises 20The dearth, then more that dearth Donnes plenty praises. Of learning, languages, of eloquence, And Poësie, (past rauishing of sense,) He had a magazine, wherein such store Was laid up, as might hundreds serve of poore. 25But he is gone, O how will his desire Torture all those that warm'd them by his fire? Mee thinkes I see him in the pulpit standing, Not eares, or eyes, but all mens hearts commanding, Where wee that heard him, to our selves did faine 30Golden Chrysostome was alive againe; And never were we weari'd, till we saw His houre (and but an houre) to end did draw. How did he shame the doctrine-men, and use, With helps to boot, for men to beare th'abuse 35Of their tir'd patience, and endure th'expence Of time, O spent in hearkning to non-sense, With markes also, enough whereby to know, The speaker is a zealous dunce, or so. 'Tis true, they quitted him, to their poore power, 40They humm'd against him; And with face most sowre Call'd him a strong lin'd man, a Macaroon, And no way fit to speake to clouted shoone, As fine words [truly] as you would desire, But [verily,] but a bad edifier. 45Thus did these beetles slight in him that good, They could not see, and much lesse understood. But we may say, when we compare the stuffe Both brought; He was a candle, they the snuffe. Well, Wisedome's of her children justifi'd, 50Let therefore these poore fellowes stand aside; Nor, though of learning he deserv'd so highly, Would I his booke should save him; Rather slily I should advise his Clergie not to pray, Though of the learn'dst sort; Me thinkes that they 55Of the same trade, are Judges not so fit, There's no such emulation as of wit. Of such, the Envy might as much perchance Wrong him, and more, then th'others ignorance. It was his Fate (I know't) to be envy'd 60As much by Clerkes, as lay men magnifi'd; And why? but 'cause he came late in the day, And yet his Penny earn'd, and had as they. No more of this, least some should say, that I Am strai'd to Satyre, meaning Elegie. 65No, no, had Donne need to be judg'd or try'd, A Jury I would summon on his side, That had no sides, nor factions, past the touch Of all exceptions, freed from Passion, such As nor to feare nor flatter, e'r were bred, 70These would I bring, though called from the dead: Southampton, Hambleton, Pembrooke, Dorsets Earles, Huntingdon, Bedfords Countesses (the Pearles Once of each sexe.) If these suffice not, I Ten decem tales have of Standers by: 75All which, for Donne, would such a verdict give, As can belong to none, that now doth live. But what doe I? A diminution 'tis To speake of him in verse, so short of his, Whereof he was the master; All indeed 80Compar'd with him, pip'd on an Oaten reed. O that you had but one 'mongst all your brothers Could write for him, as he hath done for others: (Poets I speake to) When I see't, I'll say, My eye-sight betters, as my yeares decay, 85Meane time a quarrell I shall ever have Against these doughty keepers from the grave, Who use, it seemes their old Authoritie, When (Verses men immortall make) they cry: Which had it been a Recipe true tri'd, 90Probatum esset, Donne had never dy'd. For mee, if e'r I had least sparke at all Of that which they Poetique fire doe call, Here I confesse it fetched from his hearth, Which is gone out, now he is gone to earth. 95This only a poore flash, a lightning is Before my Muses death, as after his. Farewell (faire soule) and deigne receive from mee This Type of that devotion I owe thee, From whom (while living) as by voice and penne 100I learned more, then from a thousand men: So by thy death, am of one doubt releas'd, And now beleeve that miracles are ceas'd.

HEERE lies Deane Donne; Enough; Those words alone Shew him as fully, as if all the stone His Church of Pauls contains, were through inscrib'd Or all the walkers there, to speake him, brib'd. 5None can mistake him, for one such as Hee Donne, Deane, or Man, more none shall ever see. Not man? No, though unto a Sunne each eye Were turn'd, the whole earth so to overspie. A bold brave word; Yet such brave Spirits as knew 10His Spirit, will say, it is lesse bold then true.

THIS decent Urne a sad inscription weares, Of Donnes departure from us, to the spheares; And the dumbe stone with silence seemes to tell The changes of this life, wherein is well 5Exprest, A cause to make all joy to cease, And never let our sorrowes more take ease; For now it is impossible to finde One fraught with vertues, to inrich a minde; But why should death, with a promiscuous hand 10At one rude stroke impoverish a land? Thou strict Attorney, unto stricter Fate, Didst thou confiscate his life out of hate To his rare Parts? Or didst thou throw thy dart, With envious hand, at some Plebeyan heart; 15And he with pious vertue stept betweene To save that stroke, and so was kill'd unseene By thee? O 'twas his goodnesse so to doe, Which humane kindnesse never reacht unto. Thus the hard lawes of death were satisfi'd, 20And he left us like Orphan friends, and di'de. Now from the Pulpit to the peoples eares, Whose speech shall send repentant sighes, and teares? Or tell mee, if a purer Virgin die, Who shall hereafter write her Elegie? 25Poets be silent, let your numbers sleepe, For he is gone that did all phansie keepe; Time hath no Soule, but his exalted verse; Which with amazements, we may now reherse.

C ONQUERAR? ignavoque sequar tua funera planctu? Sed lachrimæ clausistis iter: nec muta querelas Lingua potest proferre pias: ignoscite manes Defuncti, & tacito finite indulgere dolori. 5Sed scelus est tacuisse: cadant in mœsta lituræ Verba. Tuis (docta umbra) tuis hæc accipe jussis Cæpta, nec officii contemnens pignora nostri Aversare tuâ non dignum laude Poëtam. O si Pythagoræ non vanum dogma fuisset: 10Inque meum â vestro migraret pectore pectus Musa, repentinos tua nosceret urna furores. Sed frustra, heu frustra hæc votis puerilibus opto: Tecum abiit, summoq́ue sedens jam monte Thalia Ridet anhelantes, Parnassi & culmina vates 15Desperare jubet. Verum hâc nolente coactos Scribimus audaces numeros, & flebile carmen Scribimus (ô soli qui te dilexit) habendum. Siccine perpetuus liventia lumina somnus Clausit? & immerito merguntur funere virtus? 20Et pietas? & quæ poterant fecisse beatum, Cætera, sed nec te poterant servare beatum. Quo mihi doctrinam? quorsum impallescere chartis Nocturnis juvat? & totidem olfecisse lucernas? Decolor & longos studiis deperdere Soles 25Vt prius aggredior, longamque arcessere famam. Omnia sed frustra: mihi dum cunctisque minatur Exitium crudele & inexorabile fatum. Nam post te sperare nihil decet: hoc mihi restat Vt moriar, tenues fugiatque obscurus in auras 30Spiritus: ô doctis saltem si cognitus umbris. Illic te (venerande) iterum, (venerande) videbo. Et dulces audire sonós, & verba diserti Oris, & æternas dabitur mihi carpere voces. Quêis ferus infernæ tacuisset Ianitor aulæ 35Auditis: Nilusq́ue minus strepuisset: Arion Cederet, & sylvas qui post se traxerat Orpheus. Eloquio sic ille viros, sic ille movere Voce feros potuit: quis enim tam barbarus? aut tam Facundis nimis infestus non motus ut illo 40Hortante, & blando victus sermone sileret? Sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat, Singula sic decuere senem, sic omnia. Vidi, Audivi & stupui quoties orator in Æde Paulina stetit, & mira gravitate levantes 45Corda, oculosq́ue viros tenuit: dum Nestoris ille Fudit verba (omni quanta mage dulcia melle?) Nunc habet attonitos, pandit mysteria plebi Non concessa prius nondumi intellecta: revolvunt Mirantes, tacitique arrectis auribus astant. 50Mutatis mox ille modo, formaq́ue loquendi Tristia pertractat: fatumq́ue & flebile mortis Tempus, & in cineres redeunt quod corpora primos. Tunc gemitum cunctos dare, tunc lugere videres, Forsitan à lachrymis aliquis non temperat, atque 55Ex oculis largum stillat rorem; ætheris illo Sic pater audito voluit succumbere turbam, Affectusq́ue ciere suos, & ponere notæ Vocis ad arbitrium, divinæ oracula mentis Dum narrat, rostrisque potens dominatur in altis. 60Quo feror? audaci & forsan pietate nocenti In nimia ignoscas vati, qui vatibus olim Egregium decus, et tanto excellentior unus Omnibus; inferior quanto est, et pessimus, impar Laudibus hisce, tibi qui nunc facit ista Poëta. 65Et quo nos canimus? cur hæc tibi sacra? Poëtæ Desinite: en fati certus, sibi voce canorâ Inferias præmisit olor, cum Carolus Albâ (Vltima volventem et Cycnæâ voce loquentem) Nuper eum, turba & magnatum audiret in Aulâ. 70Tunc Rex, tunc Proceres, Clerus, tunc astitit illi Aula frequens. Solâ nunc in tellure recumbit, Vermibus esca, pio malint nisi parcere: quidni Incipiant & amare famem? Metuere Leones Sic olim, sacrosque artus violare Prophetæ 75Bellua non ausa est qùamquam jejuna, sitimq́ue Optaret nimis humano satiare cruore. At non hæc de te sperabimus; omnia carpit Prædator vermis: nec talis contigit illi Præda diu; forsan metrico pede serpet ab inde: 80Vescere, & exhausto satia te sanguine. Iam nos Adsumus; et post te cupiet quis vivere? Post te Quis volet, aut poterit? nam post te vivere mors est. Et tamen ingratas ignavi ducimus auras: Sustinet & tibi lingua vale, vale dicere: parce 85Non festinanti æternum requiescere turbæ. Ipsa satis properat quæ nescit Parca morari, Nunc urgere colum, trahere atq́ue occare videmus. Quin rursus (Venerande) Vale, vale: ordine nos te Quo Deus, & quo dura volet natura sequemur. 90Depositum interea lapides servate fideles. Fœlices illâ quêis Ædis parte locari Quâ jacet iste datur. Forsan lapis inde loquetur, Parturietque viro plenus testantia luctus Verba: & carminibus quæ Donni suggeret illi 95Spiritus, insolitos testari voce calores Incipiet: (non sic Pyrrhâ jactante calebat.) Mole sub hâc tegitur quicquid mortale relictum est De tanto mortale viro. Qui præfuit Ædi huic, Formosi pecoris pastor, formosior ipse. 100Ite igitur, dignisq́ue illum celebrate loquelis, Et quæ demuntur vitæ date tempora famæ. Indignus tantorum meritorum Præco, virtutum tuarum cultor religiosissimus, Daniel Darnelly.

NOW, by one yeare, time and our frailtie have Lessened our first confusion, since the Grave Clos'd thy deare Ashes, and the teares which flow In these, have no springs, but of solid woe: 5Or they are drops, which cold amazement froze At thy decease, and will not thaw in Prose: All streames of Verse which shall lament that day, Doe truly to the Ocean tribute pay; But they have lost their saltnesse, which the eye 10In recompence of wit, strives to supply: Passions excesse for thee wee need not feare, Since first by thee our passions hallowed were; Thou mad'st our sorrowes, which before had bin Onely for the Successe, sorrowes for sinne, 15We owe thee all those teares, now thou art dead, Which we shed not, which for our selves we shed. Nor didst thou onely consecrate our teares, Give a religious tincture to our feares; But even our joyes had learn'd an innocence, 20Thou didst from gladnesse separate offence: All mindes at once suckt grace from thee, as where (The curse revok'd) the Nations had one eare. Pious dissector: thy one houre did treate The thousand mazes of the hearts deceipt; 25Thou didst pursue our lov'd and subtill sinne, Through all the foldings wee had wrapt it in, And in thine owne large minde finding the way By which our selves we from our selves convey, Didst in us, narrow models, know the same 30Angles, though darker, in our meaner frame. How short of praise is this? My Muse, alas, Climbes weakly to that truth which none can passe, Hee that writes best, may onely hope to leave A Character of all he could conceive 35But none of thee, and with mee must confesse, That fansie findes some checke, from an excesse Of merit most, of nothing, it hath spun, And truth, as reasons task and theame, doth shunne. She makes a fairer flight in emptinesse, 40Than when a bodied truth doth her oppresse. Reason againe denies her scales, because Hers are but scales, shee judges by the lawes Of weake comparison, thy vertue sleights Her feeble Beame, and her unequall Weights. 45What prodigie of wit and pietie Hath she else knowne, by which to measure thee? Great soule: we can no more the worthinesse Of what you were, then what you are, expresse. Sidney Godolphin.

LONG since this taske of teares from you was due, Long since, ô Poëts, he did die to you, Or left you dead, when wit and he tooke flight On divine wings, and soard out of your sight. 5Preachers, 'tis you must weep; The wit he taught You doe enjoy; the Rebels which he brought From ancient discord, Giants faculties, And now no more religions enemies; Honest to knowing, unto vertuous sweet, 10Witty to good, and learned to discreet, He reconcil'd, and bid the Vsurper goe; Dulnesse to vice, religion ought to flow; He kept his loves, but not his objects; wit Hee did not banish, but transplanted it, 15Taught it his place and use, and brought it home To Pietie, which it doth best become; He shew'd us how for sinnes we ought to sigh, And how to sing Christs Epithalamy: The Altars had his fires, and there hee spoke 20Incense of loves, and fansies holy smoake: Religion thus enrich'd, the people train'd, And God from dull vice had the fashion gain'd. The first effects sprung in the giddy minde Of flashy youth, and thirst of woman-kinde, 25By colours lead, and drawne to a pursuit, Now once againe by beautie of the fruit, As if their longings too must set us free, And tempt us now to the commanded tree. Tell me, had ever pleasure such a dresse, 30Have you knowne crimes so shap'd? or lovelinesse Such as his lips did cloth religion in? Had not reproofe a beauty passing sinne? Corrupted nature sorrow'd when she stood So neare the danger of becomming good, 35And wish'd our so inconstant eares exempt From piety that had such power to tempt: Did not his sacred flattery beguile Man to amendment? The law, taught to smile, Pension'd our vanitie, and man grew well 40Through the same frailtie by which he fell. O the sick state of man, health does not please Our tasts, but in the shape of the disease. Thriftlesse is charitie, coward patience, Iustice is cruell, mercy want of sense. 45What meanes our Nature to barre vertue place, If shee doe come in her owne cloathes and face? Is good a pill, we dare not chaw to know? Sense the soules servant, doth it keep us so As we might starve for good, unlesse it first 50Doe leave a pawne of relish in the gust? Or have we to salvation no tie At all, but that of our infirmitie? Who treats with us must our affections move To th' good we flie by those sweets which we love, 55Must seeke our palats, and with their delight To gaine our deeds, must bribe our appetite. These traines he knew, and laying nets to save, Temptingly sugred all the health hee gave. But, where is now that chime? that harmony 60Hath left the world, now the loud organ may Appeare, the better voyce is fled to have A thousand times the sweetnesse which it gave. I cannot say how many thousand spirits The single happinesse this soule inherits, 65Damnes in the other world, soules whom no crosse O'th sense afflicts, but onely of the losse, Whom ignorance would halfe save, all whose paine Is not in what they feele, but others gaine, Selfe executing wretched spirits, who 70Carrying their guilt, transport their envy too: But those high joyes which his wits youngest flame Would hurt to chuse, shall not we hurt to name? Verse statues are all robbers, all we make Of monument, thus doth not give but take 75As Sailes which Seamen to a forewinde fit, By a resistance, goe along with it, So pens grow while they lessen fame so left; A weake assistance is a kinde of theft. Who hath not love to ground his teares upon, Must weep here if he have ambition. I. Chudleigh.