Light Sonnets hence, and to loose Louers flie,
 And mournfull Maydens sing an Elegie
 On those three Sheffields, ouer-whelm'd with waues,
 Whose losse the teares of all the Muses craues;
 A thing so full of pitty as this was,
 Me thinkes for nothing should not slightly passe.
 Treble this losse was, why should it not borrowe,
 Through this Iles treble parts, a treble sorrowe:
 But Fate did this, to let the world to knowe,
 10That sorrowes which from common causes growe,
 Are not worth mourning for, the losse to beare,
 But of one onely sonne, 's not worth one teare.
 Some tender-hearted man, as I, may spend
 Some drops (perhaps) for a deceased friend.
 Some men (perhaps) their Wifes late death may rue;
 Or Wifes their Husbands, but such be but fewe.
 Cares that haue vs'd the hearts of men to tuch
 So oft, and deepely, will not now be such;
 Who'll care for loss of maintenance, or place,
 20Fame, liberty, or of the Princes grace;
 Or sutes in law, by base corruption crost,
 When he shall finde, that this which he hath lost,
 Alas, is nothing to his, which did lose,
 Three sonnes at once so excellent as those:
 Nay, it is feard that this in time may breed
 Hard hearts in men to their owne naturall seed;
 That in respect of this great losse of theirs,
 Men will scarce mourne the death of their owne heires.
 Through all this Ile their losse so publique is,
 30That euery man doth take them to be his,
 And as a plague which had beginning there,
 So catching is, and raigning euery where,
 That those the farthest off as much doe rue them,
 As those the most familiarly that knew them;
 Children with this disaster are wext sage,
 And like to men that strucken are in age;
 Talke what it is, three children at one time
 Thus to haue drown'd, and in their very prime;
 Yea, and doe learne to act the same so well,
 40That then olde folke, they better can it tell.
 Inuention, oft that Passion vs'd to faine,
 In sorrowes of themselves but slight, and meane,
 To make them seeme great, here it shall not need,
 For that this Subiect doth so farre exceed
 All forc'd Expression, that what Poesie shall
 Happily thinke to grace it selfe withall,
 Falls so belowe it, that it rather borrowes
 Grace from their griefe, then addeth to their sorrowes,
 For sad mischance thus in the losse of three,
 50To shewe it selfe the vtmost it could bee:
 Exacting also by the selfe same lawe,
 The vtmost teares that sorrowe had to drawe
 All future times hath vtterly preuented
 Of a more losse, or more to be lamented.
 Whilst in faire youth they liuely flourish'd here,
 To their kinde Parents they were onely deere:
 But being dead, now euery one doth take
 Them for their owne, and doe like sorrowe make:
 As for their owne begot, as they pretended
 60Hope in the issue, which should haue discended
 From them againe; nor here doth end our sorrow,
 But those of vs, that shall be borne to morrowe
 Still shall lament them, and when time shall count,
 To what vast number passed yeares shall mount,
 They from their death shall duly reckon so,
 As from the Deluge, former vs'd to doe.
 O cruell Humber guilty of their gore,
 I now beleeue more then I did before
 The Brittish Story, whence thy name begun
 70Of Kingly Humber, an inuading Hun,
 By thee deuoured, for't is likely thou
 With blood wert Christned, bloud-thirsty till now.
 The Ouse, the Done, and thou farre clearer Trent,
 To drowne the Sheffields as you gaue consent,
 Shall curse the time, that ere you were infus'd,
 Which haue your waters basely thus abus'd.
 The groueling Boore yee hinder not to goe,
 And at his pleasure Ferry to and fro.
 The very best part of whose soule, and bloud,
 80Compared with theirs, is viler then your mud.
 But wherefore paper, doe I idely spend,
 On those deafe waters to so little end,
 And vp to starry heauen doe I not looke,
 In which, as in an euerlasting booke,
 Our ends are written; O let times rehearse
 Their fatall losse, in their sad Aniuerse.

To the noble Lady, the Lady I.S. of worldly crosses

Madame, to shew the smoothnesse of my vaine,
 Neither that I would haue you entertaine
 The time in reading me, which you would spend
 In faire discourse with some knowne honest friend,
 I write not to you. Nay, and which is more,
 My powerfull verses striue not to restore,
 What time and sicknesse haue in you impair'd,
 To other ends my Elegie is squar'd.
 Your beauty, sweetnesse, and your gracefull parts
 10That haue drawne many eyes, wonne many hearts,
 Of me get little, I am so much man,
 That let them doe their vtmost that they can,
 I will resist their forces: and they be
 Though great to others, yet not so to me.
 The first time I beheld you, I then sawe
 That (in it selfe) which had the power to drawe
 My stayd affection, and thought to allowe
 You some deale of my heart; but you have now
 Got farre into it, and you haue the skill
 20(For ought I see) to winne vpon me still.
 When I doe thinke how brauely you haue borne
 Your many crosses, as in Fortunes scorne,
 And how neglectfull you have seem'd to be,
 Of that which hath seem'd terrible to me,
 I thought you stupid, nor that you had felt
 Those griefes which (often) I haue scene to melt
 Another woman into sighes and teares,
 A thing but seldome in your sexe and yeares,
 But when in you I haue perceiu'd agen,
 30(Noted by me, more then by other men)
 How feeling and how sensible you are
 Of your friends sorrowes, and with how much care
 You seeke to cure them, then my selfe I blame,
 That I your patience should so much misname,
 Which to my vnderstanding maketh knowne
 Who feeles anothers griefe, can feele their owne.
 When straight me thinkes, I heare your patience say,
 Are you the man that studied Seneca:
 Plinies most learned letters; and must I
 40Read you a Lecture in Philosophie,
 T'auoid the afflictions that haue vs'd to reach you;
 I'le learne you more, Sir, then your bookes can teach you.
 Of all your sex, yet neuer did I knowe,
 Any that yet so actually could showe
 Such rules for patience, such an easie way,
 That who so sees it, shall be forc'd to say,
 Loe what before seem'd hard to be discern'd,
 Is of this Lady, in an instant learn'd.
 It is heauens will that you should wronged be
 50By the malicious, that the world might see
 Your Doue-like meekenesse; for had the base scumme,
 The spawne of Fiends, beene in your slander dumbe,
 Your vertue then had perish'd, neuer priz'd,
 For that the same you had not exercised;
 And you had lost the Crowne you haue, and glory,
 Nor had you beene the subiect of my Story.
 Whilst they feele Hell, being damned in their hate,
 Their thoughts like Deuils them excruciate,
 Which by your noble suffrings doe torment
 60Them with new paines, and giues you this content
 To see your soule an Innocent, hath suffred,
 And vp to heauen before your eyes be offred:
 Your like we in a burning Glasse may see,
 When the Sunnes rayes therein contracted be
 Bent on some obiect, which is purely white,
 We finde that colour doth dispierce the light,
 And stands vntainted: but if it hath got
 Some little sully; or the least small spot,
 Then it soon fiers it; so you still remaine
 70Free, because in you they can finde no staine.
 God doth not loue them least, on whom he layes
 The great'st afflictions; but that he will praise
 Himselfe most in them, and will make them fit,
 Near'st to himselfe who is the Lambe to sit:
 For by that touch, like perfect gold he tries them,
 Who are not his, vntill the world denies them.
 And your example may work such effect,
 That it may be the beginning of a Sect
 Of patient women; and that many a day
 80All Husbands may for you their Founder pray.
 Nor is to me your Innocence the lesse,
 In that I see you striue not to suppresse
 Their barbarous malice; but your noble heart
 Prepar'd to act so difficult a part,
 With vnremoued constancie is still
 The same it was, that of your proper ill,
 The effect proceeds from your owne selfe the cause,
 Like some iust Prince, who to establish lawes,
 Suffers the breach at his best lou'd to strike,
 90To learne the vulgar to endure the like.
 You are a Martir thus, nor can you be
 Lesse to the world so valued by me:
 If as you haue begun, you still perseuer
 Be euer good, that I may loue you euer.

An Elegie vpon the death of the Lady Penelope Clifton

Must I needes write, who's hee that can refuse,
 He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,
 The thought of her doth heau'nly rage inspire,
 Next powerfull, to those clouen tongues of fire.
 Since I knew ought time neuer did allowe
 Me stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;
 When France and England's Henries dy'd, my quill,
 Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.
 'Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,
 10To obserue custome I vse not to praise;
 Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,
 On any one from whom she was descended;
 That for their fauour I this way should wooe,
 As some poor wretched things (perhaps) may doe;
 I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,
 If by my freedome, I may giue her fame.
 Walking then forth being newly vp from bed,
 O Sir (quoth one) the Lady Clifton's dead.
 When, but that reason my sterne rage withstood,
 20My hand had sure beene guilty of his blood.
 If shee be so, must thy rude tongue confesse it
 (Quoth I) and com'st so coldly to expresse it.
 Thou shouldst haue giuen a shreeke, to make me feare thee;
 That might haue slaine what euer had beene neere thee.
 Thou shouldst haue com'n like Time with thy scalpe bare,
 And in thy hands thou shouldst haue brought thy haire,
 Casting vpon me such a dreadfull looke,
 As seene a spirit, or th'adst beene thunder-strooke,
 And gazing on me so a little space,
 30Thou shouldst haue shot thine eye balls in my face,
 Then falling at my feet, thou shouldst haue said,
 O she is gone, and Nature with her dead.
 With this ill newes amaz'd by chance I past,
 By that neere Groue, whereas both first and last,
 I saw her, not three moneths before shee di'd.
 When (though full Summer gan to vaile her pride,
 And that I sawe men leade home ripened Corne,
 Besides aduis'd me well,) I durst haue sworne
 The lingring yeare, the Autumne had adiourn'd,
 40And the fresh Spring had beene againe return'd,
 Her delicacie, louelinesse, and grace,
 With such a Summer brauery deckt the place:
 But now alas, it lookt forlorne and dead;
 And where she stood, the fading leaues were shed,
 Presenting onely sorrowe to my sight,
 O God (thought I) this is her Embleme right.
 And sure I thinke it cannot but be thought,
 That I to her by prouidence was brought.
 For that the Fates fore-dooming, shee should die,
 50Shewed me this wondrous Master peece, that I
 Should sing her Funerall, that the world should know it,
 That heauen did thinke her worthy of a Poet;
 My hand is fatall, nor doth fortune doubt,
 For what it writes, not fire shall ere race out.
 A thousand silken Puppets should haue died,
 And in their fulsome Coffins putrified,
 Ere in my lines, you of their names should heare
 To tell the world that such there euer were,
 Whose memory shall from the earth decay,
 60Before those Rags be worne they gaue away:
 Had I her god-like features neuer seene,
 Poore slight Report had tolde me she had beene
 A hansome Lady, comely, very well,
 And so might I haue died an Infidell,
 As many doe which neuer did her see,
 Or cannot credit, what she was, by mee.
 Nature, her selfe, that before Art prefers
 To goe beyond all our Cosmographers,
 By Charts and Maps exactly that haue showne,
 70All of this earth that euer can be knowne,
 For that she would beyond them all descrie
 What Art could not by any mortall eye;
 A Map of heauen in her rare features drue,
 And that she did so liuely and so true,
 That any soule but seeing it might sweare
 That all was perfect heauenly that was there.
 If euer any Painter were so blest,
 To drawe that face, which so much heau'n exprest,
 If in his best of skill he did her right,
 80I wish it neuer may come in my sight,
 I greatly doubt my faith (weake man) lest I
 Should to that face commit Idolatry.
 Death might haue tyth'd her sex, but for this one,
 Nay, haue ta'n halfe to haue let her alone;
 Such as their wrinkled temples to supply,
 Cyment them vp with sluttish Mercury,
 Such as vndrest were able to affright,
 A valiant man approching him by night;
 Death might haue taken such, her end deferd,
 90Vntill the time she had beene climaterd;
 When she would haue bin at threescore yeares and three,
 Such as our best at three and twenty be,
 With enuie then, he might haue ouerthrowne her,
 When age nor time had power to ceaze vpon her.
 But when the vnpittying Fates her end decreed,
 They to the same did instantly proceed,
 For well they knew (if she had languish'd so)
 As those which hence by naturall causes goe,
 So many prayers, and teares for her had spoken,
 100As certainly their Iron lawes had broken,
 And had wak'd heau'n, who clearely would haue show'd
 That change of Kingdomes to her death it ow'd;
 And that the world still of her end might thinke,
 It would haue let some Neighbouring mountaine sinke.
 Or the vast Sea it in on vs to cast,
 As Seuerne did about some fiue yeares past:
 Or some sterne Comet his curld top to reare,
 Whose length should measure halfe our Hemisphere.
 Holding this height, to say some will not sticke,
 110That now I raue, and am growne lunatique:
 You of what sexe so ere you be, you lye,
 'Tis thou thy selfe is lunatique, not I.
 I charge you in her name that now is gone,
 That may coniure you, if you be not stone,
 That you no harsh, nor shallow rimes decline,
 Vpon that day wherein you shall read mine.
 Such as indeed are falsely termed verse,
 And will but sit like mothes vpon her herse;
 Nor that no child, nor chambermaide, nor page,
 120Disturbe the Rome, the whilst my sacred rage,
 In reading is; but whilst you heare it read,
 Suppose, before you, that you see her dead,
 The walls about you hung with mournfull blacke,
 And nothing of her funerall to lacke,
 And when this period giues you leaue to pause,
 Cast vp your eyes, and sigh for my applause.

Vpon the noble Lady Astons departure for Spaine

I many a time haue greatly marueil'd, why
 Men say, their friends depart when as they die,
 How well that word, a dying, doth expresse,
 I did not know (I freely must confesse,)
 Till her departure: for whose missed sight,
 I am enforc'd this Elegy to write:
 But since resistlesse fate will haue it so,
 That she from hence must to Iberia goe,
 And my weak wishes can her not detaine,
 10I will of heauen in policy complaine,
 That it so long her trauell should adiourne,
 Hoping thereby to hasten her returne.
The witches of the Northerly legions sell windes to passengers.
Can those of Norway for their wage procure,
 By their blacke spells a winde that shall endure
 Till from aboard the wished land men see,
 And fetch the harbour, where they long to be,
 Can they by charmes doe this and cannot I
 Who am the Priest of Phœbus, and so hie,
 Sit in his fauour, winne the Poets god,
 20To send swift Hermes with his snaky rod,
 To Æolus Caue, commanding him with care,
 His prosperous winds, that he for her prepare,
 And from that howre, wherein shee takes the seas,
 Nature bring on the quiet Halcion dayes,
 And in that hower that bird begin her nest,
 Nay at that very instant, that long rest
 May seize on Neptune, who may still repose,
 And let that bird nere till that hower disclose,
 Wherein she landeth, and for all that space
 30Be not a wrinkle seene on Thetis face,
 Onely so much breath with a gentle gale,
 As by the easy swelling of her saile,
The nearest Harbour of Spaine.
May at *Sebastians safely set her downe
 Where, with her goodnes she may blesse the towne.
 If heauen in iustice would haue plagu'd by thee
 Some Pirate, and grimme Neptune thou should'st be
 His Executioner, or what is his worse,
 The gripple Merchant, borne to be the curse
 Of this braue Iland; let them for her sake,
 40Who to thy safeguard doth her selfe betake,
 Escape vndrown'd, vnwrackt, nay rather let
 Them be at ease in some safe harbour set,
 Where with much profit they may vent their wealth
 That they haue got by villany and stealth,
 Rather great Neptune, then when thou dost raue,
 Thou once shouldst wet her saile but with a waue.
 Or if some proling Rouer shall but dare,
 To seize the ship wherein she is to fare,
 Let the fell fishes of the Maine appeare,
 50And tell those Sea-thiefes, that once such they were
 As they are now, till they assaid to rape
An Ile for the abundance of wine supposed to be the habitation of Bachus.
Grape-crowned Bacchus in a striplings shape,
 That came aboard them, and would faine haue saild,
 To vine-spread *Naxus but that him they faild,
 Which he perceiuing, them so monstrous made,
 And warnd them how they passengers inuade.
 Ye South and Westerne winds now cease to blow
 Autumne is come, there be no flowers to grow,
 Yea from that place respire, to which she goes,
 60And to her sailes should show your selfe but foes,
 But Boreas and yee Esterne windes arise,
 To send her soon to Spaine, but be precise,
 That in your aide you seeme not still so sterne,
 As we a summer should no more discerne,
 For till that here againe, I may her see,
 It will be winter all the yeare with mee.
Castor and Polox begot by Ioue on Leda in the forme of a Swanne. A constellation ominous to Mariners.
Ye swanne-begotten lonely brother-stars,
 So oft auspicious to poore Mariners,
 Ye twin-bred lights of louely Leda's brood,
 70Ioues egge-borne issue smile vpon the flood,
 And in your mild'st aspect doe ye appeare
 To be her warrant from all future feare.
 And if thou ship that bear'st her, doe proue good,
 May neuer time by wormes, consume thy wood
 Nor rust thy iron, may thy tacklings last,
 Till they for reliques be in temples plac't;
 Maist thou be ranged with that mighty Arke,
 Wherein iust Noah did all the world imbarque,
 With that which after Troyes so famous wracke,
 80From ten yeares trauell brought Vlisses backe,
 That Argo which to Colchos went from Greece,
 And in her botome brought the goulden fleece
 Vnder braue Iason; or that same of Drake,
 Wherein he did his famous voyage make
 About the world; or Candishes that went
 As far as his, about the Continent.
 And yee milde winds that now I doe implore,
 Not once to raise the least sand on the shore,
 Nor once on forfait of your selues respire:
 90When once the time is come of her retire,
 If then it please you, but to doe your due,
 What for these windes I did, Ile doe for you;
 Ile wooe you then, and if that not suffice,
 My pen shall prooue you to haue dietyes,
 Ile sing your loues in verses that shall flow,
 And tell the storyes of your weale and woe,
 Ile prooue what profit to the earth you bring,
 And how t'is you that welcome in the spring;
 Ile raise vp altars to you, as to show,
 100The time shall be kept holy, when you blow.
 O blessed winds! your will that it may be,
 To send health to her, and her home to me.

To my most dearely-loued friend Henery Reynolds Esquire, of Poets & Poesie

My dearely loued friend how oft haue we,
 In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)
 To some well-chosen place vs'd to retire;
 And there with moderate meate, and wine, and fire,
 Haue past the howres contentedly with chat,
 Now talk of this, and then discours'd of that,
 Spoke our owne verses 'twixt our selves, if not
 Other mens lines, which we by chance had got,
 Or some Stage pieces famous long before,
 10Of which your happy memory had store;
 And I remember you much pleased were,
 Of those who liued long agoe to heare,
 As well as of those, of these latter times,
 Who have inricht our language with their rimes,
 And in succession, how still vp they grew,
 Which is the subiect, that I now pursue;
 For from my cradle, (you must know that) I,
 Was still inclin'd to noble Poesie,
 And when that once Pueriles I had read,
 20And newly had my Cato construed,
 In my small selfe I greatly marueil'd then,
 Amonst all other, what strange kinde of men
 These Poets were; And pleased with the name,
 To my milde Tutor merrily I came,
 (For I was then a proper goodly page,
 Much like a Pigmy, scarse ten yeares of age)
 Clasping my slender armes about his thigh.
 O my deare master! cannot you (quoth I)
 Make me a Poet, doe it if you can,
 30And you shall see, Ile quickly bee a man,
 Who me thus answered smiling, boy quoth he,
 If you'le not play the wag, but I may see
 You ply your learning, I will shortly read
 Some Poets to you; Phœbus be my speed,
 Too't hard went I, when shortly he began,
 And first read to me honest Mantuan,
 Then Virgils Eglogues, being entred thus,
 Me thought I straight had mounted Pegasus,
 And in his full Careere could make him stop,
 40And bound vpon Parnassus' by-clift top.
 I scornd your ballet then though it were done
 And had for Finis, William Elderton.
 But soft, in sporting with this childish iest,
 I from my subiect haue too long digrest,
 Then to the matter that we tooke in hand,
 Ioue and Apollo for the Muses stand.
 Then noble Chaucer, in those former times,
 The first inrich'd our English with his rimes,
 And was the first of ours, that euer brake,
 50Into the Muses treasure, and first spake
 In weighty numbers, deluing in the Mine
 Of perfect knowledge, which he could refine,
 And coyne for currant, and as much as then
 The English language could expresse to men,
 He made it doe; and by his wondrous skill,
 Gaue vs much light from his abundant quill.
 And honest Gower, who in respect of him,
 Had only sipt at Aganippas brimme,
 And though in yeares this last was him before,
 60Yet fell he far short of the others store.
 When after those, foure ages very neare,
 They with the Muses which conuersed, were
 That Princely Surrey, early in the time
 Of the Eight Henry, who was then the prime
 Of Englands noble youth; with him there came
 Wyat; with reuerence whom we still doe name
 Amongst our Poets, Brian had a share
 With the two former, which accompted are
 That times best makers, and the authors were
 70Of those small poems, which the title beare,
 Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hit
 On many dainty passages of wit.
 Gascoine and Churchyard after them againe
 In the beginning of Eliza's raine,
 Accoumpted were great Meterers many a day,
 But not inspired with braue fier, had they
 Liu'd but a little longer, they had seene,
 Their works before them to have buried beene.
 Graue morrall Spencer after these came on
 80Then whom I am perswaded there was none
 Since the blind Bard his Iliads vp did make,
 Fitter a taske like that to vndertake,
 To set downe boldly, brauely to inuent,
 In all high knowledge, surely excellent.
 The noble Sidney with this last arose,
 That Heroe for numbers, and for Prose.
 That throughly pac'd our language as to show,
 The plenteous English hand in hand might goe
 With Greek or Latine, and did first reduce
 90Our tongue from Lillies writing then in vse;
 Talking of Stones, Stars, Plants, of fishes, Flyes,
 Playing with words, and idle Similies,
 As th' English, Apes and very Zanies be,
 Of euery thing, that they doe heare and see,
 So imitating his ridiculous tricks,
 They spake and writ, all like meere lunatiques.
 Then Warner though his lines were not so trim'd,
 Nor yet his Poem so exactly lim'd
 And neatly ioynted, but the Criticke may
 100Easily reprooue him, yet thus let me say;
 For my old friend, some passages there be
 In him, which I protest haue taken me,
 With almost wonder, so fine, cleere, and new
 As yet they haue bin equalled by few.
 Neat Marlow bathed in the Thespian springs
 Had in him those braue translunary things,
 That the first Poets had, his raptures were,
 All ayre, and fire, which made his verses cleere,
 For that fine madnes still he did retaine,
 110Which rightly should possesse a Poets braine.
 And surely Nashe, though he a Proser were
 A branch of Lawrell yet deserues to beare,
 Sharply Satirick was he, and that way
 He went, since that his being, to this day
 Few haue attempted, and I surely thinke
 Those wordes shall hardly be set downe with inke;
 Shall scorch and blast, so as his could, where he,
 Would inflict vengeance, and be it said of thee,
 Shakespeare, thou hadst as smooth a Comicke vaine,
 120Fitting the socke, and in thy naturall braine,
 As strong conception, and as Cleere a rage,
 As any one that trafiqu'd with the stage.
 Amongst these Samuel Daniel, whom if I
 May spake of, but to sensure doe denie,
 Onely haue heard some wisemen him rehearse,
 To be too much Historian in verse;
 His rimes were smooth, his meeters well did close
 But yet his maner better fitted prose:
 Next these, learn'd Johnson, in this List I bring,
 130Who had drunke deepe of the Pierian spring,
 Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer,
 And long was Lord here of the Theater,
 Who in opinion made our learn'st to sticke,
 Whether in Poems rightly dramatique,
 Strong Seneca or Plautus, he or they,
 Should beare the Buskin, or the Socke away.
 Others againe here liued in my dayes,
 That haue of vs deserued no lesse praise
 For their translations, then the daintiest wit
 140That on Parnassus thinks, he highst doth sit,
 And for a chaire may mongst the Muses call,
 As the most curious maker of them all;
 As reuerent Chapman, who hath brought to vs,
 Musæus, Homer and Hesiodus
 Out of the Greeke; and by his skill hath reard
 Them to that height, and to our tongue endear'd,
 That were those Poets at this day aliue,
 To see their bookes thus with vs to suruiue,
 They would think, hauing neglected them so long,
 150They had bin written in the English tongue.
 And Siluester who from the French more weake,
 Made Bartas of his sixe dayes labour speake
 In naturall English, who, had he there stayd,
 He had done well, and neuer had bewraid
 His owne inuention, to haue bin so poore
 Who still wrote lesse, in striuing to write more.
 Then dainty Sands that hath to English done,
 Smooth sliding Ouid, and hath made him run
 With so much sweetnesse and vnusuall grace,
 160As though the neatnesse of the English pace,
 Should tell the Ietting Lattine that it came
 But slowly after, as though stiff and lame.
 So Scotland sent vs hither, for our owne
 That man, whose name I euer would haue knowne,
 To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight,
 My Alexander, to whom in his right,
 I want extreamely, yet in speaking thus
 I doe but shew the loue, that was twixt vs,
 And not his numbers which were braue and hie,
 170So like his mind, was his clear Poesie,
 And my deare Drummond to whom much I owe
 For his much loue, and proud I was to know,
 His poesie, for which two worthy men,
 I Menstry still shall loue, and Hauthorne-den.
 Then the two Beamounts and my Browne arose,
 My deare companions whom I freely chose
 My bosome friends; and in their seuerall wayes,
 Rightly borne Poets, and in these last dayes,
 Men of much note, and no lesse nobler parts,
 180Such as haue freely tould to me their hearts,
 As I have mine to them; but if you shall
 Say in your knowledge, that these be not all
 Haue writ in numbers, be inform'd that I
 Only my selfe, to these few men doe tye,
 Whose works oft printed, set on euery post,
 To publique censure subiect haue bin most;
 For such whose poems, be they nere so rare,
 In priuate chambers, that incloistered are,
 And by transcription daintyly must goe;
 190As though the world vnworthy were to know,
 Their rich composures, let those men that keepe
 These wonderous reliques in their iudgement deepe;
 And cry them vp so, let such Peeces bee
 Spoke of by those that shall come after me,
 I passe not for them: nor doe meane to run,
 In quest of these, that them applause haue wonne,
 Vpon our Stages in these latter dayes,
 That are so many, let them haue their bayes
 That doe deserue it; let those wits that haunt
 200Those publique circuits, let them freely chaunt
 Their fine Composures, and their praise pursue
 And so my deare friend, for this time adue.

Vpon the death of his incomparable friend Sir Henry Raynsford of Clifford

Could there be words found to expresse my losse,
 There were some hope, that this my heauy crosse
 Might be sustained, and that wretched I
 Might once finde comfort: but to haue him die
 Past all degrees that was so deare to me;
 As but comparing him with others, hee
 Was such a thing, as if some Power should say
 I'le take Man on me, to shew men the way
 What a friend should be. But words come so short
 10Of him, that when I thus would him report,
 I am vndone, and hauing nought to say,
 Mad at my selfe, I throwe my penne away,
 And beate my breast, that there should be a woe
 So high, that words cannot attaine thereto.
 T'is strange that I from my abundant breast,
 Who others sorrowes haue so well exprest:
 Yet I by this in little time am growne
 So poore, that I want to expresse mine owne.
 I thinke the Fates perceiuing me to beare
 20My worldly crosses without wit or feare:
 Nay, with what scorne I euer haue derided,
 Those plagues that for me they haue oft prouided,
 Drew them to counsaile; nay, conspired rather,
 And in this businesse laid their heads together
 To finde some one plague, that might me subuert,
 And at an instant breake my stubborne heart;
 They did indeede, and onely to this end
 They tooke from me this more then man, or friend.
 Hard-hearted Fates, your worst thus haue you done,
 30Then let vs see what lastly you haue wonne
 By this your rigour, in a course so strict,
 Why see, I beare all that you can inflict:
 And hee from heauen your poore reuenge to view;
 Laments my losse of him, but laughes at you,
 Whilst I against you execrations breath;
 Thus are you scorn'd aboue, and curst beneath.
 Me thinks that man (vnhappy though he be)
 Is now thrice happy in respect of me,
 Who hath no friend; for that in hauing none
 40He is not stirr'd as I am, to bemone
 My miserable losse, who but in vaine,
 May euer looke to find the like againe.
 This more then mine own selfe; that who had seene
 His care of me where euer I had beene,
 And had not knowne his actiue spirit before,
 Vpon some braue thing working euermore:
 He would haue sworne that to no other end
 He had been borne: but onely for my friend.
 I had been happy if nice Nature had
 50(Since now my lucke falls out to be so bad)
 Made me vnperfect, either of so soft
 And yeelding temper, that lamenting oft,
 I into teares my mournefull selfe might melt;
 Or else so dull, my losse not to haue felt.
 I haue by my too deare experience bought,
 That fooles and mad men, whom I euer thought
 The most vnhappy, are in deede not so:
 And therefore I lesse pittie can bestowe
 (Since that my sence, my sorrowe so can sound)
 60On those in Bedlam that are bound,
 And scarce feele scourging; and when as I meete
 A foole by Children followed in the Streete,
 Thinke I (poor wretch) thou from my griefe art free,
 Nor couldst thou feele it, should it light on thee;
 But that I am a Christian, and am taught
 By him who with his precious bloud me bought,
 Meekly like him my crosses to endure,
 Else would they please me well, that for their cure,
 When as they feele their conscience doth them brand,
 70Vpon themselues dare lay a violent hand;
 Not suffering Fortune with her murdering knife,
 Stand like a Surgeon working on the life,
 Deserting this part, that ioynt off to cut,
 Shewing that Artire, ripping then that gut,
 Whilst the dull beastly World with her squint eye,
 Is to behold the strange Anatomie.
 I am persuaded that those which we read
 To be man-haters, were not so indeed,
 The Athenian Timon, and beside him more
 80Of which the Latines, as the Greekes haue store;
 Nor not did they all humane manners hate,
 Nor yet maligne mans dignity and state.
 But finding our fraile life how euery day,
 It like a bubble vanisheth away:
 For this condition did mankinde detest,
 Farre more incertaine then that of the beast.
 Sure heauen doth hate this world and deadly too,
 Else as it hath done it would neuer doe,
 For if it did not, it would ne're permit
 90A man of so much vertue, knowledge, wit,
 Of naturall goodnesse, supernaturall grace,
 Whose courses when considerately I trace
 Into their ends, and diligently looke,
 They serue me for Oeconomike booke.
 By which this rough world I not onely stemme,
 In goodnesse but grow learn'd by reading them.
 O pardon me, it my much sorrow is,
 Which makes me vse this long Parenthesis;
 Had heauen this world not hated as I say,
 100In height of life it had not, tane away
 A spirit so braue, so actiue, and so free,
 That such a one who would not wish to bee,
 Rather then weare a Crowne, by Armes though got,
 So fast a friend, so true a Patriot.
 In things concerning both the worlds so wise,
 Besides so liberall of his faculties,
 That where he would his industrie bestowe,
 He would haue done, e're one could think to doe.
 No more talke of the working of the Starres,
 110For plenty, scarcenesse, or for peace, or Warres:
 They are impostures, therefore get you hence
 With all your Planets, and their influence.
 No more doe I care into them to looke,
 Then in some idle Chiromantick booke,
 Shewing the line of life, and Venus mount,
 Nor yet no more would I of them account,
 Then what that tells me, since what that so ere
 Might promise man long life: of care and feare,
 By nature freed, a conscience cleare, and quiet,
 120His health, his constitution, and his diet;
 Counting a hundred, fourscore at the least,
 Propt vp by prayers, yet more to be encreast,
 All these should faile, and in his fiftieth yeare
 He should expire, henceforth let none be deare,
 To me at all, lest for my haplesse sake,
 Before their time heauen from the world them take,
 And leaue me wretched to lament their ends
 As I doe his, who was a thousand friends.

Vpon the death of the Lady Olive Stanhope