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.

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.