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Ye sacred Muses, if ye will admit

My name into the roll which ye have writ

Of all your servants, to my thoughts display

Some rich conceit, some unfrequented way,

Which may hereafter to the world commend

A picture fit for this my noble friend:

For this is nothing, all these rhimes I scorn;

Let pens be broken, and the paper torn;

And with his last breath let my musick cease,

Unless my lowly poem could increase

In true description of immortal things;

And, rais'd above the earth with nimble wings,

Fly like an eagle from his funeral fire,

Admir'd by all, as all did him admire.

The Teares of the Isle of Wight, shed on the Tombe of their most Noble, valorous, and lotting Captaine and Gouernour, the right Honourable Henrie, Earle of Southampton: who dyed in the Netherlands, Nouemb. -±-g- at Bergenvp-Zone. As also the true Image of his Person and Vertues, lames; the Lord JVriothesley, Knight of the Bath, and Baron of Titchfield; who dyed Nouemb. T3- at Rosendaell. And were both buried in the Sepulcher of their Fathers, at Tichfield, on Innocents day, 1624.

To the Right Honovrable, Thomas, Earle of Sovthampton; All Peace and Happinesse.

My very Honourable good Lord:

It hath pleased God to make your Lordship Heire vnto your most Noble Father, and therefore I thinke you haue most right to these Teares, which were shed for him, and your renowned Elder Brother. If I did not know by mine own obseruasion, that your Lordship was a diligent Obseruer of all your Fathers Vertues (touching which also, you haue a daily Remembrancer) I would exhort you to behold the shadow of them delienated here, by those which much admired him liuing, and shall neuer cease to honour his Memory, and loue those that doe any Honour vnto him. The Lord increase the Honour of your House, and reioyce ouer you to doe you good, vntill hee haue Crowned you with Immortalitie. Your Lordships at command, W. Iones.

To the Reader.

Coming lately to London I found in publike' and priuat, many Monuments of honor, loue and griefe, to those Great Worthies; the Earle of Southampton, and his Sonne, which lately deceased in the Low-Countries, whiles they did Honour to our State and Friends. And because it cannot be denied, but wee of the Isle of Wight (of whom that Noble Earle had the speciall Charge and Care) were most obliged vnto his Honour: I thought it very meet to publish these Teares, which (for the greater part) were shed in the Island long since for priuate vse, and adiudged to darknesse; but that my selfe (being bound by particular duty to doe all Honour to these Gracious Lords) intreated that they might still Hue, which not without importunitie I obtained. And now they are set forth, neither for fashion, nor flattery, nor ostentation; but meerely to declare our loue and respect, to our neuer sufficiently Commended Noble Captaine. So take them without curiositie; and farewell.



1 From this it appears that some Elegies on Lord Southampton had been published soon after his death, which have not yet been discovered. Braithwaite published a poem on his death, called Britaines Bathe, but I have not met with it.

An Epicede vpon the Death of the right Noble and Honourable Lord, Henry, Earle of Southampton, Baron of Tichfield, Knight of the most Honourable Order of the Garter: Captaine of the Isle of Wight.

Mors vlti1na, linea reruro.

Quia est homo qui viuet & non videbit mortem. Pi.

Yee famous Poets of this Southerne Islle,
Straine forth the raptures of your Triigick Muse;
And with your Laurea't Pens come and compile,
The praises due to this Great Lord: peruse

His Globe of Worth, and eke his Vertues braue,

Like learned Maroes at Mecenas graue.

Valour and Wisdome were in thee confin'd;
The Gemini of thy perfection,
And all the Graces were in thee combin'd,
The rich mans ioy and poores refection,

Therefore the King of Kings doth thee imbrace,

For aye to dwell in iust Astraeas place.

Nought is Immortall vnderneath the Sun,

Wee all are subiect to Deaths restlesse date,

Wee end our liues before they are begun,

And mark't in the Eternall Booke of Fate. But for thy Selfe, and Heire one thred was spun
And cut: like Talbots and his valiant Sonne.

Planet of Honour rest, Diuinely sleepe

Secure from iealousie and worldly feares,

Thy Soule Iehovah will it safely keepe:

I, at thy Vrne will drop sad Funerall Teares.
Thou A'leluiah's vnto God alone,
And to the Lambe that sits amidst his Throne.

I can no more in this lugubrious Verse:
Reader depart, and looke on Sidneys Herse.

Fra. Beale, Esq.

An Elegie vpon the much deplored Death, of the Right Honourable, Henry, Earle of Sovthampton, fyc. Captaine of the Isle of Wight. And of the Right Honourable, lames, Lord Wriothesley, his most hopefull Sonne, and worthy Image of his Vertues.

Henry Sovthampton,

The Stampe in Honour.

Twas neere a fortnight, that no sun did smile
Vpon this cloudy Orbe; and all that while
The Heau'ns wept by fits, as their pale feares
Presented to them matters for their teares:
And all the winds at once such gusts forth sent
Of deep-fetch't sighs, as filled where they went,
The shoares with wracks; as if they mean't the state
Of all the world, should suffer with that fate.

We of the lower sort, loath that our wings
By proudly soaring into Gods or Kings
Reserv'd designments, should be iustly sear'd,
Fearing to search, stay'd till the cause appear'd.
Yet simply thought that Nature had mistaken
Her courses, so, that all her ground were shaken,
And her whole frame disioynted; wherewithall
Wee look't eich houre the stagg'ring world should fall.
Til by a rumour from beyond-sea flying,
Wee found the cause: Sovthampton lay a dying.

O had we found it sooner, e're the thred
Of hisdesired life had quite beene shred!
Or that pure soule, of all good men belou'd
Had left her rich-built lodge to be remou'd,
Yet to a richer Mansion! We had then
Preuented this great losse. Our pray'rs amain
Had flow'n to Heau'n, and with impetu'ous strife,
And such vnited strength, su'ed for his life,
As should haue forc't th' allmighties free consent.
Not that we enuie, or shall e're repent
His flight to rest; but wishing he had stood,
Both for our owne, and for our countries good,
T' haue clos'd our eyes; (who onely now suruiue,
Towaile his losse; and wish we so may thriue,
As we lament it truely.) That a race
Of men vnborne, that had not seene his face,
Nor know'n his vertues, might without a verse,
Or with lesse anguish, haue bedew'd his herse,
But he was gone ere any bruit did grow,
And so we wounded, ere we saw the blow.


Thou long tongu'd Fame that blabbest all thou know'st But send'st ill newes to fly, where ere thou goe'st, Like dust in March, what mischiefe did thee guide, This worst of ills, so long from vs to hide? That, whilst we dream'd all well, and nothing thought, But of his honourable battails fought, And braue atchieuements, by his doing hand, O're any newes could come to countermand Our swelling hopes, the first report was spread, Should stricke vs through, at once: Southampton dead.

Had it com'n stealing on vs and by slow
Insensible degree's, ben taught to goe,
As his disease on him, 't had so prepar'd
Our hearts, against the wors that could be dar'd,
That, in the vpshott, our misgiuing feares
Would haue fore-stall'd, or quallified our teares.
But thus to wound vs! O distastrous luck!
Struck dead, before we knew that we were struck. Whence 'tis; that we so long a loofe did hover,
Nor could ourwitts, and senses soone recover,
T' expresse our griefe, whilst others vainely stroue
In time t' outstripp vs, who could not in loue.
'' Light cares will quickly speake; but great ones, craz'd
"With their misfortunes, stand a while amaz'd.

Even my selfe, who with the first assay'd
To lanch out into this deepe, was so dismay'd,
That sighs blew back my Barke, and sorrows tyde
Draue her against her course, and split her side
So desp'rately vppon arocke of feares,
That downe she sunke, and perish't in my teares;
Nor durst I seeke to putt to Sea againe,
Till tyme had won on griefe, and scour'd the Maine. Ev'n yet, me thinks, my numbers doe not flow,
As they were wont; I find them lame, and slow.
My buisie sighs breake off eich tender linke,
And eyes let fall more teares, than Pen doth inke. O how I wish, I might not writt at all,
Not that I doe repine, or ever shall,
To make Sovthamptons high priz'd vertues glory.
The eternall subiect of my well-tun'd storie;
But loath to make his exequies and herse
The argument of my afflicted verse.
Me thinks, it never should be writt, nor read,
Nor ought I tell the world, Sovthampton's dead. A man aboue all prayse: the richest soile
Of witt, or art, is but his lusters foile,
Fall's short of what he was, and seru's alone,
To set forth, as it can, so rich a stone,

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