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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,
His Globe of Worth, and eke his Vertues braue,
Like learned Maroes at Mecenas graue.
Valour and Wisdome were in thee confin'd;
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
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.
I can no more in this lugubrious Verse:
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.
Twas neere a fortnight, that no sun did smile
We of the lower sort, loath that our wings
O had we found it sooner, e're the thred
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
Even my selfe, who with the first assay'd