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A CONGRATULATION FOR HIS HEALTH.
If we inlarge our hearts, extend our voyce,
To shew with what aflection we reioyce,
When friends or kinsmen wealth and honour gaine,
Or are return'd to freedome from the chaine :
How shall your seruants and your friends (my lord)
Declare their ioy? who find no sound, no word,
Sufficient for their thoughts, since you haue got
That iewell health, which kingdomes equall not,
From sicknesse freed, a tyrant farre more fell
Than Turkish pirates, who in gallies dwell.
The Muses to the friend of musicke bring
The signes of gladnesse: Orpheus strikes a string
Which can inspire the dull, can cheare the sad,
And to the dead can liuely motion adde:
Some play, some sing: while 1, whose onely skill,
Is to direct the organ of my quill,
That from my hand it may not runne in vaine,
But keepe true time with my commanding braine.
I will bring forth my musicke, and will trie
To rayse these dumbe (yet speaking) letters high,
Till they contend with sounds; till arm'd with
wings
My feather'd pen surmount Apollo's strings.
We much reioice that lightsome calmes asswage
The fighting humours, blind with mutuall rage:
So sing the mariners exempt from feare,
When stormes are past, and hopefull signes appeare:
So chaunts the mounting larke her gladsome lay,"
When night gines place to the delightfull day.
In this our mirth, the greatest ioy I finde,
Is to consider how your noble minde
Will make true vse of those afflictions past,
And on this ground will fix your vertue fast;
You hence haue learn'd th' vncertaine state of man,
And that no height of glitt'ring honour can
Secure his quiet for almighty God,
Who rules the high, can with his pow'rful rod
Represse the greatest, and in mercy daignes
With dang'rous ioyes to mingle wholsome paines.
Though men in sicknesse draw vnquiet breath,
And count it worst of euils, next to death:
Yet such his goodnesse is, who gouernes all,
That from this bitter spring sweete riuers fall.
Here we are truly taught our selues to know,
To pitty others who indure like woe:
To feele the waight of sinne, the onely eause
Whence eu'ry body this corruption drawes :
To make our peace with that correcting hand,
Which at each moment can our liues command.
These are the blest effects, which sicknesse leaues,
When these your serious brest aright conceaues,
You will no more repent your former paine;
Than we our joy, to see you well againe.
• Sir John Villiers, elder brother to the duke of Buckingham, created baron of Stoke and viscount Purbeck, June 1620. C.
Of heraulds, in the haruest of whose art
None but the vertuous iustly clayme a part:
Since they our parents' memories renew,
For imitation, not for idle view.
Yet what is all their skill, if we compare
Their paper works with those which liuely are,
In such as thou hast been, whose present lookes,
If many such were, would surpresse all bookes?
For their examples would alone suffice:
They that the countrey see, the map despise.
For the a crowne of vertues we prepare,
The chiefe is wisdome, in thy sex most rare,
By which thou didst thy husband's state maintaine,
Which sure had falne without thee; and in vaine
Had aged Paulet wealth and honours heap'd
Vpon his house, if strangers had them reapt.
In vaine to height, by safe still steps he climes,
And serues fiue princes in most diff'rent times.
In vaine is he a willow, not an oke,
Which winds might easly bend, yet neuer broke.
In vaine he breakes his sleepe, and is diseas'd,
And grieues himselfe that others may be pleas'd.
In vaine he striucs to beare an equall hand,
'Twixt Somerset and bold Northumberland;
And to his owne close ends directing all,
Will rise with both, but will with neither fall.
All this had been in vaine, vnlesse he might
Haue left his heires cleare knowledge as their right.
But this no sonne infallibly can draw
From his descent, by nature or by law :
That treasure which the soule with glory decks,
Respects not birth-right nor the nobler sex:
For women oft haue men's defects suppli'd,
Whose office is to keepe what men prouide.
So hast thou done, and made thy name as great,
As his who first exalted Paulet's scate:
Neere drew, yet not too rcere, the thunder's blow,
Some stood 'twixt loue and him, though most be-
O well waigh'd dignity, selected place,
Prouided for continuance of his race,
Not by astrologie, but prudence farre,
More pow'rfull than the force of any starre!
The dukes are gone, and now (tho' inuch bencath)
His coronet is next th' imperiall wreath,
No richer signe his flowry garland drownes,
Which shines alone aboue the lesser crownes.
This thou inioyd'st, as sicke men tedious houres,
And thought'st of brighter pearles, and fairer
flowres,
[serues,
And higher crownes, which Heau'n for thee re-
When this thy worldly pompe decayes and starues.
This sacred feruour in thy mind did glow:
And tho' supprest with outward state and show,
Yet at thy death those hind'ring clouds it clear'd,
And like the lost Sunue to the world appear'd;
Enen as a strong fire vnder ashes turn'd,
Which with more force long secretly hath burn'd,
Breakes forth to be the obiect of our sight,
Aimes at the orbe, and ioynes his flame with light".
VPON HIS NOBLE friend,
SIR WILLIAM SKIPWITH.
To frame a man, who in those gifts excels, Which makes the country happy where he dwels,
This lady marquesse was Lucy, daughter to Thomas, earl of Exeter. C.
We first conceiue, what names his line adorne:
It kindles vertue to be nobly borne.
This picture of true gentry must be grac'd
With glitt'ring iewels, round about him plac'd;
A comely body, and a bauteous mind;
A heart to loue, a hand to giue inclin'd;
A house as free and open as the ayre;
A tongue which ioyes in language sweet and faire,
Yet can, when need requires, with courage bold,
To publike earcs his neighbour's griefes vnfold.
All these we neuer more shall find in one,
And yet all these are clos'd within this stone.
AN EPITAPH VPON MY DEARE BROTHER,
FRANCIS BEAUMONT.
N Death, thy murd'rer, this reuenge I take:
I slight his terrour, and just question make,
Which of vs two the best precedence haue,
Mine to this wretched world, thine to the graue:
Thou shouldst haue followed me, but Death too
blame,
Miscounted yeeres, and measur'd age by fame.
So dearely hast thou bought thy precious lines,
Thy Muse, the hearer's queene, the reader's loue,
Their praise grew swiftly; so thy life declines:
All eares, all hearts, (but Death's) could please
and moue.
OF MY DEARE SONNE,
GERUASE BEAUMONT.
CAN I, who haue for others oft compil'd
The songs of death, forget my sweetest child,
Which, like a flow'r crusht, with a blast is dead,
And ere full time hangs downe his smiling head,
Expecting with cleare hope to liue anew,
Among the angels fed with heau'nly dew?
We have this signe of joy, that many dayes,
While on the Earth his struggling spirit stayes,
The name of Iesus in his mouth containes,
His onely food, his sleepe, his case from paines.
O may that sound be rooted in my mind,
Of which in him such strong effect I find.
Deare Lord, recciue my sonne, whose winning loue
To me was like a friendship, farre aboue
The course of nature, or his tender age,
Whose lookes could all my bitter griefes asswage;
Let his pure soule, ordain'd seu'n yeeres to be
In that fraile body, which was part of me,
Remaine my pledge in Heau'n, as sent to shew,
How to this port at eu'ry step I goe.
TEARES FOR THE DEATH OF THE TRULY HONOURABLE,
THE LORD CHANDOS.
Ler him whose lines a priuate losse deplore,
Call them to weepe, that neuer wept before;
My griefe is more audacious: gine me one
Who eu'ry day hath heard a dying grone.
The subiect of my verses may suffice
To draw new teares from dry and weary eyes.
We dare not loue a man, nor pleasure take
In others' worth for noble Chandos' sake:
And when we seeke the best with reasons light,
We feare to wish him longer in our sight.
Time had increast his vertue and our woe,
For sorrow gathers weight by comming slow:
Should him the God of life, to life restore
Againé, we lose him, and lament the more.
If mortals could a thousand liues renew,
They were but shades of death which must insue.
Our gracious God hath fitter bounds assign'd,
And earthly paines to one short life confin'd;
Yet when his hand hath quench'd the vitall flame,
It leaves some cinders of immortall fame.
At these we blow, and (like Prometheus) striue
By such weake sparkes, to make dead clay aliue:
Breath Byes to ayre, the body falls to ground,
And nothing dwels with vs but mournfull sound.
O, might his honour'd name live in my song,
Reflected as with ecchoes shrill and strong!
But when my lines of glorious objects treate,
They should rise high, because the worke is great.
No quill can paint this lord, vnlesse it haue
Some tincture from his actions free and braue:
Yet from this height I must descend againe,
And (like the calm sea) lay my verses plaine,
When I describe the smoothnesse of his mind,
Where reason's chaines rebellious passions bind:
My poem must in harmony excell,
His sweet behauiour and discourse to tell;
It should be deepe, and full of many arts,
To teach his wisdome, and his happy parts.
But since I want these graces, and despaire
To make my picture (like the patterne) faire;
These hasty strokes vnperfect draughts shall stand,
Expecting life from some more skilfull hand.
PON THE VNTIMELY DEATH OF THE HONOURABLE,
HOPEFULL YOUNG GENTLEMAN,
EDWARD STAFFORD,
SONNE AND HEIRE TO THE LORD STAFFORD.
DEAD is the hope of Stafford, in whose line
So many dukes, and earles and barons shine:
And from this Edward's death his kinred drawes
More griefe, than mighty Edward's fall could cause;
For to this house his vertue promis'd more,
Than all those great ones that had gone before.
No lofty titles can securely frame
The happinesse, and glory of a name :
Bright honours at the point of noone decay,
And feele a sad deefining like the day.
But he that from the race of kings is borne,
And can their mem'ries with his worth adorne,
Is farre more blest, than those of whom he springs,
He from aboue the soule of goodnesse brings,
T' inspire the boy of his noble birth,
This makes it moue, before but liuclesse carth.
Of such I write, who show'd he would haue been
Complete in action, but we lost him greene.
We onely saw him crown'd with flowres of hope:
O that the fruits had giu'n me larger scope!
And yet the bloomes which on his hearse we strow,
Surpasse the cherries, and the grapes that grow
In others gardens. Here fresh roses lie,
Whose ruddy blushes inodest thoughts descry;
In flowre-de-luces, dide with azure hue.
His constant loue to heau'nly things we view:
Or had it err'd, or made some strokes amisse,
(For who can portray vertue as it is?)
Art might with nature haue maintain'd her strife,
By curious lines to imitate true life.
But now those pictures want their liuely grace,
As after death none can well draw the face:
We let our friends passe idlely like our time,
Till they be gone, and then we see our crime,
And think what worth in them might haue beene
known,
What duties done, and what affection showne:
Vntimely knowledge, which so deare doth cost,
And then beginnes when the thing knowne is lost.
Yet this cold loue, this enuie, this neglect,
Proclaimes vs modest, while our due respect
To goodnesse is restraiu'd by seruile feare,
Lest to the world, it flatt'ry should appeare:
As if the present houres deseru'd no prayse:
But age is past, whose knowledge onely stayes
On that weake prop which memory sustaines,
Should be the proper subject of our straines :
Or as if foolish men asham'd to sing
Of violets, and roses in the spring,
Should tarry till the flow'rs were blowne away,
And till the Muse's life and heate decay;
Then is the fury slak'd, the vigour fled,
As here in mine, since it with her was dead:
Which still may sparkle, but shall flame no more,
Because no time shall her to us restore :
Yet may these sparks, thus kindled with her fame,
Shine brighter and liue longer than some flame.
Here expectation vrgeth me to tell
Her high perfections, which the world knew well.
But they are farre beyond my skill t' vnfold,
They were poore vertues if they might be told.
But thou, who faine would'st take a gen'rall view
Of timely fruites which in this garden grew,
On all the vertues in men's actions lopke,
Or reade their names writ in some morall booke;
And summe the number which thou there shalt find:
So many liu'd, and triumph'd in her minde.
Nor dwelt these graces in a house obscure,
But in a palace faire, which might allure
The wretch who no respect to vertue bore
To loue it, for the garments which it wore.
So that in ber the body and the soule
Contended, which should most adorue the whole.
O happy soule, for such a body meete,
How are the firme chaines of that vnion sweete,
Disseuer'd in the twinkling of an eye?
And we amaz'd dare aske no reason why,
But silent think, that God is pleas'd to show,
That he hath workes, whose ends we cannot know:
Let vs then cease to make a vaine request,
To learne why die the fairest, why the best;
For all these things, which mortals hold most
deare,
Most slipp'ry are, and yeeld lesse ioy then feare;
And being lifted high by men's desire,
Are more perspicuous markes for heau'nly fire;
And are laid prostrate with the first assault,
Because, our loue makes their desert their fault.
Then justice, vs to some amends should mooue
For this our fruitelesse, nay our hurtfull loue;
We in their honour piles of stone erect,
With their deare names and worthy prayses deckt:
But since those faile, their glories we rehearse,
In better marble, euerlasting verse:
By which we gather from consuming houres,
Some parts of them, though time the rest deuoures;
Then if the Muses can forbid to die,
As we their priests suppose, why may not I!
Although the least and hoarsest in the quire,
Cleare beames of blessed immortality inspire
To k epe thy blest remembrance euer young,
Still to be freshly in all ages sung:
Or if my worke in this vnable be,
Yet shall it euer line, vpheld by thee:
For thou shalt liue, though poems should decay,
Since parents teach their sonnes, thy prayse to say;'
And to posterity, from hand to hand
Conuay it with their blessing and their land.
Thy quiet rest from death, this good deriues
Instead of one, it giues thee many liues:
While these lines last, thy shadow dwelleth here,
Thy fame, it selfe extendeth eu'ry where;
In Heau'n our hopes haue plac'd thy better part:
Thine image liues, in thy sad husband's heart:
Who as when he enioy'd thee, he was chiefe
In loue and comfort, so is he now in griefe.
VPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST NOBLE
LORD HENRY, EARLE OF SOUTHAMPTON,
1624.
WHEN now the life of great Southampton ends,
His fainting seruants, and astonish'd friends
Stand like so many weeping marble stones,
No passage left to vtter sighes, or grones:
And must I first dissolue the bonds of griefe,
And straine forth words, to giue the rest reliefe?
I will be bold my trembling voyce to trie,
That his dear name, may not in silence die.
The world must pardon, if my song bee weake;
In such a case it is enough to speake:
My verses are not for the present age:
For what man liues, or breathes on England's stage,
That knew not brane Southampton, in whose sight
Most plac'd their day, and in his absence night?
I striue, that vnborne children may conceiue,
Of what a jewell angry fates bereaue
This mournefull kingdome, and when heauy woes
Oppresse their hearts, thinke ours as great as those:
In what estate shall I him first expresse,
In youth, or age, in ioy, or in distresse?
When he was young, no ornament of youth
Was wanting in him, acting that in truth
Which Cyrus did in shadow, and to men
Appear'd like Peleus' sonne from Chiron's den;
While through this island fame his praise reports,
As best in martial deedes, and courtly sports:
When riper age with winged feete repaires,
Graue care adornes his head with siluer haires ;
His valiant feruour was not then decaide,
But ioyn'd with counsell, as a further aide.
Behold his constant and vndaunted eye,
In greatest danger when condemn'd to dye,
He scornes th' insulting aduersaries breath,
And will admit no feare, though neere to death:
But when our gracious soueraigne had regain'd
This light, with clouds obscur'd in walls detain'd:
And by his fauour plac'd this starre on high,
Fixt in the garter, England's azure skie ;
He pride (which dimms such change) as much did
As base deiection in his former state: [hate,
When he was call'd to sit, by Ioues command,
Among the demigods, that rule this land,
No pow'r, no strong perswasion could him draw
From that, which he conceiu'd as right and law.
When shall we in this realme a father finde
So truly sweet, or husband halfe so kinde ?
Thus he enioyde the best contents of life,
Obedient children, and a louing wife.
These were his parts in peace; but O how farre
This noble soule excell'd it selfe in warre:
He was directed by a nat'rall vaine,
True honour by this painefull way to gaine.
Let Ireland witnesse, where he first appeares,
And to the fight his warlike ensignes beares.
And thou O Belgia, wert in hope to see
The trophees of his conquests wrought in thee,
But Death, who durst not meete him in the field,
In priuate by close trech'ry made him yeeld.
I keepe that glory last, which is the best,
The loue of learning, whieh he oft exprest
By conuersation, and respect to those
Who had a name in artes, in verse or prose:
Shall euer I forget with what delight,
He on my simple lines would cast his sight?
His onely mem'ry my poore worke adornes,
He is a father to my crowne of thornes:
Now since his death how can I euer looke,
Without some teares, vpon that orphan booke?
Ye sacred Muses, if ye will admit
My name into the roll, which ye haue writ
Of all your seruants, to my thoughts display
Some rich conceipt, some vnfrequented way,
Which may hereafter to the world commend
A picture fit for this my noble friend :
For this is nothing, all these rimes I scorne;
Let pens be broken, and the paper torne :
And with his last breath let my musick cease,
Valesse my lowly poem could increase
In true description of immortall things,
And rays'd aboue the Earth with nimble wings,
Fly like an eagle from his fun'rall fire,
Admir'd by all, as all did him admire.
VPON THAT HOPEFUL YOUNG GENTLEMAN, THE LORD WRIOTHESLEY.
HERE lies a souldier, who in youth desir'd
His valiant father's noble steps to tread,! And swiftly from his friends and countrey fled, While to the height of glory he aspir'd. The cruell Fates with bitter enuy fir'd,
To see warre's prudence in so young a head, Sent from their dusky caues, to strike him dead, A strong discase in peacefull robes attir'd. This murd'rer kills him with a silent dart,
And hauing drawne it bloody from the sonne, Throwes it againe into the father's heart,
And to his lady boasts what he hath done. What helpe can men against pale Death prouide, When twice within few dayes Southampton dide?
In all the countries, which from Gades extend To Ganges, where the morning's beames ascend,
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