FELLOW OF QUEENE'S COLLEDGE.[92]
Hath aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine,
To frozen Caucasus his flight now tane?
Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd
His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a fleecy clowd?
Is th' Earth disrobèd of her apron white,
Kind Winter's guift, & in a greene one dight?
Doth she beginne to dandle in her lappe
Her painted infants, fedd with pleasant pappe,
Wch their bright father in a pretious showre
From heaven's sweet milky streame doth gently poure
Doth blith Apollo cloath the heavens with joye,
And with a golden waue wash cleane away
Those durty smutches, wch their faire fronts wore,
And make them laugh, wch frown'd, & wept before?
If heaven hath now forgot to weepe; ô then
What meane these shoures of teares amongst vs men?
These cataracts of griefe, that dare eu'n vie
With th' richest clowds their pearly treasurie?
If Winters gone, whence this vntimely cold,
That on these snowy limmes hath laid such hold?
What more than winter hath that dire art found,
These purple currents hedg'd with violets round.
To corrallize, wch softly wont to slide
In crimson waueletts, & in scarlet tide?
If Flora's darlings now awake from sleepe,
And out of their greene mantletts dare to peepe
O tell me then, what rude outragious blast
Forc't this prime flowre of youth to make such hast?
To hide his blooming glories, & bequeath
His balmy treasure to the bedd of death?
'Twas not the frozen zone; one sparke of fire,
Shott from his flaming eye, had thaw'd its ire,
And made it burne in loue: 'twas not the rage,
And too vngentle nippe of frosty age:
'Twas not the chast, & purer snow, whose nest
Was in the mōdest nunnery of his brest:
Noe, none of these ravish't those virgin roses,
The Muses, & the Graces fragrant posies.
Wch, while they smiling sate vpon his face,
They often kist, & in the sugred place
Left many a starry teare, to thinke how soone
The golden harvest of our joyes, the noone
Of all our glorious hopes should fade,
And be eclipsèd with an envious shade.
Noe 'twas old doting Death, who stealing by,
Dragging his crooked burthen, look't awry,
And streight his amorous syth (greedy of blisse)
Murdred the Earth's just pride with a rude kisse.
A wingèd herald, gladd of soe sweet a prey,
Snatch't vpp the falling starre, soe richly gay,
And plants it in a precious perfum'd bedd,
Amongst those lillies, wch his bosome bredd.
Where round about hovers with siluer wing
A golden Summer, an æternall Spring.
Now that his root such fruit againe may beare,
Let each eye water't with a courteous teare.
UPON THE DEATH OF A FREIND.
Hee's dead! Oh what harsh musick's there
Vnto a choyce, and curious eare!
Wee must that Discord surely call,
Since sighs doe rise and teares doe fall.
Teares fall too low, sighes rise too high,
How then can there be harmony?
But who is he? him may wee know
That jarres and spoiles sweet consort soe?
O Death, 'tis thou: you false time keepe,
And stretch'st thy dismall voice too deepe.
Long time to quavering Age you giue,
But to large Youth, short time to liue.
You take vpon you too too much,
In striking where you should not touch.
How out of tune the world now lies,
Since youth must fall, when it should rise!
Gone be all consort, since alone
He that once bore the best part's gone.
Whose whole life, musick was; wherein
Each vertue for a part came in.
And though that musick of his life be still,
The musick of his name yett soundeth shrill.
AN ELEGIE ON THE DEATH OF DR. PORTER.[93]
Stay, silver-footed Came, striue not to wed
Thy maiden streames soe soone to Neptune's bed;
Fixe heere thy wat'ry eyes upon these towers,
Vnto whose feet in reuerence of the powers,
That there inhabite, thou on euery day
With trembling lippes an humble kisse do'st pay.
See all in mourning now; the walles are jett,
With pearly papers carelesly besett.
Whose snowy cheekes, least joy should be exprest,
The weeping pen with sable teares hath drest.
Their wrongèd beauties speake a tragœdy,
Somewhat more horrid than an elegy.
Pure, & vnmixèd cruelty they tell,
Wch poseth Mischeife's selfe to parallel.
Justice hath lost her hand, the law her head;
Peace is an orphan now; her father's dead.
Honestie's nurse, Vertue's blest guardian,
That heauenly mortall, that seraphick man.
Enough is said, now, if thou canst crowd on
Thy lazy crawling streames, pri'thee be gone,
And murmur forth thy woes to euery flower,
That on thy bankes sitts in a uerdant bower,
And is instructed by thy glassy waue
To paint its perfum'd face wth colours braue.
In vailes of dust their silken heads they'le hide,
As if the oft-departing sunne had dy'd.
Goe learne that fatall quire, soe sprucely dight
In downy surplisses, & vestments white,
To sing their saddest dirges, such as may
Make their scar'd soules take wing, & fly away.
Lett thy swolne breast discharge thy strugling groanes
To th' churlish rocks; & teach the stubborne stones
To melt in gentle drops, lett them be heard
Of all proud Neptune's siluer-sheilded guard;
That greife may crack that string, & now vntie
Their shackled tongues to chant an elegie.
Whisper thy plaints to th' Ocean's curteous eares,
Then weepe thyselfe into a sea of teares.
A thousand Helicons the Muses send
In a bright christall tide, to thee they send,
Leaving those mines of nectar, their sweet fountaines,
They force a lilly path through rosy mountaines.
Feare not to dy with greife; all bubling eyes
Are teeming now with store of fresh supplies.
VERSE-LETTER
TO
THE COUNTESS OF DENBIGH
(1652).