Elegie Upon my Dear Brother, Mr. John Wheeler, An
1.
A W ay, those Ioyes; away those full delights,
The late vnbenders of my thoughtfull minde;
Which fedde my Time with sweeter dayes and nights
Then, were, at first, allotted to Mankinde:
Goe seeke out those that feast:
Leave me to sadnesse: Sorrow is the Guest
Which I must entertaine, and billet in my brest.
2.
Breake not the Peace of my compos'd Resolves
Rebellious fancy: cease to make resort
Into my setled Browes, whose thought revolves
Businesse of great import:
Invention, rest; till Servile Bribes entice
Some Bard's corrupted Pen, to set a price
On some unworthy Lord, or paint his noble vice.
3.
Come then my Genius; Let the needlesse Care
Of quaint expressions passe:
The mourner's garbe is not to crispe the hayre.
And true-bread teares consult not with the glasse:
Lick not thy lines, nor scan their carelesse feete,
Vnmeasur'd Griefe and Measures seldome meete:
Neglected wrincles best become the Winding-sheete.
4.
Draw neere you gentle hearts, draw neere
Whilst I bedable my suffused eyes;
You shall not spend a teare;
You are my Guests, and these my Obsequies.
No neede to begge a droppe; my dearest Sim
And I will fill the Cisterne to the Brim:
Then let me beg my bread, if I beg teares for Him.
5.
Ev'n Him, to whose sweet Memorie I owe
This sad Memoriall of my deare Affection;
Whereby (who ever please to reade) may knowe
The perfect President of youth's Perfection:
But, ah, these two suspicious times! Alas.
It will surpasse
A good Beleever's Faith, to tell but what hee was.
6.
For me; let scorne and slight Opinion fill
My undervalu'd Rymes with disrepute;
Let every tongue deride my baffled Quill,
And let my lines consume like Summer fruit
When I turne Vice's Advocate; or when
Affection, or base by-respects of Men,
All falsify the just Geometry of my Pen.
7.
Goodnes, and vertue, and heroick worth
Sweetnesse of Nature, seconded with Arts:
A noble brest, and Birth:
Compleatnes both of Person, and of Parts:
Must be our Theame: We charge the mouth of Fame
To blow her louder Trumpet, and proclame
His Merits, whom we mourne, and glorifie his Name.
8.
He was an early Spring, and beautified
With all that Flora's bounty could bestow;
Life-breathing Zephyr tooke a pride
To see his Buds sprout forth, and flowers growe;
The Nymph Pomona feard the Lord of Time
Mistooke his Tropick, to show fruit in prime
Before the Time of fruit, and in so cold a Clime.
9.
Injurious Sisters, tell me why you made
His Twine so small, yet spun so short a twine?
His Thread had beene the glory of your Trade
Had you spun strong as well as fine:
But ah I what strength is able to withstand
The direfull stroke of your imperious hand,
Which prayers can not entreat, nor power countermand?
10.
Know, Readers, know, he was a marke too fayre
For Death to misse; His ripenesse did invite
Her over-daynty Palate not to spare
My life's delight:
He was the flowre of youth; the Ioy of Art;
A faithfull Partner of a faithfull heart:
The very Soule of love and friendship's Counterpart
11.
Learning divine and morall, did enrich
His wealthy Soule with her abundant store:
There was no Excellence, in which
He was not halfe a Master, if not more:
Sometimes, the busy Quadrant, now and then
Appelles' Pencill, and Appollo's Pen
Imployd his skillfull hand: He studyed Bookes and Men.
12.
Mvsick, the language of th' eternall Quire,
Breath'd in his soule celestiall straynes
And fild his Spirits with Seraphick fyre,
Whose gentle flames calcin'd his ravisht braynes;
And made him ripe for heav'n: He did depart
More then a scholler in that sacred Art,
His fancy fingers, voyce perform'd a Master's part.
13.
Noble were all his Actions, strict and just,
Quicke, but advis'd; and milde yet full of spirit:
His heart was buxom, tender, full of Trust;
Prudently simple, free to men of merit:
His resolutions weighd, reserv'd and strong
His silence studious, sweet his tongue;
Lease ready to requite, then to conceive a wrong.
14.
O but those firme Indentures, sweetly past
Betwixt his soule and mine
(Thy bands, ├┤ Hymen, are not halfe so fast;
Ours are too strong for death; death cancells thine)
O, how they vrge my frailty! How they thresh
My wounded Soule, and tribulate my flesh!
And all my teares being spent they squeeze out teares afresh.
15.
Passion usurpes the kingdome of my Soule:
My heart is full and it must vent, or breake:
Peace, Iudgement, peace; O, shall I not condole
So deare a losse? Give losers leave to speake.
Thou knowest my teares are just;
Shall, shall they not embalme the precious dust
Of my true bosome friend? They shall they will they must.
16.
Qvench not those flames which your owne breath hath blowne
In my Affection;
O limit not those Bon-fires which are growne
Beyond your reach; love burnes without direction:
Nor tell me, what I know, that he sits crown'd
With endlesse Ioy: My sorrow does propound
The joyes that I have lost not those which he hath found
17.
Reason must stoope, and Iudgement strike her sayle;
His Ioyes befoole the wisedome of a Pen;
Fancy must flagge, and lauguage must turne taile;
No, these are heights for Angels, not for men:
Alas the stormes of passion
That burst from nature's Clowds, have dispensation
To case themselves by vent, and vent by lamentation.
18.
So vaine, so fralle, so poore a thing is Man!
A weathercocke, that 's turnd with every blast:
His Griefes are Armefulls; and his mirth a span;
His Ioyes soone crost, or past:
His best delights are sauc'd with doubts and feares:
If had, we plunge in Care: If lost, in teares:
Let goe, or hold they bite; We hold a Wolfe by th' eares.
19.
Time, shake thy Glasse, and let thy Minits flye,
Switcht on with Angels, till thy Sand be spent;
Till then, there's nothing certaine but to dye;
Or worse, to droyle in feares, or discontent:
The best of all thy Sweets are but a Snare;
Thy Honours, blasts of Ayre;
Thy wealth, but golden Trash; and trifles, full of care.
20.
Vndresse thy selfe, my Soule, and dissinvest
Thy thoughts of all these Ragges of flesh and blood;
Returne these to thy Rest;
O, there be Monsters lurke in Nature's flood:
Close up thy springs; thy bankes are to the brim:
Weepe for thy selfe; my Soule, thou canst not swim
In the dead Sea of teares; O, weepe no more for Him.
21.
Wander no more in the distracted Fath
Of Sense: The teares are lost which Passion vent:
O, rather seeke the Pleasures that he hath,
Whose death thine eyes lament;
He lives in joy; Thou show'st a weeping eye;
He sits in Glory: Thou sittst downe to cry;
Thou either lou'dst him not, or giv'st his joyes the Lye.
22.
You that are Partners in so great a losse,
Strive to be partners in so great n gaine;
Pry not too much into his Dust, his Drosse:
The hopes of Comfort there, are lesse then vaine.
Cast up your better eyes
And view that Palace, where his Glory lyes,
Where Time can not suppresse where Death can not surprize.
A W ay, those Ioyes; away those full delights,
The late vnbenders of my thoughtfull minde;
Which fedde my Time with sweeter dayes and nights
Then, were, at first, allotted to Mankinde:
Goe seeke out those that feast:
Leave me to sadnesse: Sorrow is the Guest
Which I must entertaine, and billet in my brest.
2.
Breake not the Peace of my compos'd Resolves
Rebellious fancy: cease to make resort
Into my setled Browes, whose thought revolves
Businesse of great import:
Invention, rest; till Servile Bribes entice
Some Bard's corrupted Pen, to set a price
On some unworthy Lord, or paint his noble vice.
3.
Come then my Genius; Let the needlesse Care
Of quaint expressions passe:
The mourner's garbe is not to crispe the hayre.
And true-bread teares consult not with the glasse:
Lick not thy lines, nor scan their carelesse feete,
Vnmeasur'd Griefe and Measures seldome meete:
Neglected wrincles best become the Winding-sheete.
4.
Draw neere you gentle hearts, draw neere
Whilst I bedable my suffused eyes;
You shall not spend a teare;
You are my Guests, and these my Obsequies.
No neede to begge a droppe; my dearest Sim
And I will fill the Cisterne to the Brim:
Then let me beg my bread, if I beg teares for Him.
5.
Ev'n Him, to whose sweet Memorie I owe
This sad Memoriall of my deare Affection;
Whereby (who ever please to reade) may knowe
The perfect President of youth's Perfection:
But, ah, these two suspicious times! Alas.
It will surpasse
A good Beleever's Faith, to tell but what hee was.
6.
For me; let scorne and slight Opinion fill
My undervalu'd Rymes with disrepute;
Let every tongue deride my baffled Quill,
And let my lines consume like Summer fruit
When I turne Vice's Advocate; or when
Affection, or base by-respects of Men,
All falsify the just Geometry of my Pen.
7.
Goodnes, and vertue, and heroick worth
Sweetnesse of Nature, seconded with Arts:
A noble brest, and Birth:
Compleatnes both of Person, and of Parts:
Must be our Theame: We charge the mouth of Fame
To blow her louder Trumpet, and proclame
His Merits, whom we mourne, and glorifie his Name.
8.
He was an early Spring, and beautified
With all that Flora's bounty could bestow;
Life-breathing Zephyr tooke a pride
To see his Buds sprout forth, and flowers growe;
The Nymph Pomona feard the Lord of Time
Mistooke his Tropick, to show fruit in prime
Before the Time of fruit, and in so cold a Clime.
9.
Injurious Sisters, tell me why you made
His Twine so small, yet spun so short a twine?
His Thread had beene the glory of your Trade
Had you spun strong as well as fine:
But ah I what strength is able to withstand
The direfull stroke of your imperious hand,
Which prayers can not entreat, nor power countermand?
10.
Know, Readers, know, he was a marke too fayre
For Death to misse; His ripenesse did invite
Her over-daynty Palate not to spare
My life's delight:
He was the flowre of youth; the Ioy of Art;
A faithfull Partner of a faithfull heart:
The very Soule of love and friendship's Counterpart
11.
Learning divine and morall, did enrich
His wealthy Soule with her abundant store:
There was no Excellence, in which
He was not halfe a Master, if not more:
Sometimes, the busy Quadrant, now and then
Appelles' Pencill, and Appollo's Pen
Imployd his skillfull hand: He studyed Bookes and Men.
12.
Mvsick, the language of th' eternall Quire,
Breath'd in his soule celestiall straynes
And fild his Spirits with Seraphick fyre,
Whose gentle flames calcin'd his ravisht braynes;
And made him ripe for heav'n: He did depart
More then a scholler in that sacred Art,
His fancy fingers, voyce perform'd a Master's part.
13.
Noble were all his Actions, strict and just,
Quicke, but advis'd; and milde yet full of spirit:
His heart was buxom, tender, full of Trust;
Prudently simple, free to men of merit:
His resolutions weighd, reserv'd and strong
His silence studious, sweet his tongue;
Lease ready to requite, then to conceive a wrong.
14.
O but those firme Indentures, sweetly past
Betwixt his soule and mine
(Thy bands, ├┤ Hymen, are not halfe so fast;
Ours are too strong for death; death cancells thine)
O, how they vrge my frailty! How they thresh
My wounded Soule, and tribulate my flesh!
And all my teares being spent they squeeze out teares afresh.
15.
Passion usurpes the kingdome of my Soule:
My heart is full and it must vent, or breake:
Peace, Iudgement, peace; O, shall I not condole
So deare a losse? Give losers leave to speake.
Thou knowest my teares are just;
Shall, shall they not embalme the precious dust
Of my true bosome friend? They shall they will they must.
16.
Qvench not those flames which your owne breath hath blowne
In my Affection;
O limit not those Bon-fires which are growne
Beyond your reach; love burnes without direction:
Nor tell me, what I know, that he sits crown'd
With endlesse Ioy: My sorrow does propound
The joyes that I have lost not those which he hath found
17.
Reason must stoope, and Iudgement strike her sayle;
His Ioyes befoole the wisedome of a Pen;
Fancy must flagge, and lauguage must turne taile;
No, these are heights for Angels, not for men:
Alas the stormes of passion
That burst from nature's Clowds, have dispensation
To case themselves by vent, and vent by lamentation.
18.
So vaine, so fralle, so poore a thing is Man!
A weathercocke, that 's turnd with every blast:
His Griefes are Armefulls; and his mirth a span;
His Ioyes soone crost, or past:
His best delights are sauc'd with doubts and feares:
If had, we plunge in Care: If lost, in teares:
Let goe, or hold they bite; We hold a Wolfe by th' eares.
19.
Time, shake thy Glasse, and let thy Minits flye,
Switcht on with Angels, till thy Sand be spent;
Till then, there's nothing certaine but to dye;
Or worse, to droyle in feares, or discontent:
The best of all thy Sweets are but a Snare;
Thy Honours, blasts of Ayre;
Thy wealth, but golden Trash; and trifles, full of care.
20.
Vndresse thy selfe, my Soule, and dissinvest
Thy thoughts of all these Ragges of flesh and blood;
Returne these to thy Rest;
O, there be Monsters lurke in Nature's flood:
Close up thy springs; thy bankes are to the brim:
Weepe for thy selfe; my Soule, thou canst not swim
In the dead Sea of teares; O, weepe no more for Him.
21.
Wander no more in the distracted Fath
Of Sense: The teares are lost which Passion vent:
O, rather seeke the Pleasures that he hath,
Whose death thine eyes lament;
He lives in joy; Thou show'st a weeping eye;
He sits in Glory: Thou sittst downe to cry;
Thou either lou'dst him not, or giv'st his joyes the Lye.
22.
You that are Partners in so great a losse,
Strive to be partners in so great n gaine;
Pry not too much into his Dust, his Drosse:
The hopes of Comfort there, are lesse then vaine.
Cast up your better eyes
And view that Palace, where his Glory lyes,
Where Time can not suppresse where Death can not surprize.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.