I envy not thy mortall triumphes, Death!
(Thou Enemy to Vertue as to Breath!)
Nor doe I wonder much, nor yet complaine
The weekly numbers by thy Arrow slaine.
The whole world is thy Factory, and wee
Like Traffick driven, and retail'd by Thee.
And where the Springs of Lire fill up so fast,
Some of the Waters needes must run to wast.
It is confest. Yet must our Griefes dispute
That which Thine owne Conclusion doth refute
E're wee begin. Hearken. For if thy Eare
Be to Thy Throat proportion'd, Thou canst heare.
Is there no Order in the work of Fate?
Nor Rule, but blindly to anticipate
Our growing seasons? or think'st Thou 'tis just
To sprinkle our fresh Blossomes with thy Dust?
Till by abortive Funeralls thou bring
That to an Autumne, Nature mean't a Spring?
Is't not enough for thee, that wither'd Age
Lyes the unpitty'd Subject of thy rage,
But, like an ugly Amorist, Thy Crest
Must be with spoiles of Youth and Beauty drest?
In other Campes, Those which sate downe to day
March first to morrow: and they longest stay
Who last came to the Service. But in Thine
Only Confusion stands for Discipline.
Wee fall in such promiscuous heapes, none can
Put any diff'rence 'twixt thy Rere or Van:
Since oft the youngest lead thy Files. For this
The grieved World here thy Accuser is,
And I a Plaintive, 'mongst those many Ones
Who wett this Ladye's Urne with zealous Moanes
As if Hir Ashes quick'ning into Yeares
Might be againe embodyed by Our Teares.
But all in vaine. The moisture wee bestow
Shall make as soone Hir curled Marble grow,
As render Heat or Motion to that Bloud,
Which through Hir Veines branch't like an azure Flood;
Whose now still current in the Grave is lost,
Lock't up and fetter'd by eternall frost.
Desist from hence, doting Astrologye!
To search for hidden Wonders in the Sky;
Or from the Concourse of malignant starres
Foretell Diseases generall as our Warrs:
What barren Droughtes, forerunners of leane Dearth,
Threaten to starve the Plenty of the Earth:
What horrid formes of Darknes must affright
The sickly World, hast'ning to that Long Night
Where it must end. If there no Portents are,
No black Eclipses for the Kalendar,
Our Time's sad Annalls will remembred be
I'th'Losse of bright Northumberland and Thee.
Two Starrs of Court, who in one fatall Yeare
By most untimely Set drop't from their Spheare.
Shee in the Winter took Hir flight: and soone
As Hir perfections reach't the point of Noone,
Wrap't in a cloud, contracted Hir wish't Stay
Unto the measure of a short-liv'd Day.
But Thou in Summer, like an early Rose
By Death's cold hand nipp'd as Thou didst disclose,
Took'st a long day to run that narrow Stage,
Which in Two gasping Minutes summ'd thy Age.
And, as the fading Rose when the Leaves shed
Lyes in its native sweetnes buryed,
Thou in thy vertues bedded and inhearst
Sleep'st with those Odours thy pure Fame dispers't.
Where till that Rising Morne thou must remaine,
In which Thy wither'd Flow'rs shall Spring againe.
And greater Beautyes thy Wak't Body vest
Then were at thy Departure here possest.
So with full Eyes wee close thy Vault. Content
(With what Thy Losse bequeaths us) to Lament,
And make that use of thy griev'd Funerall
As of a Christall broken in the fall;
Whose pitty'd fractures gather'd up, and set,
May smaller Mirrours for thy Sexe begett;
There let them view themselves, untill they see
The end of all their Gloryes shew'n in Thee.
Whilst in the truth of this sad tribute, I
Thus strive to canonize Thy Memory.