Classic Poem

Et fugit velut umbra.

To the Right Honourable the Lord Kintyre .

My Lord
 That shadow your faire body made
 So full of sport it still the mimick playde
 Ev'n as you mov'd and look'd but yesterday
 So huge in stature; Night hath stolne away.
 And this is th' emblem of our life: To please
 And flatter which, we sayle ore broken seas
 Vnfaithfull in their rockes and tides; we dare
 All the sicke humors of a forraine ayre.
 And mine so deepe in earth, as we would trie
 To unlocke hell, should gold there hoarded lie.
 But when we have built up an ædefice
 T' outwrastle Time, we have but built on ice:
 For firme however all our structures be,
 Polisht with smoothest Indian Ivory,
 Rais'd high on marble, our unthankfull heire
 Will scarce retaine in memory, that we were:
 Tracke through the ayre the footesteps of the wind,
 And search the print of ships sayl'd by; then finde
 Where all the glories of those Monarchs be
 Who bore such sway in the worlds infancie.
 Time hath devour'd them all: and scarce can fame
 Give an account, that ere they had a name.
 How can he then who doth the world controle
 And strikes a terror now in either Pole,
 Th' insulting Turke secure himselfe that he
 Shall not be lost to dull Posterity?
 And though the Superstition of those Times
 Which deified Kings to warrant their owne crimes
 Translated Cæsar to a starre; yet they,
 Who every Region of the skie Survay;
 In their Cœlestiall travaile, that bright coast
 Could nere discover which containes his ghost.
 And after death to make that awe survive
 Which subjects owe their Princes yet alive,
 Though they build pallaces of brasse and jet
 And keepe them living in a counterfet;
 The curious looker on soone passes by
 And findes the tombe a sickenesse to his eye.
 Neither when once the soule is gone doth all
 The solemne triumph of the funerall
 Adde to her glory or her paine release:
 Then all the pride of warre, and wealth of peace
 For which we toild, from us abstracted be
 And onely serve to swell the history.
  These are sad thoughts (my Lord) and such as fright
 The easie soule made tender with delight,
 Who thinkes that he hath forfetted that houre
 Which addes not to his pleasure or his powre.
 But by the friendship which your Lordship daignes
 Your Servant, I have found your judgement raignes
 Above all passion in you: and that sence
 Could never yet demolish that strong fence
 Which Vertue guards you with: By which you are
 Triumphant in the best, the inward warre.

Et fugit velut umbra.

To the Right Honourable the Lord Kintyre .

My Lord
 That shadow your faire body made
 So full of sport it still the mimick playde
 Ev'n as you mov'd and look'd but yesterday
 So huge in stature; Night hath stolne away.
 And this is th' emblem of our life: To please
 And flatter which, we sayle ore broken seas
 Vnfaithfull in their rockes and tides; we dare
 All the sicke humors of a forraine ayre.
 And mine so deepe in earth, as we would trie
 To unlocke hell, should gold there hoarded lie.
 But when we have built up an ædefice
 T' outwrastle Time, we have but built on ice:
 For firme however all our structures be,
 Polisht with smoothest Indian Ivory,
 Rais'd high on marble, our unthankfull heire
 Will scarce retaine in memory, that we were:
 Tracke through the ayre the footesteps of the wind,
 And search the print of ships sayl'd by; then finde
 Where all the glories of those Monarchs be
 Who bore such sway in the worlds infancie.
 Time hath devour'd them all: and scarce can fame
 Give an account, that ere they had a name.
 How can he then who doth the world controle
 And strikes a terror now in either Pole,
 Th' insulting Turke secure himselfe that he
 Shall not be lost to dull Posterity?
 And though the Superstition of those Times
 Which deified Kings to warrant their owne crimes
 Translated Cæsar to a starre; yet they,
 Who every Region of the skie Survay;
 In their Cœlestiall travaile, that bright coast
 Could nere discover which containes his ghost.
 And after death to make that awe survive
 Which subjects owe their Princes yet alive,
 Though they build pallaces of brasse and jet
 And keepe them living in a counterfet;
 The curious looker on soone passes by
 And findes the tombe a sickenesse to his eye.
 Neither when once the soule is gone doth all
 The solemne triumph of the funerall
 Adde to her glory or her paine release:
 Then all the pride of warre, and wealth of peace
 For which we toild, from us abstracted be
 And onely serve to swell the history.
  These are sad thoughts (my Lord) and such as fright
 The easie soule made tender with delight,
 Who thinkes that he hath forfetted that houre
 Which addes not to his pleasure or his powre.
 But by the friendship which your Lordship daignes
 Your Servant, I have found your judgement raignes
 Above all passion in you: and that sence
 Could never yet demolish that strong fence
 Which Vertue guards you with: By which you are
 Triumphant in the best, the inward warre.