TWO ELEGIES, On the late death of our Sovereign Queen Anne.  
With Epitapsies. Written by Patrick Hannay▪ M of Arts.  
LONDON, Printed by Nicholas Okes▪ 1619.   

To the most Noble Prince Charles.  

Disdain not Sir, this offering which I make,  
Although the incense smoke doth tower so black;  
Northink my fires faint, cause they darkly shine,  
Tapers burn dim, are set before a shrine.  
Some better hap to have their first fruit glad,  
This Common woe masks mine in mourning shade:  
Ana's strange, You (solely left for our relief)  
For salve, do prove a corrosive to our grief:  
Weigh what it is to add to those oppressed,  
Then by Your woe, ours shall not be increased:  
I grant nor Son, nor Subject good, can smother  
Grief, for so great, and good, a Queen & Mother.  
Yet moderate this sorrow, as you reseene  
to use in Joy, so use in grief a mean,  
o'er match thy matchless self, that all may see  
Her courage, worth and love, doth live in Thee.  
Then may this pen, which with tears draws my ●●aint,  
In gold Thy glorious actions after paint.   
Your highness most humble servant, Patrick Hannay.   

The first Elegy.  

AS doth a Mother, who before her eyes,  
Her Ages hope, her only Son espies,  
Butchered, & bathing still in bloody strands,  
Ravished with sudden grief amazed stands▪  
Nor weeps, nor sighs, nor lets one tear distill,  
But (with fixed eye) still gazeth on her ill:  
But when with time her smothered grief forth vents,  
She wastes her eyes in tears, her breath in plaints.  
So we astonished could not tell our woe;  
Who do grieve most, least sign of grief do show.  
Yet time to those, in time, a time affords,  
To weep and wail, and show their woe in wards▪  
Time grant us now this time, lest of her praise  
Our of spring hearing, and when her swift days  
Had run their course, they hear none of our plaints,  
Do either think some Poet's pen her paints,  
Or that they are of the same stones all sprung,  
Which backward Pyrrha and Ducalyon flung.  
So that will seem no fable, but a story,  
If we do leave no witness that we're sorry,  
Each senseless thing shall us upbraid to them,  
And as less sensible (than they) condemn.  
Since in each object offered to the eye,  
Signs of sad sorrow settled there we see,  
The Heavens (though graced with her) for us are grieved,  
And weep in showers for that we are bereaved  
Of her: in, and for whom the World was blest,  
In whom her kinds perfection did consist.  
Aquarius seems to have a solemn feast,  
And that each other signs his household guest.  
Not one of them now influence down powers,  
But what distills in liquid weeping showers.  
The Skies of Clouds now make them mourning weeds,  
And general darkness all the world over spreads:  
What? hath the Sun for a new Phaeton  
Abandoned the Heavens, and beamy throne?  
Is the cause theirs? or doth it touch us nigh?  
(Since with their sorrow we so sympathy:)  
No, it's because our Cynthia left this sphere,  
The world wears black, because she moves not here,  
Her influence that made it freshly flourish,  
Leaves it to fade, and will no more it nourish.  
Leaves it? hath left▪ How can it then subsist?  
Can that be said to be, which disposest  
Of soul, wants vigour? this Queen was the soul,  
Whose faculties worlds frailties did control;  
Corrected the ill humours, and maintained  
In it, a wholesome concord, while she reigned:  
But now (she go) the world seems out of frame,  
Subord'nate passions now as Prince's claim  
Signory o'er the soul, which do torment  
The whole with anguish; make the heart to faint,  
Whose sad infection general's so spread,  
Griefs Character on every brow is read.  
Our eyes so drop (were't not God frees those fears)  
The world might dread a new deluge of tears.  
Dread? (thus distressed) we rather should desire  
With the world's dissolutions to expire  
Our latest woes, 'twere better have no being,  
Then live in woe, so as we are still dying.  
Leave foolish passion, dares thou thus repine?  
'Gainst what's enacted by the powers divine,  
Humbly submit, yet passion were a word,  
Vsles, a nothing's name, speech should afford▪  
No place for it, if it should not now show  
Its being by our grieving in this woe:  
Yet the woe' short, which on each soul hath seized,  
It and the cause can ne'er be equalized.  
I will not blaze her birth, descent or State,  
Her Princely Progeny, her royal mate:  
They're known best, and greatest, yet these are  
But accidental honours▪ but this star  
With proper beams was so resplendent here,  
Others (though bright) yet when she did appear,  
Did lose their lustre: she honoured her place,  
Her place not her: she Queen, was Queen's sole grace.  
'Twas she the antic Poets so admired,  
When with prophetic fury they inspired,  
Did fain the heavenly powers, they did see,  
(As in a dream) that such a one should be:  
And for each several grace, she should contain,  
One Deity they did for that ordain,  
Not one for all, for that too much had been,  
To feign her like, whose like was never seen.  
Nor is their number equal to her merits,  
For she a far off was show'd to those spirits,  
Now had they lived her virtues to have seen;  
The Goddesses sure numberless had been,  
But's well they did not, for than she should be  
(Though guiltless) yet cause of Idolatry,  
For they who honoured her shade before,  
Seeing her substance needs must it adore.  
The moralists did all of her divine,  
When they made every virtue feminine;  
And but they knew that such a one should be,  
Doubtless with them virtue should have been HERALD  
Peruse all stories are compiled by Man,  
Or Poets fictions since the world began:  
You shall not find (true or imaginary)  
Like worth in one, whose all's in nought doth vary.  
Nay, take the abjects in these books reviled  
For basest parts, so vicious and defiled,  
As they seem Nature's monsters, made in scorn,  
As foils, her other fair works to adorn,  
(Contrar's opposed do others best set forth)  
They serve not all, to parallel her worth.  
They are deceived, who say the world decays,  
And still grows worse and worse, as old with days:  
For then this Age could never that have shown,  
Which was long since to Solomon unknown,  
A woman: but had he lived in our times,  
He might have found one, so devoid of crimes,  
That her own merits (if merits could save)  
Might justly (as of due) salvation crave.  
I rather think the world's first Infancy,  
Growing more perfect with Antiquity  
(As younglings do) traveled till now at height,  
Big of perfection, brought this birth to light:  
This second to that Maiden-Mother-Daughter,  
She only was before, this only after:  
For on this Grace and Nature spent such store,  
As after her we need expect none more,  
And those who read her praise when we are gone,  
Would think we but described a worthy one,  
Not that there was one such, but that she here  
Left part of her, which and its seed shall bear  
Successive witness, to all doubtful ages,  
Of her rare virtues, which in those dear pledges  
Still live: they'll say our praise came short, we dull  
With speech defective, could not to the full  
Set forth her worth: which she at death did give,  
Others may goods not goodness of spring leave.  
But she bequeathed her goodness, for her merit,  
Obtained her issue should that wealth inherit,  
Which we possess in them, while they do press  
(As usurers) that stock still to increase:  
Only ambitious to augment that store,  
Robbing the world, which either is but poor:  
Or seems so, set by them, beggars may boast,  
But they alone have all that wealth engrossed:  
And though that God the world's gold hath refined,  
And took the tried, He left this vain behind,  
Pitying the dross the lustre should obscure,  
Of her bright soul, while flesh did it immure.  
Yet did He not with it of all bereave us,  
But with her offspring, happiness did leave us.  
For her preferment, why then should we toss  
Our souls with torment? or grieve that our loss  
Hath Heaven enriched? or 'cause we held her dear,  
Wish we her punished, to be living here?  
We rather should rejoice she thus did leave us,  
And nought but Heaven alone of her could reave us.  
O! since that Cedar fell so right at last,  
Which way it standing leaned, may well be guest.  
And since the End doth crown the actions still,  
How lived she, who dying, died so well!  
For asked, if she did willing hence depart,  
Said, (rapt with heavenly joy) WITH ALL MY heart.  
Though flesh be frail, yet hers so void of fear,  
(For death did not in his own shape appear)  
Did entertain so kindly its own foe,  
(Who came to Court, but unwares killed her so)  
As she esteemed it only one hard thrust,  
At that straight gate by which to life we must:  
Faith, Hope, and Love possessed her heart and mind,  
Leaving no place for fearful thoughts to find:  
Troops of white Angels did her bed impaile,  
To tend the soul's flight from the fleshy gail,  
It to conduct unto that heavenly throne,  
Which Christ prepared, with glore to crown her on.  
O! how my flesh-cloged soul would scale the sky,  
And leave that dear companion here to lie:  
To see her entertained, with glory crowned,  
While troops of Angels her arrival sound  
To that new kingdom: they all God do praise  
For her translation, and their voices raise,  
In sign of joy, but yet that joy comes short  
Of what they make, for most to them resort,  
For, for the greater sinner, Christ hath said,  
That doth repent, the greater joy is made:  
Yet that's made up in glore, for she so far  
Doth those exceed, as one another star:  
What may we think unto her soul is shone,  
When from her baser-part such virtue's flown;  
As a sad reverent fear their senses pierce,  
Who sighing see her sorrow-suted- Hearse:  
What would they do, if their veiled soul could spy  
Her sitting crowned above the starry sky:  
Sure they would do (nay in their hearts they do)  
Even at the thought thereof, with reverence bow.  
But leave to speak, nay, not so much as think,  
Lest of those joys which near in heart could sink.  
Le's not envy ' oer, but inveigh 'gainst our Fate,  
That we behind her, are stayed here so late:  
And lets not mourn for her, that she's hence,  
But for ourselves, that we are kept from thence  
Whither she's gone: yet let no tear o'erflow,  
(Sorrow soon ceaseth thats disburdened so)  
Let them strain inward, if they le needs distill,  
And with their drops thy hearts sad centre fill;  
And when its full, it can no more contain,  
Let the cask break, and drown thee in that main.    

On the Queen.  

THe world's a Sea of errors, all must pass,  
Where shelves and sands the purling billow blinds:  
men's bodies are frail barks of brittle glass,  
Which still are tossed with adverse tyds and winds:  
Reason's the Pilot that the course directs,  
Which makes the vessel (as its hieght) hold out,  
Passions are partners, a still-iarring-rout:  
Succumbing-thoughts are life-inuading leaks.  
How built her body! such a voyage made;  
How great her reason! which so rightly swayed;  
How pliant passions! which so well obeyed;  
How dauntless thoughts, vain doubts durst near invade.   

Her body, reason, passions, thoughts did 'gree,  
To make her life the Art to sail this Sea.    

The second Elegy.  

EAch Country now contributes to the Thames,  
Which a support of every currant claims,  
Why dost thou so sweet Thames? Is not thy sorrow  
Sufficient for thy self, but thou must borrow?  
Or wants thy waters worth for such a charge?  
As to conduct great Anne's last bodied- barge;  
Or is it cause so just and kind thou art,  
Thou'lt not encroach that, wherein each hath part?  
Sure that's the cause, the loss is general,  
And that last office must be helped by all.  
Yet wonder not they come not now so sweet,  
As they do use, when they to solace meet:  
They're not themselves, they are compounded things,  
For every one, his latest offering brings  
And sends it by these brooks, unto her shrine,  
Whose waters with their tears are turned brine:  
Each subjects cheek such falling drops distain,  
As if to dew, sighs had dissolved the brain:  
Which from their eyes still in abundance power,  
Like a moist hail, or liquid pearly shower:  
Which in such haste, each one another chases,  
Making swift torrents in late torrid places,  
Disgorging in these brooks, making them rise,  
So's sovereign Thames almost fears a surprise:  
Fear not fair Queen, it is not their ambition,  
But swelling sorrow, that breeds thy suspicion:  
Its sorrow feeds those currents and those rills,  
Which thy vast channel with an Ocean fills,  
Which eye-bred-humor so hath changed thy Nature,  
Thy fishes think they live not in thy water:  
It, or their taste is altered, for they think,  
For thy sweet streams they briny liquor drink:  
How wearied is thy sister famous Forth,  
Bringing sad Scotland's sorrows from the North,  
Who comes not out of duty, as the rest  
Who unto Thames their careful course addressed,  
She comes, her equal, will not yield in tears,  
In subjects sorrow's, nor in country's cares.  
Great Nephtun's self doth fear invasive wrong,  
Seeing her strange waves throw his waters throng,  
And causeth Triton to sound an alarm,  
To warn the Sea-Gods in all haste to arm,  
who bringing billows in brave battell-ray,  
Do mean Forth's fury with their force to stay:  
But when they see her thus all wrapped in woe,  
And the sad cause of her just sorrow know;  
They lay not their defensiive arms aside,  
But as a guard, her through their gulfs do guide,  
Striving with all the pleasures of the Main,  
This grieving-stranger- Queen to entertain,  
Out throw their bowers of clear transparent waves,  
Christaline-wainscot, pearl the bottom paves:  
Her they conduct, and to abate her woe,  
Their Sea-delights and riches all they show,  
Which Neptune (now in love) would gladly give her  
For love, yet dares not offer lest he grieve her;  
Who loves and would not have his love unkind,  
Must woo a pleasant humour, vacant mind:  
This makes him stay his suit, and strive to please,  
With all the love-alurements of the Seas:  
Yet all do not so much as move one smile,  
An anxious sorrow soon discouer'th guile,  
Yet he will guide & guard, her grieving streams,  
Whom at her entry in the wished Thames,  
He leaves, and vows in discontent to mourn,  
Till fairest Forth back to the Sea return.  
Her sister her receives with kind embrace,  
Their liquid arms clasping, they interlace  
In love so strait, they cannot be untwined,  
They seem both one, in body and in mind.  
O happy union! laboured long in vain,  
Reserved by God to james his joyful reign,  
And Anne's; O blessed couple so esteemed,  
By all foreknowing jove, that He them deemed  
Worthy each other, and to wear that gem,  
Blest Britain's now united- Diadem.  
He esteemed none, worthy to wear't before them,  
But kept it still in store, for to decore them.  
How did He suffer those two kingdoms try  
All open power, and private policy;  
Yet still increased discord; others force,  
Made separation greater, sued divorce.  
How did one tear the other, spare no toil,  
To bathe in blood the neighbours fertile soil;  
Wrath, discord, malice, envy, rapiny, strife,  
Thefts, rapes, and murderous mischiefs were so rife,  
None lived secure, while each King did protect  
The others fugitives, (for his respect)  
Thus looking for no rest, or end of hate,  
But with the ruin of the adverse State.  
God, he effects it (that to him alone,  
We might ascribe the honour; and being one,  
We might love better: Twixt united foes,  
And separated friends, love and hate grows  
To greatest heights:) And for this end doth raise,  
(Using the means) the honour of his days;  
Great james, the joy presaging Northrenes star,  
Whose radiant light illuminates so far.  
As it doth warm with its all-quickning-beames,  
The frozen-love betwixt the Tay and Thames;  
With wonder and delight, drawing all hearts  
And eyes, to love and see his Princely parts.  
And (what is strange) who hated most before,  
With admiration, most his worth adore,  
Wishing they were his subjects: He is King  
Already of their hearts; the poisoned sting  
Of rancour is removed, for love they call him,  
And with their kingdoms ornaments install him,  
Great confidence his virtuous life must bring,  
Whom such old foes, love forces make their King.  
Where was ere heard, of emulating foes,  
(Rooted in hate with others, overthrows  
Such and so long) that did their wrath appease,  
And yield (won but by love) to right, as these.  
Yet do they not repent; they find report  
Sometime is wronged, and may indeed come short  
In commendations; yet it's rare (as here)  
For she's a woman, and (by kind) will bear  
More than she should: but his last subjects find  
Themselves with Saba's Queen of self-same mind,  
That fame (though saying by belief) had wronged  
Two Kings, not telling half to each that longed;  
For England heard not, nor could it have thought,  
That Scotland's king such wonders could have wrought▪  
Long may he live, and die well, full of years,  
And when his death shall draw us dry with tears,  
On Britain's Throne may his seed ever reign,  
Till Christ do come (to judge the world) again.  
Who would have thought from the Scot-hated- Dane,  
Whom vanquished England so much did disdain,  
(Oppressed with base succesion) they did turn,  
(Being freed) Lord-dane to lurdane for a scorn;  
Who would have thought (I say) from Dane should spring  
One, who from Scots and English eyes should wring  
Such hearty tears; must not her worth be much,  
Since we do find its-love-effects prove such,  
How great that worth (in such, such love could breed)  
O let it live for ever in her seed:  
And let that love in our hearts never die,  
But ever live to her Pesteritie:  
And those sweet streams her mate and she conbinde  
In love, O let their arms be near untwined  
From kind embraces, and though now their greetings  
Be not so joyful as at other meetings,  
Yet is their love all one, they take one part,  
The one joys not, the other sad at heart:  
They surfeit now in sorrow, then in pleasure,  
joy then exceeds, grief now is above measure.  
To honour Charles (our hope) when they met last,  
How did they rob each meadow as they passed,  
Of sweets, each bank a posy did bestow,  
Of fairest flowers, that on his brim did grow:  
These & such like, they brought from every part,  
And gratulations from each subjects heart:  
They swelled with pride, rising in loftly waves,  
And all the neighbour bordering banks outbraves  
Their fishes frolicked, showing joy by gesture,  
The waters (wantonizing) woo'd their Master;  
So fast their billows 'bout his blessed barge thronged,  
They hurt themselves oft, oft their fellows wronged:  
Each would be first, on others backs some ride,  
Some under others slippery shoulders slide,  
Though beat with oars, yet will they not turn back,  
For they their humble prostrate homage make,  
The Sun than guilt each glistring-glassie-coat,  
Those Marin-masquers wore, dansed 'bout his boat,  
Who by the music measured not their paces,  
Deafed with a confused cry from diverse places,  
Of maidens, matrons, aged men, and boys,  
Which from each quarter made a confused noise,  
Of hearty aves, welcoming their Prince,  
Echo (with answering tired) was mute still since,  
The City with the suburbs did appear,  
Like a large Theatre when he came near:  
Each window, wall, each turret top and steeple,  
Was filled with every age, sex, sort of people:  
So as some thought (who erst had never seen  
Such numbers) that the buildings all had been,  
Of Imagery contrived, by cunning Art:  
For on the ground, the Brewer in his cart,  
The Sculler, Carman, and the base sort,  
Seemed strong and rudely carved clowns, to support  
The stately frame: Maids, Prentices and grooms,  
Made shop-dore, window, stale, and lower rooms:  
The battlements, house-covering and the leads,  
As tiles or slates, young boys & girls ore-spreads:  
(The middle rooms all round about the Thames,  
Which Ladies held, and choicer Citie-Dames)  
Such took for spaces, which fair statues held,  
Where Carver and the Painter both excelled;  
So pure complexions these seemed made by Art,  
As Nature never did the like impart  
To lovely youth, The large, low, open breast,  
Full, white, round, swelling, azure-vained, increased  
The error, for they thought none living would  
Lay out such parts, for all eyes to behold:  
So curious were the colours which were shown,  
As Nature hardly could from Art be known:  
So that they could adjudge them due to neither:  
But participles, taking part of either,  
Yet all by voice and gesture seemed glad,  
Wonder it was to see a thing look sad.  
Now it's not so, the offerings are but tears,  
The sighs, and groans, of Britain's blest-reft shear  
Are now the acclamations; these two streams,  
Compounded waters of mixed sorrow seems,  
Yet walk, they hand in hand with equal pace,  
Towards that late pleasant, but now pensive place  
Where sorrow sutedin a sable weed,  
Doth with a mourning vail each heart o'erspread,  
And Phoebus for to make the world and mind,  
To wear one livery, all his beams confined,  
Dimming each eye in darkness of the night,  
Either ashamed to mourn in open sight,  
Or loath to alter with his brighter streams,  
Our late obscured Cyntia's lesser gleams;  
For her fled soul which doth with glory shine,  
Left with its lodging something that's divine,  
Which with reflection smileth on these rays,  
Which her bright soul now from the skies displeas.  
And these light orbs which with such swiftness roll  
About the Heavens, acquainted with her soul,  
To light her corpse, do set in every porch  
Of the damantine Heaven, a starry torch,  
Which darkened with the weeping Earth's moist vapours,  
Are her last lamps and never dying tapers,  
Thames trembles, Forth doth feverise for fear,  
Both roar to see their sovereign thus appear▪  
Their billows break their hearts against the shore,  
Their fishes faint (yet cannot tell wherefore)  
But when they float upon the water crop,  
And see the tears from eyes and oars which drop;  
They think them all to few, and add their own,  
And swim in proper waters (erst unknown)  
The water-Nymphes now round about her boat,  
Clothed in sad sable mourning habits float,  
The Hamadryads, and the Siluans all,  
To bear apart in this complaint they call.  
Who since her death, had practised in their tears,  
Streams deep enough: none now the water fears,  
They brought with them sweet Camomile and Rew,  
Mint, Spicknard, Marjoram, her way they strew,  
With flowers of choicest colour and of sent,  
Which from the slender-weeping-stalk was rend.  
Her Exequys these Nymphs together sing,  
Till with this consort Heaven & Earth doth ring:  
Heavens in vying our waters, walks, and woods,  
Hath reft our joy, and placed her 'mongst the Gods.  
No more our wandering waves shall wantonize,  
No more shall swelling billows brave the skies,  
No more shall purling Zephyr curl our head▪  
No more we'll foamy-powders thereon spread,  
No more shall now Meandrian walks delight us,  
No more despair with death shall now affright us,  
Since heaven invying our late happy floods,  
Hath reft our joy, and placed 'mongst the Gods.  
we'll take no sport now to pursue the Fawn,  
we'll no more tread light measures on the Lawn,  
we'll deck our heads no more with Flora's flowers,  
we'll woo no more our woody Paramours,  
we'll bear no part hereafter with the birds,  
we'll weep for woe, and teach them wail in words;  
Since heaven envying our late happy woods,  
Hath reft our joy, and placed her 'mongst the Gods.  
we'll hide our heads within our shores & shelves.  
we'll dwell in darkest cypress groves with elves.  
No more we'll solace in great Nephtunes hals.  
No more we'll dance at Sylvans festivals.  
Because she's gone, whose glory graced our floods,  
Because she's gone who honoured walks and woods.   

Thus sung they her along, but come to shore,  
Where she must leave them, they near see her more,  
They sink to bottom, either in a swoon,  
Or else themselves (now loathing life) to drown.  
The Forth and Thames losing their so loved- sight,  
Vow, yearly to renew their woes, that night.    

An Epitaph.  

Pour to do ill, and practise only good,  
Humblest in heart, highest in place and blood,  
Fairest, and freest from loose-desires in thought,  
Pleasures to tempt, yet not distained in aught:  
With anxious care, in courage near dejected,  
Though cause of joy, with no vaine-ioy affected.   

Know Reader, whensoe'er these lines you scan,  
Such (and none such but she) was our Queen Anne▪    

An Epitaph.  

A Wife, a Daughter, Sister to a King,  
Mother to those, whose hopes do higher spring▪  
Chaste, fair, wise, kind; first, Crowne-united w●r●  
We knew her such, and held her for no more.  
That she was more: God's daughter, and heavens heir,  
We know, since parted hence, He crowns her there.   
FINIS.