GREAT BRITAIN'S Mourning Garment.  
GIVEN To all faithful sorrowful Subjects at the Funeral Of Prince HENRY.  
LONDON. Imprinted by G. Elder for Arthur jonson. 1612.   


To the Honourable Knight, Sir DAVID MURRAY.  
AND To the other Nobly descended, and honourably minded followers of the late deceased Prince HENRY.  

ON whom shall I these funeral notes bestow,  
Newly bedeawed & hallowed with my tears?  
But on you chief, for your secret woe   

The heaviest burden of our sorrow bears;  
We but as strangers on the shore lament,  
A common shipwreck, but you that did owe  
Your service to that golden vessel (rent)  
What wonder if your griefs do overflow?  
By how much greater your fair fortunes were,  
The loss is so much greater you sustain,  
We meaner men may our mischances bear  
With lesser trouble, and more equal pain,   

Yet spare your tears though you have cause to moon  
It is not meet you should lament alone.    

II.  

MElpomene, and all you sacred brood,  
Of Mnemosine with living Laurel crowned,  
You that have filled your veins with heavenly food  
And scorn to pray upon the barren ground,   

Help me these Funeral Anthems to resound.  
For his sweet soul, who living loved you dear  
But now is dead, and other Saints hath found,  
Leaving you to lament his fortunes here.  
Strew Cypress, and pale Violets on his Tomb,  
And on his fair Crest fix a Crown of Bays  
Immortal, That who'euer there doth come  
May view the Ensigns of his endless praise:   

And let some Spirit guard the holy Cell,  
Wherein the bones of that brave Prince shall dwell.    

III.  

YOu gentle spirits that turn not your eyes  
From common griefs, nor are of metal made  
Such as these Iron Ages do comprise;  
Come see, wherein our human glory lies:   

See living virtues in death daily fade,  
Withered and wasted in th'unthankful grave:  
For as a flower, or summers passing shade;  
Such is the hope and fortune worldlings have:   

Oh noble Prince, thy days but new begun,  
And that same Ensign long since brought from France  
By Edward the black-Prince, third Edward's Son,  
Being by thee but lately re-aduanced;   

Why should such honour into darkness go,  
And leave so many friends so full of woe?    

FOUR  

OH froward Saturn, and malevolent,  
That every blooming glory dost envy,  
And with thy frosts dost nip the buds yet penned  
In their green bowers through thy wild jealousy,   

And hateful malice to all living things.  
Why dost thou spread on us thy dismal light  
Covering our fairest flowers with thy cold wings?  
How far art thou unlike to Phoebus' bright,   

That joys to see the smallest blossom thrive,  
And throws his gentle light on every thing?  
But thou, perverse, dost all of life deprive,  
Man, Beast, and Plant thou dost to ruin bring:  
Unlucky Star, albeit thou thought'st him fit  
To stoop to thee, thou mightst have spared him yet.    

V  

ANd you foul wrinkled destinies that do sit,  
In darkness to deprive the world of light  
Making the thread, and sudden mangling it,  
through peevish rancour, and perverse despite.   

Your hand appears in this our Tragedy,  
The wound we feel, by your sharp edge was made,  
That edge which cut the golden twist so nigh  
Of our Prince HENRY, who in lifeless shade   

As yet amazed of his sudden change  
Looks for those loving friends whom he loved best;  
But when he sees himself so far estranged,  
He Yields his spirit to eternal rest:  
Hardhearted fates, that him of life deprive,  
That leaves so many mournful friends alive.    

VI  

SAd Melancholy lead me to the Cave  
Where thy black Incense and dim Tapers burn,  
Let me some dark and hollow corner have,  
Where desolate my sorrows I may mourn:   

And let thy heaviest Music softly sound  
Unto the doleful songs that I recite;  
And ever let this direful voice rebound  
Through the vast den: Ah dead is Britan's light;   

Then if thy heart be with compassion moved  
Of my Laments, come rest thyself by me,  
And mourn with me, for thou hast ever loved  
To bear a part in every Tragedy:   

And if to plaints thou wilt enure thy mind,  
Thou never couldst a fit season find.    

VII.  

WHo in some earthly Paradise hath espied,  
And long time viewed with pleasure of his eye  
A well grown Plant, adorned on every side  
With beauteous blossoms lifted up on high,   

Ready when his due season shall require,  
To yield the sweet fruit of his boasted flowers,  
But all on sudden with heavens liquid fire  
Is blasted, and on earth untimely powers,   

His unripe glory by his Fate prevented:  
Who such a luckless spectacle hath known;  
Let him compare the fortune then presented  
Unto Prince HENRY'S Fate, and let him moon  
That he to leave all Trophies now is seen,  
Whose Crest of late was honoured with, ICH Dien.    

VIII.  

THey that shall see Prince HENRY'S sad built Tomb,  
And think his corpse are only shrouded there,  
Err far from truth, nor seem to understand  
How many virtues in that Worthy were.   

A thousand graces with him buried lie,  
A thousand Triumphs, and a thousand loves,  
With him the life of honour seems to die,  
And that brave troop of Nymphs that from the groves   

Were wont to tread the measures through the green;  
Since Henry's death into dark caves are fled,  
Nor ever since of mortal eye were seen,  
So that the world reports that they are dead,,   

And sooth, I know not, but they loved him so,  
That 'tis no wonder if they died for woe.    

IX.  

EVen as the substance of a shooting star  
Grown great by Time, now ready with new light  
Throughout the world to spread his glory far,  
And emulate the rays of Titan bright,   

Soon as the hoped fire hath given him power,  
To show his glory, and aloft to shine,  
Even in a moment in the self-same hour,  
His golden head does down to earth incline;   

And those Illustrious beams which lately sent  
Such starlike brightness do to darkness turn,  
And all his glorious hope so quickly spent,  
Leaves but a smoky cloud his end to mourn,   

So did Prince HENRY in his glory fall,  
And left us nothing but his funeral.    

X  

YOu sacred Forests, and you spotless streams  
That part the flowery meadows with your fall,  
You water-Nymphes and Ladies of the Tea'ms,  
And thou dread Thamesis, mother of them all;   

With brinish tears weep in your sandy Ford:  
Weep fields, and groves, and you poor Driads weep,  
The sudden Funeral of our British Lord,  
Whose eyes are now closed up in iron sleep.   

Both trees, and streams, lament his loss that loved  
Your silver waters, and wide spreading shades,  
But now is far away from you removed,  
Unto a Paradise that never fades,  
There in eternal happiness to remain,  
But we in sorrow here, and ceasless pain.    

XI.  

OH how uncertain are the days of Man?  
How many dangers undermine our joys?  
Suppose we shun the stormy Ocean,  
Nor stand aghast at Cannons fearful noise,   

Admit we put Achilles' Armour on,  
That never could be pierced by mortal Iron,  
Or live enclosed in towers of brass or stone,  
Such as no power of enemy can environ.   

Yet are we not secure from stroke of death,  
Our foe we nourish even in our breasts,  
The venomous disease that stops our breath:  
Oh learn to cast out such ungrateful guests,  
Thy fortunes Henry had not fallen out so,  
If thou hadst feared none but an outward foe.    

XII.  

AWake Euterpe my dull drooping Song  
With thy melodious thundering blasts awhile:  
Help thou my fainting fury to prolong,  
And power new fire into my frozen style:   

Then like a bold enchanter I will call,  
The mournful shadows from infernal deep,  
They know best how t'adorn a Funeral  
Or what rights do belong to them that sleep.   

No: Rest you ghosts, possess your quiet peace,  
My griefs forbidden me to disturb the dead,  
And rest fond tears, and fruitless Dirges cease,  
But thou that with thy Trumpet shrill dost spread   

The praise of worthies (oh impartial fame)  
Help me to celebrate Prince Henry's name.    

XIII.  

WHat grace, what fortunes could our hearts invent  
While yet Prince H. in his cradle lay?  
That did not following join in one consent  
To make him fortunate to his dying day.   

Shall I recount the honours with him borne,  
Which from his worthy Ancestors were derived?  
Or those rare virtues, which his mind adorned?  
Or shall these notes his manlike actions praise;   

(Whereof too soon our senses are deprived?)  
Or comely gestures when he pleased to grace  
The Lordly revels, and a thousand ways,  
The winding measure with his steps to trace:   

I, there my Muse if thou for grief could stay,  
We might pass over a long summer's day.    

XIIII.  

You holy Angels, and you powers of light,  
And you that in old Abraham's bosom rest,  
The glad enjoyers of Gods glorious sight  
Have you received your sanctified guest?   

Hath Henry the Celestial seat obtained?  
Shines he in robes of immortality?  
And of his well run race the crown now gained,  
Scorns he our earthly Pomp, and Majesty?   

For while his jolly Pilgrimage did last,  
His guiltless hands were free from blood, and strife;  
Void of vain pride, and as the snow new chased  
From her high Mansion, was his thread of life,  
True Christian faith endued with constant mind,  
And unto such the promise was assigned.    

XV.  

WHereto shall I Prince Henry's life compare?  
His Infancy even to those beams that shine,  
Before the Sun unmaskes his visage bore  
Beating the shadows from his golden eyen.  
And those bright hours, that with their temperate heat  
Glad the green earth, and teach the birds to sing,  
And Swains their ancient Carols to repeat:   

Those that present his ripe years in their spring  
Thus still with fresh delights, and glory led,  
Till the slow shepherd doth his flock enfold,  
And th'evening Sun on the dry earth does spread  
New pleasing light, then suddenly behold   

Night comes, and chases HENRY'S life away,  
And makes it like unto a summers day.    

XVI.  

I Muse from whence these forward tears should flow  
Or when our mind of secret grief complains,  
Why though unwilling through our eyes we show  
The inward passion of our hidden pains.   

I know our sighs are but the cooling air,  
Wherewith our fainting heart we do sustain,  
That else would smother in her own despair,  
All comfort thankless breathing back again.  
But wherefore Nature should in open view,  
Create two fountains full of living source:  
Whether so soon as we find cause to rue,  
Our Passions make their general recourse   

Who knows? unless thereby we should reveal  
That our true sorrows we should not conceal.    

XVII.  

MOther of heaviness yield me one request,  
For many drops upon thine Altar shed,  
Since thou thy mournful galleries hast dressed  
With careful monuments of th'untimely dead:   

To feed with view of their calamities  
Thy pensive humour, and selfe-hating sight,  
For there Troy's Queen in painted languor lies,  
And forlorn Dido robbed of her delight  
Kneels on the burning pile: There Mausolus' tomb:  
There stands Pyrene wept into a spring,  
And with his love Mark Anthony of Rome,  
Their grief in dead embracements uttering,   

Among these spectacles let a Hearse be made  
For woeful HENRY that may never fade.    

XVIII.  

ONce more Melpomene grant thy willing aid,  
I sing not now of frantic Progne's change,  
Nor of the boy transformed into a maid:  
Nor how the girl did like a Heifar range.   

far sadder notes, my sullen Music yields,  
far other dreams afflict my sad repose  
Of broken Tombs, and of th' Elysian fields,   

And of the scatheful floulds, that This enclose.  
But let such vain thoughts vanish with my sleep,  
And of Prince Henry's death now let us sing,  
And teach the Rocks on Monas shores to weep,  
And fright the sea with their vast bellowing:   

That Neptune hearing of their piteous cry,  
May think that all the Western world did die.    

XIX.  

THou shalt not die Prince HENRY, if my songs  
Hereafter tuned to a higher key  
Can sound the honour that to thee belongs,  
With sacred murmur of eternity:   

With Cordelion in the Towers of Fame,  
And with the dreadful HENRY'S of this land,  
(Oh never on earth did sound a mightier name)  
Thy meeker Image crowned with Bays shall stand:   

Then shall my Accents break with more success,  
But now rude grief that no adornment bears  
Smothers my notes, and bids me but express  
A sudden sorrow with my simple tears:   

Sufficeth me while thy sweet Ghost doth sleep,  
Long over it with watery eyes to weep.     

To the sad household of Prince HENRY.  

IF virtue, goodness, and a sober life,  
If gravity, and wisdom in young years,  
If a thrice honoured state, void of all strife  
And all good gifts that man's perfection bears,  

Can but have stopped the fatal hand of death,  
Then worthy HENRY still had drawn his breath.    

Whose flesh and Spirit disjoined but for a time,  
With steadfast hope parted to meet again,  
His heavenly parts upwards to heaven do climb;  
His earthly must a while in earth remain,  

Till death hath left to kill, and man to die,  
And Time given place to all Eternity.    

Foyes so the Canon of eternal date,  
Hath praeordained (things bounded must obey)  
Virtue is an immortal estimate,  
Which neither Time nor Death can oversway  

By her Prince HENRY lives; for virtues fame  
Eterniseth his memorable name.    

Whose hopeful Age not come to Twenty years,  
In place of Honour and Authority.  
Did bear a burden in the Country's cares,  
That gave his name an happy Memory.  

So just, so wise, S'vpright in every thing,  
As stopped the venom of foul envies sting.    

You that his friends and household followers were,  
That saw the sober carriage of his life:  
How he himself to all estates did bear,  
So Nobly minded, and so free from strife.  

Oh you and none so well, can sound his praise,  
That knew the upright tread of his ways.    

I do but sound the Accents of Report,  
And sure Report gives him a worthy name,  
That from his Cradle lived in virtues Court,  
Now free from change being registered by fame.  

Enjoys in heaven, heavens immortality,  
And here on earth, earth's happy Memory.     
FINIS.