A FUNERAL Elegy, Upon the death of the late most hopeful and illustrious Prince, HENRY, Prince of Wales.  
Written by THOMAS HEYWOOD,  
Quid numeras Annos? vixit maturior Annis.  
Acta senem faciunt; haec numeranda tibi.  
LONDON, Printed for William Welbie, dwelling in Paul's Churchyard, at the sign of the Swan. 1613.   

To the right Honourable, Edward Earl of Worcester, Lord of Chepstoll, Ragland, and Gower, Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter, Master of the Horse, and one of the Kings most Honourable Privy COUNCIL.  
AS to the most compassionate in this general mourning (right Honourable) I dedicate this Funeral Elegy to your gracious protection: wishing with my soul, I might have had a more pleasing subject, both for my Pen, and your Patronage, but since the Heavens have given us this cause it is a duty to entertain the occasion, and an unswerable negligence to omit it; pity it were that Pen should ever more cast ink, that would not make the whitest paper mourn in so universal a sorrow: To whom then may I so aptly consecrate these Tears, as to your Honour? whose entire zeal to the Prince living (as I am confident) equalled the Best: so (I am no less assured) your sorrow for his death hath exceeded the most, and (if I may offenceless speak it) contended with the greatest. Accept, I entreat your Honour, this my obliged duty to him, and ever acknowledged service to you; wishing all future occurrences, to be true, and essential causes of your joys: and this last, the last of your Tears.  
Your Honour's most Affectionately devoted, THOMAS HEYWOOD.   

TO THE READER.  
WHy should I unto any private Peer,  
Commend these sorrows for a Prince like dear?  
To all sorts, Sexes, Titles, and estates.  
lives there a man, that when his friend relates  
This Prince's Fate, (though he before were glad  
With surplusage) when he but thinks we had,  
But have him not, though he knows he's Divine,  
And cannot bettered be; his eyes drop brine;  
If I may ('mongst these sad ones) then include  
The Gentle, Base, the Polished, and the Rude.  
If from the Head to th'heel, this Land complain,  
As well the learned Clerk, as the ignorant Swain,  
If neither Country, City, Camp, nor Court  
Hath 'scaped this deluge; but we may report  
All drenched in't: every man to have wept his turn,  
And still in heart (though not in habit) mourn.  
To thee (o Reader) whosoe'er thou be,  
I dedicate this Funeral Elegy.  
But thou that canst not read, canst thou but hear?  
If thy attention can but force one tear,  
Eor that it is as welcome to thy hand,  
As unto those I love, that understand.  
Thine T. H.   

A Funeral Elegy, Of the late most High and Illustrious Prince, HENRY, Prince of Wales.  

IS all the Land in sorrow, and can I  
Still silent be? when every Muse exclaims  
On Time, on Death, and on sad Destiny,  
FOR HENRY'S loss, cursing the fatal Dames.  
Mourns Christendom? and in a general cry,  
Uproars her griefs, whilst some weak Physic blames  
Accusing Galen of his want of skill  
That where he once can save, doth oft-times kill.   

Others on Sovereignty, that hath given power  
To Princes, others forset lives to save,  
Yet to their own Times cannot add an hour,  
Or keep their bodies from th'abortive Grave.  
Oh greedy Earth, whose hunger could denoure  
So choice a gem! thou never leav'st to crave,  
More ravenous than the most raging fires,  
Earth still the more it eats, the more desires.   

What Muse shall I invoke? To whom commit  
The guidance of my weak unable brain?  
Whose humble thoughts never aspired yet  
A pitch so lofty, or so high a strain,  
A subject for my weakness far unfit,  
As never having like cause to complain.  
Was ever like to this? seen, heard, or read?  
Th' Hope of three kingdoms (nay the World) is dead.   

Whom shall I blame for this great Cross of Crosses?  
This present want, which Earth cannot supply,  
To general Europe, the great Loss of Losses.  
Had we put all our sins to usury,  
Could they have yielded us such Dross of Drosses?  
Had all the world devised one Tragedy,  
And drawn the project from a thousand years,  
From the spectators could it draw more tears?   

This Universe imagine a Theatre,  
Nations spectators, and this land a stage.  
Was ever Actor, made by the Creator,  
That better sceaned his part unto his Age?  
Amongst all composed of fire, air, earth and water,  
So gravely young, and so unmellowed sage:  
Whose Trunk the Tomb exacts, as of a debtor,  
Subject or Prince, none ever acted better.   

Nay who so well? yet as oft-times we see  
(Presented in a lofty buskined style)  
Achilles fall, Thersites to scape free,  
The eminent Hector on the deadman's file  
Numbered and ranked, when men morebase then he  
survive the battle of less worth and style.  
So thousands have survived these mortal brals,  
Whilst amongst millions, standing, Henry falls.   

Whom shall I blame for this? Just heaven? oh no,  
Stars are their eyes, and (with so many) seeing,  
What cloud can hoodwink all? beside we know,  
The Maker that gave Them and Us our being,  
Whose out-streacht hand steers all things here below  
The imprisoned souls from their base bondage freeing,  
Being all goodness, he can never err:  
Then unto whom shall we the blame transfer?   

To Earth? we know she naturally breeds  
Both Trees for use, and Plants that only spring.  
But neither bear nor build: both flowers & weeds,  
Simples, herbs, roots, and every other thing,  
For smell or palate, that delights, or feeds.  
Should fair Pomona to Vertumnus bring  
Her choicest store, she could not deck her bower  
With such a sweet, fair, odoriferous flower.   

Is not the Earth a Mother? and could she  
Contentedly part with her best-loved Son?  
In whose creation Nature was so free,  
That to compose him, she was half undone  
Her store she had so wasted: for, to be  
As he was late, Ages must backward run,  
And her great Warehouse, as in it first pride,  
With her first plenty must be new supplied.   

It was not Earth then sure: might it be Nature?  
Would she her choicest workmanship destroy?  
Her best of fabrics: both for beauty, stature,  
And all perfections mankind can enjoy?  
And in his growth, before he was full Mature,  
Unto her own pride could she prove so coy,  
As to this height of spite to have transcended,  
To spoil so brave a work ere 'twas full ended?   

Unless I could imagine one so fond  
To build a gorgeous palace, but to raze it:  
A cunning painter that hath gone beyond  
His skill, in a fair picture, to deface it  
Before the world his cunning understand.  
For one to make a rich suit, and ere grace it  
Cut it to shreds. Imagine these to be,  
Else from his sad fate I must Nature free.   

On whom shall I this black aspersion cast?  
Upon the Furies, Fiends, and Hags below,  
And say that Hell had hand in't at the last?  
Although I hate Hell, I'll not injured so;  
As stands Jove's Tree, whom lightning cannot blast,  
So high, so broad, so green, this plant did grow.  
As is the Laurel from all Tempests free,  
So thousand Hells could have no power o'er Thee.   

If neither Heaven, Earth, Nature, nor yet Hell,  
Or would not, or else could not act thy ruin,  
If none of these such sorrows might compel,  
Both to this present Age, and Times ensuing.  
What was it then? or who? Muse canst thou tell?  
Resolve the world, and to their general viewing  
Present the cause why in his prime of years,  
So great a people should be washed in tears.   

It was not Fate, his virtues and choice graces,  
(Gifts both of Heaven and Nature) mixed with state,  
Had in his bosom chose such sovereign places,  
That he was armed against all power of Fate:  
Nor Time, though he before him drives, and chases  
Minutes, days, months and years: till he call late  
Every new season; to have saved his Prime,  
From his own days he would have lent him time.   

I must excuse Age, and extent of years:  
For they (alack the while) near saw each other.  
Oh had they met, we then had spared these tears,  
And saved this grief, which is too great to smother,  
So mild, so grave, so reverent, Age appears  
He would have joyed to embrace him as a brother,  
As youth his hopes: he would have strived to raise  
His fortunes, being clothed in ancient days.   

The Muses and the Arts I can acquit:  
For they are all too good to act such ill,  
Preposterous 'twere to think them opposite  
So far to their own life, as seek to kill  
Him through whose eyes they did receive their sight,  
And to whose practice they consigned their will:  
Whose actions were his deeds, in whom they saw  
All virtues graced with a Majestic awe.   

Nor would the Muses have given such occasion  
Of their own tears, which they so freely shed.  
What purpose then? what motive? what persuasion  
Hath been the cause that we lament him dead?  
Or how came Death to make this proud invasion,  
And casket up this gem in stone and lead?  
Himself could not, (for he was all perfection)  
Bring his fair body to this low dejection.   

'Twas that which shattered Sylo, made the earth  
Gape, and at once devour both Tribes and Tents:  
That made the spheres shower fire, all Nature's birth  
Confined into one Ark: that all descents,  
Degrees and Titles in one general dearth,  
Swept from th'earth's face, that beyond all extents,  
Limits and bounds, incensed Ioues indignation,  
To drown the world in a deep inundation.   

What monster may we call this? Sin: our sin,  
When one alone (and but one) that of pride,  
Cast Angels from the highest Cherubin,  
All their bright glories in the Abysm to hide;  
Since many millions we are wrapped in,  
As ugly and as horrid: deep sins died  
In blood, and death; no wonder if they pull  
This wrath on us, to make our griefs more full.   

They were ourselves then, that ourselves have made  
Thus haplessely distressed, thus inly sad.  
Yet as we read, to have the rage allayed  
Of a deep gulf: the Romans notice had  
From th' Oracle, that breach could not be stayed  
Till Rome's best jewel stopped it. Curtius' clad  
In his best Arms and mounted on his steed,  
To save a People did a Torrent feed.   

So since this best of jewels England stored,  
Hath stopped the gaping entrails of the grave:  
Let after ages of this Prince record,  
He freely gave a life, a land to save.  
As gold the Miser's God (by them adored)  
Depends upon the Sun, from him to have  
His purity of Temper, and as glass,  
Shows th'utmost virtue that the fire can pass.   

By which they have the pureness not to be  
Others then what they are, strange forms to take,  
And lose their native esse: even so He,  
Being the perfectest work Nature could make,  
Cannot convert to Dust and Earth as We,  
Or his first Beauty in the grave forsake.  
Since Nature in his birth to him hath done,  
More than to Glass or Gold, the Fire or Sun.   

The more we joyed to see his virtues grow,  
The greater are our sorrows for his lack:  
Excess of joy begets excess of woe,  
Oft general weal precedes a general wrack,  
Oh! why should our best pleasures perish so,  
Like waters that pass by but ne'er run back?  
And yet to make us ever think of Tears,  
Though the waves fleet, the River still appears.   

I'll show the cause. jove seeing earthly Pleasure,  
By Man so honoured that the Gods he hated:  
(Being adored by Mortals above measure)  
Called her to Heaven there to be new instated,  
She strait disrobes her of all Earthly Treasure,  
As all must needs do, that are so translated.  
Grief banished Earth, whilst Pleasure here made stay,  
Finding her Habit steals it quite away.   

And in that forged Robe she hath deluded  
The world with fading joys and transitory:  
For since she first into that shape intruded  
There was on Earth no true essential glory.  
All constancy from Mankind is excluded,  
joy hath no permanence: find me a story,  
That ever hath recorded Man so blest,  
But happied once, he hath been twice distressed.   

To tell his worth were but to add to sorrow,  
Like him that being robbed, still casts the sum:  
The present fright so much from grief doth borrow  
That the instant feels not whence the passions come;  
The ecstasy once past, when, on the morrow  
The cause is weighed, the voice no more is dumb:  
The eyes that had their conduits stopped before,  
Now freely run, and the heart's grief deplore.   

No Oracles were weightier than his words,  
Those that should counsel him he could advise:  
Art had in him her Mansion: Princes swords  
Should defend Art, and Art make Princes wise,  
They had joined league: his fluent brain affords  
A Library of Knowledge, and unties  
The knotted'st soryte; fair Parnassus well,  
The Muses did abandon, there to dwell.   

As Metals by the sound, so could he try  
The flashy from the solid when they spoke:  
Clear was his judgement, as his spirit was high,  
His smile was mercy, but his frown did shake.  
His aim was to know Art and Chivalry,  
Save when to heaven he did his vows betake.  
He studied Man: but to be better far  
Than man can be: He was half Love, half War.   

He was not swayed by Favours, but Desert,  
Merit, not Flattery still enjoyed his pay:  
He would advise before he spared his Heart,  
But lending it, not easily take't away.  
He had that constant Virtue not to start,  
Or let (in his designs) his judgement stray.  
Those that were next him, and his Favours wore  
May speak him better, not lament him more.   

Before he graced he would both prove and know,  
He was not idly lost, nor rashly won,  
His main was Virtue, none might near him grow,  
But such as truly knew to choose or shun  
Good things and bad: to punish he was slow,  
But apt to pardon: He was as the Sun  
Amid the Planets, seeming so divined,  
That all about, and near him he outshined.   

Posterity, with greater admiration  
Than I can blaze him, shall embrace his Fame,  
Those deluges of Tears showered from this Nation:  
Rather to blemish seem, then blanche his name:  
Since all our Elegies begot from passion,  
Come from rend hearts, and those that grief proclaim.  
Confused thoughts the best conceits destroy,  
And are more harsh than when we sing of joy.   

Being great in Name, his study did agree  
To make Him great in Purpose: and his deeds  
Answer his Style: His Goodness was so free,  
It wanted bound: one Royal action breeds  
A second still; the end of one's to be,  
The entrance to another that succeeds.  
Honour (the Manna of each generous Spirit)  
Was to him as the Crown he was to inherit.   

For well he knew if Fire itself should hide,  
By his own Smoke it would itself betray,  
Or if that Water should itself divide,  
(As weary of the world) and steal away:  
Yet by the Reeds placed by the River side,  
She might be trained, and so be made to stay.  
But Honour fled, with it, it bears His track,  
No Time, no Age can stay or call him back.   

His Spirits were all active, made of fire,  
Which (save in travel) can admit no rest.  
High were his thoughts, yet still surmounting hy're,  
His very Motives Industry professed.  
To be in Action was his sole desire,  
And not to be so he did most detest.  
To end his Praise, and prove him past compare,  
To all his Father's virtues he was heir.   

He was but yesterday, and now is faded,  
Who when we held him dearest, was then lost:  
So Lands that think them safest, are oft invaded,  
And when they least fear, are afflicted most.  
So the clearest skies with blackest clouds are shaded,  
So Pleasures (thought most certain) soonest are crossed.  
For 'tis a Maxim that shall ever stand:  
Pleasure and Sorrow still march hand in hand.   

As Hector, had he survived Tray to see,  
From Isliams' lofty Tower his young son cast:  
Or such grief Priam, as it was to thee  
When worthy Hector, both the first and last  
Of all Troy's hopes, sunk dead; me thinks I see  
In Royal IAME's, thy sorrows quite surpassed,  
With double anguish, trebole passions fired,  
When he first heard Prince Henry was expired.   

And you Maiesticked ANNE, when Hecub saw  
Sweet, Polymnestor, all the poor remain  
Of her brave Issue, beat by many a flaw,  
And to the shore forced by the billowy main:  
Methinks from her face I your grief could draw.  
And you Prince Charles, next of that royal strain;  
In young Polites I your tears can tell,  
That day in field his brother Troilus fell.   

For you (most hopeful Princess) I comprise  
Your passions in a Dame though not so fair,  
Yet as those Times afforded, beauteous, wise,  
And with the best of that age might compare:  
Your Tears I read in bright Pollixen's eyes,  
That son which she beheld saw none so rare,  
Though you (but once) she (oft) had cause of woe,  
Her, as in beauty you in grief outgo.   

But in this plangor, whom had I forgot,  
You my Maecenas? oh it cannot be  
That I am so ingrate; believe it not,  
Though passion almost takes my sense from me:  
Oh let me never wear so foul a spot,  
As worthy Earl not to remember Thee.  
Thrice noble Worster gave my Muse first wing,  
And from his bounty she had voice to sing.   

So should my bosom harbour something new,  
Ingratitude, with me, no way agreeing:  
Then should I not remember whence I grew,  
Or from what power I first received my being:  
To mine own heart I should not then be true,  
First hands forget your use, my eyes their seeing:  
My tongue thy office, and my Muse her skill,  
That near more ink drop from her ragged quill.   

Pious Aeneas still when I record,  
(A man in whom all virtues were complete)  
When Priam's best of sons fell by the sword,  
How he abandoned rest, joy, comfort, meat,  
So oft have I remembered you grave Lord,  
Equal in virtues, and your grief as great.  
All those glad hopes you from his life did borrow  
You in his death have back rapaied with sorrow.   

Yet why should you bewail him since he's passed  
This Transitory reign, for one ay-during,  
To vex yourselves would but his soul distaste:  
He hath but left a Crown of earth's assuring  
For one immortal, that can never waste:  
Subject to Time nor Age: there's no alluring  
Of mortal pomp can countervail the least  
Of heavens pure bliss (so are there joys increased)   

aver we then (and without contradiction,)  
The loss is ours, but his eternal gain,  
'tis his best good, all be it our affliction,  
That such a general sorrow we sustain:  
Death that hath given him this new jurisdiction,  
Doubles his joys, as he augments our pain.  
Then as we loved him, let's rejoice in this,  
The greater was our loss, the more's his bliss.   

Not for Him then, but for ourselves lament:  
He needs them not, 'tis we have use for tears,  
He sojourns where can come no discontent,  
'tis we that labour under sickness, years,  
Heats, colds, Distemperature of Element,  
Dangers of body, and th'amaze of fears.  
From all misfortunes to the world decreed,  
(Of which we stand in doubt) he's happy freed.   

Not for him then, but for ourselves expend  
Soorses of sad and direful lamentation,  
Who see our Griefs live, and our Hopes have end:  
Since Death hath in one blow wounded a Nation,  
Since Heaven no greater glories can extend  
Than she enjoys, leaving us nought but Passion,  
Since should Death break his Dart, & ne'er shoot more,  
He cannot cure the hurt he made before.   

He that will act the wonders of his praise,  
Shall find the world a Theatre too small.  
Fame with her Trumpet shall his glories blaze;  
Yet (ere to their full height) grow hoarse withal,  
Whom who shall strive to imitate, or raise  
An equal Hope to his, needily must fall  
Prostrate, confounded with his own ambition,  
So far shall be precede him in condition.   

Therefore what my Pen scants him in his merit,  
With mine own inward Passions I'll supply.  
More than an Earthly Prince, he's now a Spirit,  
Throned in a Kingdom, unto which the Sky  
Is but a Footpace, ever there to inherit,  
Beyond all Time, to all eternity.  
Where I lament not He is Throned and placed,  
I only grieve that He hath made such hastle.   
Thomas Heywood.  
FINIS.