SORROWS LENITIVE.  
Written Upon occasion of the Death of that hopeful and Noble young Gentleman, John Lord Harrington, Barron of Exton, etc. Who died the 27. of Febr. 1613.  
By ABRAHAM JACKSON.  OVID. 4. de Ponto. 
Temporis officium solatia dicere certiest,  
Dum dolor in cursu, dum petit aeger opem.  
LONDON: Printed for Roger jackson, and are to be sold at his Shop near the great Conduit in Fleetstreet. 1614   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND VIRTUOUS LADIES, THE Lady LVCY, Countess of Bedford, and the Lady ANNE HARRINGTON, etc.  
Right Honble:  
YOur favourable acceptance of my poor endeavours, in an Office of the like nature, hath animated me again to put Pen to paper, with a purpose to lenify that bitter pill of Passion (which natural affection hath once more caused you to swallow) with the sweet iulip of Consolation. And for as much as Physicians cannot well apply their Cordials to the sick, till they know the symptoms of the disease; I have (in a feeling sympathy of your grief) aimed at your Complaints, and have written them according to my conceit, not doubting, but (if I had been Secretary to you afflicted thoughts) I should have made them appear more like themselves.  
Next (as method in that case required) I have set down such meditations of Comfort, as I thought best suiting to your visitation▪ Beseeching you to vouchsafe them as gracious a censure, as an humble and devoted heart may be thought worthy to be allowed, that rests, and ever will remain  
Your Honours, ready in all humility to do you service, ABRAHAM JACKSON.   

SORROWS LENITIVE.  

When aweless Death, with poyson-pointed dart  
Had pierced Fame's favourite, young Harrington,  
That plant of Honour, through his generous heart;  
Two mournful Ladies, in affection one,  
(His woeful Mother, and his Sister dear)  
From troubled thoughts, shed torrents crystal clear.   

And as a day-long-labouring Husbandman,  
That with heart-fatting joy doth feast his eyes,  
To see his full-eared Corn (with Zephyr's Fan)  
Blown on to ripeness; if a storm arise,  
That with stern blasts destroys the forward grain,  
Sits down and wails the loss of his long pain.   

Or as a Merchant, standing on the shore,  
His long absented Ship doth new behold,  
Entering the Havens mouth, full fraught with store  
Of Orient pearl, and purest Indian gold;  
If in his sight the vessel suffer wrack,  
Strains out with cries, till heart with sorrow crack.   

So did the woeful Lady Harrington;  
When she was reft of him, that was her joy,  
Her love, her life, her dear, and only Son,  
Her ease in Mourning, comfort in annoy,  
Her greatest solace in her most distress,  
Her curing Cordial in heaviness.   

So graceful Lucy, Bedford's worthy Wife,  
When brute, too true, had to her ears related  
The sudden wrack of that beloved life,  
Whom dismal Fate untimely so had dated,  
Did cast herself into the arms of moan,  
And to herself ripped up her griefs alone.   

And if a Poet may be bold to write,  
How he conceives such passions were conceived;  
Then thus the grieved Lady Mother might,  
(With sighs) bewail her hopeful joy bereaved.  
These broken accents, (Echoes of her groans)  
Might be the mournful method of her moans.   

O thou my dearest dear, and loving Child;  
Best part of me, derived from my womb:  
The sole Idea of thy Father mild,  
My staff of age to guide me to my Tomb!  
Art thou extinct? hath life forsaken thee?  
Hast thou relinquished all the world and me?   

Wert thou not young, in prime of flowering life?  
Were not thy passions swayed with temperance?  
Were not thy humours in perfection rife?  
Wert thou not pious in perseverance?  
How haps it then, that thou wert rap't in haste,  
When but the world began thy worth to cast?   

O art thou gone, and am I left behind?  
Shall never more mine eyes behold thee here?  
Must grief o'erflow the measure of my mind,  
whilst hours complete the days, or days the year?  
What sight can please without the sight of thee,  
Whose life, was life, whose death is death to me?   

O had I all foregone what so is mine,  
Within the compass of this massy round;  
Except that part of me that is divine,  
Wherein th' Idea of my God is found;  
So that I had sweet Son enjoyed thee,  
Who being parted, parts all joy from me.   

O cruel Parcae now I see 'tis so,  
Ye are called Parcae, not because ye spare  
The lives of such, as worst we may forego:  
But on the contrary, ye Parcaes are:  
Because ye pluck the buds with partial hand,  
And let the riper fruits ungathered stand.   

'tis said that Niobe was turned to stone,  
For wailing too too much her children's death.  
Be't so or no; I have more cause to moan,  
Whilst soul and body are conjoined with breath,  
For her grief ended, with her ended joy:  
But mine still lives, to lengthen life's annoy.   

Auctolia hearing but a false report  
Of her Ulysses death, that (with more Knights)  
Did to the siege of tow'r-built Troy resort,  
To quell the pride of Greece-abusing sprights;  
Renounced all joy, turned solace into moan:  
Because she did but think her Son was gone.   

Oh what shall I do? how shall I contain  
Myself in sorrow, that too well do know  
The loss of him; that was my ease in pain,  
My greatest comfort, in griefs overflow?  
How shall I keep from breaking to extremes,  
That have my heart so fraught with sorrows themes?   

Let Niobe say what she can devise  
To aggravate her self-confounding moan,  
And let Auctolia hers apologize.  
Yet Niobe became a senseless stone:  
And Auctole wailed a misconceaved fear:  
But true effects of grief my heart doth wear.   

As would appear could I Dole's language speak.  
But Sorrow ties the tongues of grieved weights.  
So that they must in mid-discourses break,  
And keep the worst behind to vex their sprights.  
Sith this is Mourners case; then thus in brief,  
I grieve because I cannot tell my grief.   

Thus might a Poet shadow what she said;  
Though what she said indeed herself best knows:  
As saying most when she was most dismayed,  
In private sort commenting on her woes.  
Next than we may imagine, as before,  
The noble Countess, how she did deplore.   

And if you can conceive Polixen's woe,  
When her dear brother Troilus was slain,  
By force of fierce Achilles' fatal blow:  
Or how that royal PRINCES did complain,  
For Britain's hope, renowned HENRY'S death:  
So might you think did Bedford spend her breath.   

For thus, me seems, her thought-bewraying tongue  
Utters the passions of her griefe-seazed heart,  
That do in heaps upon each other throng  
As though they would her soul and body part.  
O dearest brother, soul-united friend!  
What timeless hap wrought thy untimely end?   

Time turns the Heavens in a certain course;  
The Stars do keep their constant motions:  
Order directs the rolling Ocean's source:  
Sence-wanting creatures keep their stations:  
Man's fickle state gives only cause of sorrow,  
That knows his eve, but doth not know his morrow,   

Had I a Son to lose (as I have none)  
I think his loss could not more grieve my heart;  
Then thus to be left brotherless alone.  
Who hath like wound, & doth not feel like smart?  
To lose a Son, yet might I have another:  
But hopeless am I left of any Brother.   

For look how th'Elm e and Vine do sympathise:  
Or Woodbine with the Haw-thorne doth agree:  
Look how the Ivy with the Oak doth rise:  
Or how the Steel and Loadstone natured be:  
So did we love, so were our hearts affected:  
What one did fancy, other still respected.   

But Death, the Author of Confusion,  
That doth undo loves hardest tied knot,  
Breaking the bonds of sacred Union,  
Casting on blooming Youth, old Ages lot,  
Came with his woolly feet, but iron fist,  
And drew this Imp of Honour to his list.   

O world! no world; but Death's Meandry maze;  
O maze! no maze: but to-end-posting life;  
O life! no life: but Baven-kindled blaze;  
O blaze! no blaze: but end of humours strife.  
O moment strife, blaze-flashing, maze of death,  
Whose end tends to the end of human breath.   

Swift is the Shuttle in the weavers Loom;  
Hasty the rayn-bred torrents rise and fall;  
Fading the May-day flower, the Summer's bloom;  
Uncertain the rebound of Tennis ball;  
Nay, name I all the moment Types I can,  
Yet none so fickle as the life of man.   

Divide an hour in equall-spaced quarters;  
Each quarter in his Minutes; Minutes again  
In Seconds: then let skilfullest number parters  
Their Arithmetical choice Maxims strain  
To part those Seconds, in their single prime;  
And that's man's measure in the clock of Time.   

All this is charactered in him, who was,  
Who was (O fatal word!) the Character  
Of Knightly Honour, Courtier's looking-glass,  
Map of perfection, virtues register:  
But now is gone; yet left this name behind  
For me, to treasure up in grieved mind.   

Which I will do, (with true devotion)  
Whilst my world-wearied soul lives in my flesh,  
And in my mirth, the name of Harrington  
Shall make griefs brinish fountain spring a fresh,  
And if my tears do stint, or tongue do fail;  
Know Sorrow wants both tears, and tongue to wail.   

As I was writing this conceived moan;  
Mine eyes did let fall drops into mine Ink,  
Moisting again its dryness: whereupon  
My sympathising Muse 'gan thus to think.  
I must not leave these Ladies in this plight:  
For Ink made liquid bids me more to write.   

And as an Art-instructed Surgeon,  
(That hath searched all the corners of a wound)  
Doth not so leave his Patient but upon  
The gash, lays healing Salves to make him sound:  
So must I now (that have so lanced your grief)  
Apply some Cataplasm for relief.   

Your loss was great, great Ladies I confess;  
And such as passion cannot but condole.  
Nay, Piety herself could do no less:  
As is recorded in Gods sacred roll.  
For the believers Grandsire did bewail  
His dearest Sara, when her life did fail.   

So holy joseph, that Bellerophon,  
Wept when his aged Father jacob died:  
So did the kingly Prophet for his Son;  
The Israelites for Moses also cried,  
And that which most in mourning makes for us  
Our blessed Saviour wept for Lazarus.   

But yet that heathen howling out of measure  
Suits not with those, for whom Christ shed his blood.  
For such repining draws on God's displeasure,  
'tis but a shadow of a seeming good.  
A Hell-hatched offspring of black-mouthed Despair,  
That doth God's image in the soul impair.   

O Ladies therefore calm your Passion:  
Make not your Noble heart's Griefs chair of State.  
Let it be pious Comforts station,  
Your heart-tormenting care to mitigate.  
For Comfort is the Cataplasm alone,  
That cureth care, salves sores, relieveth moan.   

Think but how jacob (after weariness)  
Was by the dreame-seene Angels solaced:  
Or how that Proto-martyr, in distress,  
Was joyed to see heavens windows opened.  
Such will your solace be, and such your joy,  
If you incline to Comfort in annoy.   

Comfort, the stay of sadded Christians soul,  
Comfort, the health of griefe-decayed health,  
Comfort, the power of Reason to control  
Stern passion, that would get the heart by stealth,  
Will be to you, soul, health, and power, & case,  
Your sadness, sickness, weakness to appease.   

And as the precious Opal doth contain  
The beaming brightness of the Diamond,  
The azure lustre of the sapphires vain,  
The Emerald in verdure goes beyond:  
So Comfort doth th' effects of peace embrace,  
And yields the fruits of mercy and of grace.   

But this is but as 'ttwere an outward shalt  
To th' tast-ensweetning Kernel that's within,  
The touching of the foot of jacobs' scale,  
Before we climb by it the heavens to win,  
The gentle spreading of the healing Plaster.  
To make it when 'tis on to stick the faster.   

We therefore must apply this sovereign Balm,  
This heaven on earth, this hold from Desperation,  
This joy in life, this tempest-laying calm,  
This hope in Death, this staff of preservation,  
Home to your hearts, to make you feel again  
The joy you had, before you had this pain.   

Had you a Son? Had you a loving Brother?  
Had you a Comfort? You what you held dear?  
Had you no more? Nor had you any other?  
And is he reft away, to both so near?  
Yet weigh but both your happiness in his;  
And tell me then if you be void of bliss?   

He was your Son: but now he is a Saint.  
He was your Brother: now an Angel's Mate.  
He was your Comfort: now no cause of plaint.  
He was your dear: but now in better state.  
You had no more, make that your cause of woe,  
Because you had no more, so to bestow.   

'tis true his body was of perfect mould,  
And such as might have given his soul content,  
For one whole age a Mansion there to hold,  
Where every part did homage to her bent:  
Reason sat Regent, and the will obeyed,  
All Passions by these two, were mildly swayed.   

'tis true, he was a model of perfection,  
Furnished with rarest gifts of Nature's store,  
Endowed with sanctity, the soul's refection.  
Was what his years could yield, and somewhat more.  
For in his prime of youthly jollity,  
He was  with grave morality.   

His ancient birth might be (as oft it is)  
The foster-Nurse of selfe-up-puffing pride:  
But his fair thoughts soared higher far than this,  
And such vainglorious humours he defied.  
With thriftless Prodigals he did not sort,  
True Bounties measure did his state support.   

So that a man might think he had been sent  
As a choice jewel from God's treasury,  
T'adorn the world, and not as though God meant  
To show him us, and forthwith presently  
To take him from us, in his deep displeasure,  
Seeing us so unworthy such a treasure.   

But Ladies, this is not your case alone.  
'twas Iuda's case, when their josiah fell:  
'twas England's case their Edward being gone.  
'twas Britain's case, when HENRY bid farewell.  
HENRY a Masterpiece of Nature's mould,  
The young man's hope, the refuge of the old.   

HENRY, that was your Sons, your Brother's Lord:  
HENRY, whom he in virtue imitated:  
HENRY, by whose example he was stored  
With nobleminded thoughts, to heaven elated:  
HENRY, that loved him, & well knew his merit,  
His faith, his constancy, and noble spirit.   

HENRY, to whom his heart was so affected,  
That if he might have ransomed him from Death,  
He would (with dreadless loyal zeal directed)  
Have spent his dearest life-maintaining breath.  
But Adam's heirs, each one engaged stand,  
To pay this forfeiture of Nature's band.   

Sith this is that which every man can tell:  
As being composed of brickle walls of mud:  
And that your case doth want no parallel,  
As we have instanced in the Royal blood;  
Then let this meditation still your cry;  
That he that now is dead, was borne to die.   

You beg of God (in daily Orisons)  
That his all-guiding will be done in earth,  
As well as in th'heavenly Mansions,  
Where blessed souls do live in dateless mirth.  
'tis granted what you ask, his will is done:  
For 'twas his will to take to him your Son.   

Think how that Mother-virgin, holy, pure,  
That blessed Phoenix of all womanhood,  
Did with faith-armed patience endure  
To see the spilling of her saviours blood;  
To see his precious side stream blood & water,  
That was her Son, her Brother, and Creator.   

That was that Lamb of God, in whom was found  
No spot of sin, whom no default could touch.  
This might with dole her human heart confound:  
But that she knew God's providence was such.  
Against the which we ought not to repine.  
True Christian will bends to the will divine.   

How willingly did Abraham obey  
That dire command, when he was ready priest  
With his own hands his only Son to stay?  
His Faith taught him that all was for the best  
That God appoints, though we cannot conceive,  
The searchlesse depth, from whence we good receive.   

What was your Son? and do but rightly scan;  
Was he more dear and precious unto you  
Then Abra'ms Son, or else the SON OF MAN?  
Must you be privileged when Death is due  
By God's award? Let not your faith be cold  
In him that can return Sons thousand fold.   

The little Sparrow falls not to the ground,  
Without God's foredecreeing providence;  
And shall we think that man (in whom is found  
The substance of the Creator's quintessence)  
Can be deprived of life if he do nill,  
Whose supreme power draws goodness out of ill?   

He left you and the world you say too soon.  
Passion saith this: nay, Reason saith so too.  
But how? with this forethought distinction,  
Not for himself too soon, too soon for you.  
For you: because your earthly joy's bereaven.  
Not for himself: who joy enjoys in heaven.   

What can you tell God hath for you ordained?  
Or to what end your days he hath designed?  
Must his eterne decree be so restrained,  
As that it should be fitted to your mind?  
Little know we what comfort may abound,  
when with Despair Satan would us confound.   

When was your Patience ever tried before  
By any uncouth wrack of human chance?  
God hath you blest with Honours, wealth, & store,  
And on you many blessings did advance.  
Because your friends first die, is this a wrong?  
All sorts see that, chief those, whose lives are long.   

Would you (as earthbred mortals all desire,  
That solace in this vale of misery)  
Wish that you might, to what you would aspire  
And not beawed by the Deity!  
Then you deprive yourself of that sweet boast  
Whom God most loves, those he doth chastise most.   

This fickle life is but a swift-runne race:  
A doubtfull-ending combat struggling still:  
Upon the troubled Seas, a sailors case:  
A Captives lot, fettered against his will:  
A toilsome labour, full of sweeting pain:  
A journey pestered with wind and rain.   

O happy he, that first doth gain the price:  
Happy, that soonest doth the conquest win:  
Happy, that finds the Port ere storms arise:  
Happy, quick shaking off the chains of sin:  
Happy, the lab'rour at the close of day:  
Happy, the travailer, that ends his way.   

If these be happy, happy then is he,  
That hath so soon run out his irksome race,  
Obtained the conquest, got the Port, is free,  
Ended his work, come home in happy case;  
If he be happy: you are happy too,  
That he was yours, although not now with you.   

His life was seasoned with the thoughts of Death.  
Witness his sanctimonious purity,  
Witness his words spoke with his latest breath,  
To you his woeful Mother sitting by.  
Lord LESV come, to thee my soul I give,  
Thou didst for me, that I with thee might live.   

To him therefore, that thus had fixed his mind,  
Death was the greatest Comfort that could be,  
The instrumental means that he could find,  
Out of his body's Goal to be set free:  
As being the key t'unlock the prison door,  
That was by youthful strength kept fast before.   

And as some Knight, edged with the thoughts of glory,  
Having with powerful Ensigns conquered  
Some spacious, wast unfertile territory,  
Hath yet a fairer Land discovered:  
But knows not how it's fair shores to recover,  
Unless he had some means to pass him over.   

So this young Lord, this worthy Christian Knight,  
Armed according to Saint Paul's direction,  
Having subdued that damned subtle sprite,  
And brought the world and flesh to his subjection;  
He did, with Moses, on mount Nebo stand,  
And kened the heavenly Canaan's promised Land.   

But knew not how that Eden Land to gain,  
Unless Death gave him wastage to the shore,  
Willing to undergo what so ever pain,  
Were it to hale the Ropes, or tug the Oar.  
Death therefore granted what he did desire,  
Taking nought but his earths part for her hire.   

What shall I say? Death was to him no more,  
But a griefe-ending sweet Catastrophe:  
A passage from this world's Egyptian shore:  
To Canaan above through the red Sea:  
A Sun to melt his lives congealed Frost:  
A landing of his Ship in tempest tossed.   

As was the glorious Angel that conveyed  
The blessed Peter from the loathsome dark:  
As was mount Ararat, on whose top stayed  
The righteous Noah's deluge-washed Ark:  
Lastly, Death was to him, but as a Page,  
That lights a Taper to an upper Stage.   

All which in time it will be unto us,  
If we do act our parts as he did his.  
For then, when Conscience shall our deeds discuss,  
She will assure us of eternal bliss.  
As him she did, whose faith had apprehended,  
The joys of heaven, before earth's date was ended.   

His soul brooked no delays from heavens delight,  
Loathing to be sinne-soyled with this gross air,  
But sweetly offered up his virgin sprite  
To her great Maker, chaste, and spotless fair;  
Where he doth joy: for whom we so do mourn,  
Wishing us there, and not his own return.   

Thrice blest immortal soul rest then in bliss,  
Enjoy those joys, for which thou were't prepared:  
We know our fault, and Love leads us amiss,  
To grudge that thou with Angel's bliss hast shared  
Not that we ought, but good to thee bequeave;  
But grieved so soon, thy sweet consort to leave.   

And you sad Ladies that are clad in black,  
Best suiting with those weights, that Sorrow feeds,  
Think what this WORTHY hath, & what you lack,  
And you will find your owne-case wants such weeds.  
For mortal you, in cares do draw your breath,  
Immortal he, needs none to wail his death.   
FINIS.