GREEN'S Funerals.  
ID  
By R B. Gent.  
✚ AUT· NUNC AUT NUNQVAM·  
Printed at London by john Danter, and are to be sold at his House in Hosier-lane near Holbourne-Conduit.   

To the Gentlemen Readers Health.  
GEntle Reader, I once readd of a King, that divided the day into three parts; the First he spent in Prayer, the Second in hearing of his subjects causes, and the last in delight and pleasure of his body: So (Gentle Reader) I hope thou wilt spend one days pleasure in reading this Pamphlet, wherein no curious theme is writ upon; but certain Poems, Entitled: Green's Funerals. Which contrary to the Authors expectation I have now published, for it was his private study at idle times. Gentlemen, fine wits are quickened with one cup of pure wine, where many would make them dull; And this small Pamphlet may recreate your minds, when large Volumes would but cloy and weary you: Now if the Author's pains, and the Printers labour may be acceptable to thee (Gentle Reader) the one hath his higher, and the other his desire.  
Yours in all courtesy, john Danter.   


Sonnet, I.  
WHy should my Pen presume to write his praise,  
And he in perfect mould of Virtue framed?  
Why should my Muse sing of his happy days,  
And he the mark, at which Dame Nature framed?  
Why rather should I not such virtues show,  
That such pure gold from dross each man may know?  
But cease my Muse, why dost thou take in hand so great a Task:  
Which to perform a greater wit, than Mercuries would ask?  
For judgement jove, for Learning deep, he still Apollo seemed:  
For floent Tongue, for eloquence, men Mercury him deemed.  
For courtesy suppose him Guy, or Guyons somewhat less:  
His life and manners though I would, I cannot half express.  
Nor Mouth, nor Mind, nor Muse can half declare,  
His Life, his Love, his Laud, so excellent they were.   

Sonnet, II.  

FOrtune, hates not, them that hate her:  
Fortune, loves not, them that love her:  
Fortune, would, and cannot rate her:  
Fortune, shall, and must remove her.  
And though fickle Fortune smile:  
It is but for a little while.   

Green loud Fortune foolish Man,  
Foolish man, why loud he so?  
And her foolish race he ran,  
Foolish race that's run with we.  
Who then (Alas) was less misused?  
Now (Alas) is more abused?   

But let Fowls and foolish fellows,  
Bark and bite their belly fill:  
It is not spiteful envies bellows,  
That can kindle fire still.  
No Book pleases all that come▪  
None so bade but pleases some.    

Sonnet. III.  

YE dainty Damsels of Diana's Train,  
That long to dally, with your loved Lords:  
And you brave Gallant, high resolved Lords.  
That love to gaze, upon your stately Stars.  
He he is dead, that killed you with disdain:  
And often fed your friendy hopes again.   

He he is dead, that wrote of your delights:  
That wrote of Ladies, and of Paramours:  
Of budding beauty, and her branched leaves,  
Of sweet content in royal Nuptials.  
He he is dead, that killed you with disdain:  
And often fed your friendly hopes again.   

His gadding Muse, although it ran of love,  
Yet did he sweetly morralize, his songs:  
Ne ever gave the loser cause to laugh,  
Ne men of judgement, for to be offended.  
But as he often killed them with disdain:  
So did he often feed their hopes again.   

And though he often told of things to come,  
In love more like a Prophet than a Poet:  
Yet did he wisely interlace the one,  
With Sages sayings, ever mixed among.  
And though he often fed their pleasing pain:  
Yet did he often kill them with disdain.   

Wherefore ye dainty Damsels of renown,  
That long to dally, with your loved Lords.  
And you brave Gallant, worthy noble Lords,  
That love to dandle in your Lady's laps.  
Come hither come, and lend your mouths to Fame:  
That means to sound, his never dying name.    

Sonnet, FOUR  

COme from the Muses well Minerva,  
Come and bring a Coronet:  
To crown his head, that doth deserve,  
A greater gift than Colinet.   

Come from Bacchus' bower Silenus,  
Come and bring some good-ale grout:  
For to sprinkle Vino-plenus:  
All his foolish face about.   

Come thou hither sweet Amyntas  
All on a silver sounding Swan:  
Come and teach this fond A-mint-Asse,  
Leave the game as he began.   

Come thou hither my friend so pretty,  
All riding on a Hobby-Horse:  
Either make thyself more witty:  
Or again renew thy force:  
Come and deck his brows with bay,  
That deserves immortal praise.    

Sonnet. V  

AMend thy style who can: who can amend thy style?  
For sweet conceit.  
Alas the while,  
That ever any such, as thou shouldst die,  
By fortune's guile,  
Amids thy meat.  
Pardon (Oh pardon) me that cannot show,  
My zealous love.  
Yet shalt thou prove,  
That I will ever write in thy behove:  
'Gainst any dare,  
With thee compare.  
An't is not Hodge-poke nor his fellow dear,  
That I do fear:  
As shall appear.  
But him alone that is the Muses own,  
And eke my friend,  
Whom to the end,  
My muse must ever honour and adore:  
Do what I can.  
To praise the man,  
It is impossible for me that am,  
So far behind.  
Yet is my mind,  
As forward as the best, if wit so would  
With will agree.  
But since I see,  
It will not be:  
I am content, my folly to confess:  
And pardon crave.  
Which if I have,  
My Fortunes greater than my former fall:  
I must confess.   

But if he otherwise esteem of me,  
Than as a friend or one that honours thee:  
Then is my labour lost, my care consumed.  
Because I hate the hope, that so presumed    

Sonnet, VI  
OF telltales tell my muse,  
of such as love to lie:  
Of such as use, for to abuse,  
their friends and no cause why.  
Of such and none but such,  
My pen shall write his pleasure:  
And them at large I mean to touch,  
When I have time and leisure.  
My rhyme is rude, what then?  
Yet will it serve the turn:  
To notify such wicked men,  
As do deserve to burn.  
As do deserve to burn said I?  
Nay worse: that aught to feel,  
The raging force and cruelty:  
Of old Ixion's wheel.  
But lest I should this mourning Muse retain:  
I'll fall into an other kind of vain.   

Sonnet, VII.  
Though perchance it seem to some but a toy and a trifle,  
Seem to some in vain, to bestow but a part of an hour,  
In penning Poems: in honouring him with a Poem.  
Yet I appeal to the pen of peerless Poet Amyntas,  
Matchless Amintas mind, to the mind of Matchless Amintas  
Sweet bonny Phillis love, to the love of sweet bonny Phillis,  
Whether pen, or mind, or love, of Phillis Amintas  
Love, or mind, or pen, of pen-love-minder Amintas:  
Think of him (perhaps) as some do think of Amintas:  
Oh that I might be loud, of Phillis lover: Amintas.  
Oh that I might be thought, as I think of Phillis: Amintas.  
Oh that I might be judged as I judge of Phillis: Amintas:  
Then would I never care for such base beggarly make-bookes  
That in veigh against the dead, like deadly maligners.  
What if he were a man, as bad or worse than a Hellhound?  
As shall I think that he was a bad or worse than a Hellhound?  
Yet it ill became sweet minds to haunt in Avernus:  
Ill became such Cutes, to bark at a poor silly carcase  
Some had cause to moon, and mourn, & murmur against him:  
Others none at all, yet none at all, so against him.  
For myself I wish, that none had written against him  
But such men which had just cause t'have written against him.   

Sonnet, VIII.  
Muse give place to my moan, and moan give place to my musing  
One for an others cause, and one for cause of an other.  
First to behold him dead: last to behold him alive.  
And thou shepherds Swain, that keeps thy sheep by the mountains,  
(Mountains) of Sicily, and sweet Arcadian Island,  
Oh Meliboeus: leave, Oh leave any more to be mourning.  
For though his Art be dead, yet shall it ever abide:  
Ever abide, to the end light, as a light to the rest.  
Rest that have wrote of love: and the delights of a lover.  
But by the sweet consent, of Pan and Marsias offspring.  
Sweet consent of a Saint so sweet, of a Fowl an a foul one  
Green's but a foolish man: and such as him d●e defend.  
Yet will I ever write both to defend and offend:  
For to defend his friends, and to offend his foes.   

Sonnet, IX.  

GReene, is the pleasing Object of an eye:  
green, pleased the eyes of all that looked upon him.  
green, is the ground of every Painters die:  
green, gave the ground, to all that wrote upon him.  
Nay more the men, that so Eclipsed his fame:  
Purloined his Plumes, can they deny the same?   

Ah could my Muse, old Maltaes Poet pass,  
(If any Muse could pass, old Maltaes Poet,)  
Then should his name be set in shining brass,  
In shining brass for all the world to show it.  
That little children, not as yet begotten  
Might royalize his fame when he is rotten.   

But since my Muse gins to vail her wings,  
And flutter low upon the lowly Earth:  
As one that sugared Sonnets, seldom singes,  
Except the sound of sadness, more than mirth,  
To tell the worth of such a worthy man:  
I'll leave it unto those, that better can.   

Now may thy soul again, go take his rest  
(His pleasant rest) in those eternal joys  
Where burning Tapers, still attend the blessed  
To light, and lighten them from all annoys.  
Go then poor Poet, live and never die:  
Ever, yet never but in misery.   

And as I came into the world unknown,  
Moved with compassion, of thy piteous plaint:  
So will I now again, myself go moan,  
That durst presume, thy praise in verse to paint.  
And if the Muse's pardon, mine so weak:  
I pass not of a pin, what others speak.    

Sonnet, X. A Catalogue of certain of his Books.  
CAmilla for the first and second part.  
The Card of Fancy, and his Tully's love.  
His Nunquam Sera, and his Nightingale.  
His Spanish Masquerado, and his Change.  
His Menaphon, and Metamorphosis.  
His Orpharion, and the Denmark King.  
His Censure, and his loves Tritameron.  
His Disputation, and the Death of him,  
That makes all England shed so many tears:  
And many more that I have never seen  
May witness well unto the world his wit,  
Had he so well, as well applied it.   

Sonnet, XI.  
WHen my loathed life, had lost the light of Olympus,  
And descended down, to the cursed caves of Avernus,  
Never more had I thought, of men to be inly molested,  
But now alas, I see my hope is vain:  
My pleasure turned, to eternal pain.  
For such foolish men, as I had never abused:  
Never abused alas, yet alas, had ever abused:  
Ever abused so, because so never abused.  
Not only seek to quench my kindled glory,  
But also for to mar my virtues story.  
And though my life were lewd, Oh how it grieves me to think it.  
Lewd as a life might be, from all good counsel abandoned:  
And given over up, to the out cast sense of a sinner.  
Yet might my end, have moved them to remorse:  
And not to reak their teen, on silly corpse.   

Sonnet, XII.  

Father of Heaven, for thy mercy's meekness,  
And thy sweet sons sake, Christ the redeemer,  
Pardon, Oh pardon, sinful offender,  
Lord I beseech him.   

And though his age, here on earth were a loathsome  
Pudddle offilthynes, inly polluted,  
With all abuse, that can be devised,  
Yet was his ending;   

Ending a mirror, of a man molested,  
One overwhelmed with his iniquities,  
And to be helped alone by the jesus  
Saviour of all men.    

Sonnet, XIII. A sweet Prayer to the Trinity by R. S and used of R.G. at the instant of his death.  
TRinity blessed, Deity coequal,  
Unity sacred, God one eke in essence,  
Yield to thy servant pitifully calling  
Merciful hearing.  
Virtuous living, did I long relinquish,  
Thy will and precpts miserably scorning,  
Grant to me, sinful patient, repenting,  
Healthful amendment.  
Blessed I judge him, that in heart is healed,  
Cursed I know him, that in health is harmed.  
Thy Physic therefore to me, wretch unhappy,  
Send my Redeemer.  
Glory to God the Father, and his only Son,  
The Protector of us Earthy sinners  
Thy sacred Spirit, labourers refreshing,  
Still be renowned.  
Amen.   

Sonnet, XIIII. another Poem, borrowed of the same learned Gentleman R.S.R.G. speaketh.  
LOrd, my dryrie foes, why do they mutltiply?  
Me for to ruinated, sundry be covetous.  
Him shields not the Godhead, sundry say to my Soul.  
thou'rt Lord most vigilant, wholly my succourer,  
And in thee all my staying, shall be harboured:  
thou'rt my most valiant victory glorious.  
To our Lord loud I cried: from holy place heard he me.  
In grave new buried, scarce have I slumbered:  
I rose to life again, through God his holiness.  
I fear not furious multitude, infinite,  
With compass labouring, my body for to catch.  
Rise Lord omnipotent, help me, my champion,  
Lord, thy dear radiant, righteous equity,  
Hath squisde all my foes, falsely me ransacking.  
Our Lord participiates, safety with happiness:  
With gifts, heavenly Godhead, thy people amply bless.  
Amen.   
FINIS.