TEARS For the never sufficiently bewailed death of the late right honourable and most worthy of all honourable Titles, ALEXANDER EARL of Dumfermeling, Lord Fyvie, and Vrquhart late Lord Chancellar of SCOTLAND. EDINBURGH, Printed by the Heirs of ANDRO heart. ANNO DOM. 1622. TO MY VERY Honourable and most respected good LADY, Dame Beatrix Ruthven, LADY Coldenknowes. etc. Madam AS I condemn the unnatural custom of the Ancient Thracians, who used to weep at the birth of their Children, and to rejoice at the death of their Parents, Kinsfolk, and Friends: So I can not but commend your Ladyships firm-fixt affection to your friends, which (contrary to the common custom of this timeserving Age) Death doth not diminish which your La. makes manifest at this time, for no sooner had fame▪ filled the ears of all, with the sorrowful report, of the never sufficiently bewailed death of the late right honourable Lord Chancellar: but your La. to show, that as in this general loss your loss was more than common, having lost so honourable a Patron, so faithful a Friend, and so loving a Father in all your affairs: so you in sorrow exceeded the most sorrowful, your La. repledged from the fire, this unpolished rhyme, to the which (as unworthy of the world's view) I condemned the same, and caused the same so be printed: to the which I condescended, willing rather to publish mine own imperfections them that your La. scarce imitable and unfeigned affection to that Noble Lord should be concealed, accept then (Madam) in good part those lines which by your own procurment passes to the Press and as they bear the badges of your Ladyship's sorrow for your so great a loss, let them serve as signs to show the willingness I have to do your Ladyship all the service I can perform, to the which I am tied both by bands of blood and nature, and by your Ladyship's manifold undeserved courteous favours to myself, hoping that the Title of your ladyship's name shall seruee as a sufficient defence for all the imperfections of those unperfect and unpolished lines, kissing your Ladyship's hands I rest, and shall ever remain. Your Ladyship's Cousin most humbly devoted to serve you John Lyoun. Tudor rose a blazon with the monogram of 'A' (Andro) superimposed on ♡ (Hart) Scottish thistle TEARS For the never sufficiently bewailed death of the late right honourable and most worthy of all honourable Titles, ALEXANDER EARL of Dumfermeling, Lord Fyvie, and Vrquhart late Lord Chancellar of SCOTLAND. AH, must my weak and care-benummed hand, Paint out the sorrows of this sorrowing Land: How can my pen make others passions known, Which as they are, can not express mine own: This public loss, which was a loss too great, Some heaven-taught Muse were fit to relate: Yet whilst the Learned (who in silence fit) Frame lofty Lynes to serve as signs of wit. Sad care-crost Muse unto the world proclaim, With woeful notes this lamentable Theme: And sing so sadly to each listening ear, That every eye for tribute pay a tear. Come every Age, Estate, and Sex, come all, Come and bewail this stately Cedars fall. Come all wronged Orphans, come bewail your sire, Who did of late (but yet too soon) expire, Come woeful widows, come you, weep you fast, Your Anchor, and your hope, your help is past. Rich Burghers your of whom he once was chief, With tears bewray unto the world your grief, You at the Bar who plead your client's cause, Mourn that ye want the judge that judged your Laws, Grave learned judges all burst forth in moan, Your Light, your Lantern and your Guide is gone, State-ruling Peers, true pillars of the Crown, Fit for Bellona, or the peaceful gownc. Help to bewail that everfamous Lord, Whose noble parts nobility decored: The heavens themselves as murners do prepare, With signs of sorrow to increase our care. For when he died, the heavens on earth did pour, Grieved at his death, of tears a liberal shower. And ere he died, Latona's child so bright Crablike retired from his Spheres chief height. As if he would to every one bewray, In humane shape an heavenly lights decay. For he, as where his foolish son did guide The headstrong horses he was wont to ride, Obscures his rays and hides his glorious eye, Loathe on the earth, this woeful sight to see. Our Day did set when we expected least, Our Light, when full and at the highest, ceased. Our Summer ended, or it half was done, For lo, it ended in the midst of june. For with his date, our joys received theirs, His dulefull death gave life unto our cares. Speak tyrant Death, show if thou canst wherefore Thou spoiled the Stone that did our ring decore? Did not of late each State a tribute pay? Did not each-where thy cruelty bear sway? Peers, Churchmen, judges all did tribute give, And were content so he alone might live. But thou insatiate monster who is glad, To see the world strooke with amazement sad. In this thou pressed thy powerful force to show, Hurling all States by giving such a blow. Yet do thy worst, in spite of Time and Thee, His best parts still shall live and never die. His soul which from the Heavens to Earth descended, Bake from the Earth is to the Heavens ascended. There still to live with that great KING of Kings, Where Angels ever Halleluiah sings. And here on earth still famous shall remain, His famous Acts in spite of Time's disdain. No Marble, Porphire, Gold, Corinthiane Brass, Or Monument yet half so lasting was. Proud Pyramids of Artemisian frame, Vain Monuments of quick decaying fame, Will with their builders perish and decay, That where they stood scarce coming time can say, But he more wise hath built a Tomb more strong, Which still shall last, in spite of Envies wrong, Truth, justice, Mercy, Policy, and Peace, Shall this rare Hero's Tomb with dicton grace, For Truth shall say (and Truth can never lie) His rare true worth unparalleled shall be. justice and Mercy fitting for a judge, He wisely mixed and in his breast did judge: justice to none he never did refuse, Yet did stern Law with mercy of times use, That Pylian Sage, of whom his Ruler said, Troy could not stand, if but ten such he had, Might well be spared, did he in Counsel sit, Whose rypned judgement led each younger wit. And as on Hybla or Hymetus Hill, The honey Birds the flowery mountains fill. Searching from grass to grass, from flower to flower, To bring their sweet food to their sweetened Bower. Look to the travel of his younger years, And like to those his policy appears: For lo, he Belike past from place to place, Knowledge to gain which might his Country grace, Paines, travel, hazard, he esteemed nought, To gain the wished for knowledge which he sought. Loire, Seine, and Rhine, with Tiber, Arne, and Poe, Their Banks he passed to make his learning grow, And as the Bee from every flower doth take, The sweetest juice his pleasing food to make. Wherewith full fraught he hastes him to his Hive, Where Drones decay, but thirsty Bees do thrive. So in his travels with judicious eye, He did the best of foreign parts espy, And what in virtue's Gardens he found rare, He brought them home, and made them flourish fair. Which made his Prince (true judge of noble parts, Sole cherisher of virtue, worth and arts) To raise this Lord upon the Stage of State, To show his wit in judgements highest seat. Where whilst he spoke with judgement, wit, and Art, He ravished every ear, and every heart: His wise grave sentences so each man moved, He was of all admired, of all beloved. That scarce this envious world afforded one, That for his greatness grieved, e'er gave a groan. O wonder rare! most wonderful to see, A Statesman great, and well-beloved to be: Yet he his greatness managed with such skill, As he heap'tvp huge treasure of goodwill. Which now is known, for now each one may spy, What secret thought, in every breast did lie, For lo, the State grieves at this public loss, Each private man thinks this a private cross. That greatness gone (which as some man did think, Might make hid malice in some bosom shrink) There's none that life's, or breathes this common air, But for his death seems overcome with care. And reason would it that it should be so, Since public good did from his greatness grow. His chief designs were for the Common-good, Which who so crossed his counsel still withstood. Yet Prince's favour, honour, virtue, love, Can not stern Death to mild compassion move. O blind and deaf insatiate monster Death, Had thou had seen when as thou robbed his breath, His Lady's beauty or her careful cries, Had pierced thine ear, or moved thine hoodwinked eyes, His Friends complaints, his children's ruthful tears, Did plead for pity at thy deafened ears. Yet nought could stay thine hand from such a deed, As makes our hearts with woeful wounds to bleed. For Heaven's decree this judgement gives to all, That Prince and Peasant both by Death shall fall: Since Death's straight doom can be eschewed of none, Why for his death should we sigh, weep, and groan? For we did know when as he was most hie, That he was mortal, and was borne to dye. And thus to grudge against JEHOVAHS' will, May bring on us a fare more greater ill. And well we know, he died to live again, His death was but a period to his pain. We grudge not 'gainst the Architect of wonders, Whose fearful voice speaks in the mids of thunders. We only wail to testify our love, For his perfections did affection move. Those peerless parts he living did inherit, Now being dead, this at our hands doth merit. That as our bakes this badge of mourning bears, We should to Grief pay tribute with our tears. But ah, my Muse break off and come away, Thou shows too much of this our sad decay, Let braver wits this deep task undergo. To wail his want and manifest our woe. Life's uncertainty. BEhold vain man how frail a thing thou art, Proud of a puff, of soon consumed breath: Which with a blast will suddenly departed, When thou art cited by devouring death. Thy Pride, thy State, thine Honour, Blood & Gold, Can not Death's stroke one minute's space withhold Count from thy Cradle even unto thy Tomb, And thou shalt find Life but a Map of cares. For when thou first comes from thy Mother's womb, Thy life's first minute it is spent in tears, As if when borne thou did perfeclie know That thou wast borne to bear a birth of woe. And if more years thou happen to attain, Thy grief shall grow still as thy years increase, The more thy days, the more shall be thy pain, Few days shall pass without a new distress, Friends, parents', Children, Kins-folk, credit's loss, Or some such care shall still increase thy woes. Yea, if the World w●●ld pour into thy lap, Her richest treasures in a liberal shower, Yet think not much of this imagined hap, Which may be spent, or perish in an hour. Earth's flying joys are like a summer field, Whose blossoms must to flower-quell winter yield Imagine this (which to be found is rare, Thy joys were never interrupt with grief, Thy life-time spent without a dram of care, Yet at the last Death like a subtle Thief, Will steal thy joys, which is a fading treasure, To make thee know how perishing is pleasure. Life which the Worldings do so much adore: Is like a dream, a blast of wavering wind, A shade, a span, a smoke, an airy store, A gulf of grief, where few contentment find. A sea of sorrows and a ship of toys, Fraught full of certain cares, uncertain joys. Since life is such, then let us learn to die, That we by death a better life may gain, Let us this Scylla this Charybdis flee, Haste to the port and flee the troubled Main, Where we shall find contentment, and till then, No true contentment is to mortal men. FINIS.