THE Tragical Death OF SOPHONISBA. Written by DAVID MURRAY. SCOTO-BRITTAINE.  
✚ NON ALTUM PETO. ✚ I S. ✚   printer's or publisher's device 
AT LONDON Printed for john Smethwick, and are to be sold at his shop in Saint Dunstan's Churchyard in Fleetstreet, under the Dial. 1611.   

To the high and mighty Prince, HENRY Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Rothsay, Knight of the most noble order of the Garter.  
Thrice Noble Prince, by birth, by blood, by fame,  
Renowned by all, whom all men do adore,  
Not so much loved for greatness of your name,  
As for those virtues does your name decore:  
Young Haeros, whose haeroick actions sore  
Beyond the limits of your yet-spent years,  
Brave stately mind, wherein this time doth glore,  
Whose praises praising parts, the world admires:  
Under the shadow of your Eagles' wings,  
(Since no where else she can for safety fly)  
My humble Muse, most royal imp of Kings,  
In tragic verse, presents your Princely eye,  
With a true story of a Queen's sad case,  
Who gave her life to flee a foul disgrace.   

Another to the Prince.  
EVen as the Eagle through the empty sky,  
Convoys her young ones on her soaring wings,  
Above the azur'd vaults, till she them brings,  
Where they on Phoebus' glorious beams may pry:  
So (mighty Prince) my Muse now soars on high,  
Above the vulgar reach, to higher spheres,  
With this scarce ripened Eaglet-birth of hers,  
Unto the view of your Majestic eye,  
But if it hap, as hap, I fear, it shall,  
She may not bide your censures dazzling touch,  
The higher flight, the more renowned fall,  
It shall suffice, that her attempt was such,  
But if in aught she please your Princely view,  
Than she attains the mark, at which she flew.  
Your highness most loyal and affectionate servant, DA: MURRAY.   

The Argument of this Poem.  
AT what time that great and fatal enemy of Rome, Hannibal (after that he had won those memorable and famous battles of Ticenum, Trebesa, Thracimen, and Cans) had overrun and subdued the most part of all Italy, putting Rome herself into a marvelous fear to have been surprised if he had then followed his fortune: Of all her great Captains and Commanders (she then had) Fabius Maximus was esteemed the most wise and politic, Marcellus the most valiant, because by experience in sundry conflicts, he made the Romans know, that Hannibal was not invincible: yet of them all none so much repined to see the Majesty, and greatness of her state limited, as it were, within her own walls, as young Publius, Corn. Scipio, the son of that Publ. Scipio, who first fought with Hannibal at his coming into Italy, and afterwards killed, valiantly fight against his enemies, in Spain, with his brother Cne. Scipio. They both thus dead, & the army there destitute of a Commander, the Senate long time consulted to found out some worthy Captain to supply that room, but could found no man that durst undertake so dangerous a charge, considering the loss of two so great and famous Captains before. Till at length, the whole assembly being called, to choose a vice-consul, all the other Princes and Peers of the Realm being silent at so worthy a motion, Scipio being but 24. years of age, accepted the charge, and immediately thereupon departed for Spain, which to his immortal glory, he quickly subdued again to the Roman abedience; from whence returning to Rome, he was presently chosen Consul, with the great joy and applause of the people: and had Cicill assigned to him for his Province, with power (if he pleased) to make war in Aphrick. So being stirred up thereto by the often entreaties, and great promises of Massinissa king of Numidia, a valorous and courageous young Prince, and a great friend of the Romans, he levied new forces, and having prepared ships and munition in Sicill fit for such a journey, went thither: and after many famous baettels, at the last he overcame Hasdrubal, and Syphax king of the Mascaecilians; who to enjoy the beauty of Sophonisba, the daughter of the said Hasdrubal, had but lately left the Roman friendship, to take part with the Carthaginians; to follow whom Scipio sent Massinissa, with Caius Laelius and his light horsemen, whom they pursued to his own country, and there in a new conflict took him prisoner. Thereafter Massinissa went to Cyrtha the chief city of his Realm, which he took, and there at the first view become enamoured with the matchless and incomparable beauty of Sophonisba, whom not only he promised to free from Roman bondage, but also took her to his wife: which Scipio understanding, sharply rebukes him for his fault, telling him that no Roman confederate was able to give liberty to a prisoner taken by the Roman arms, who heavily regrating his offence, to so courteous and continent a Captain, and lamenting, he could not observe his promise to Sophonisba, sends her a cup of poison, with a letter, showing her, he could not else observe his faith given to her but by that potion, which she immediately drinks, to prevent all further misery, and gives me the Argument of this Poem.  

To my loving Cousin Da: Murray.  
Fair Sophonisba on her tragic stage,  
(To death, or bondage worse than death designed)  
Doth show the greatness of a proud grieved mind,  
The ambitious thoughts of Scipio to assuage:  
With courage far above her sex and age,  
She quafs the cup her lovesick Lord propined,  
By which although her lives-thred was untwined,  
Yet she triumphs above the Roman rage:  
Thrice happy Queen, and more than happy thrice,  
Who finds a rare Physician with such skill,  
To rob the Fates of thee there lawful prize,  
By virtue of his everliving quill,  
And makes that poison which bereft thy breath,  
By power of his pen, to poison death.  
Your loving Cousin. JOHN MURRAY.   

To my kind friend Dam Murray.  
IN new attire (and put most neatly on)  
Thou Murray makest thy passionate Queen appear,  
As when she sat on the Numidian throne,  
Decked with those Gems that most refulgent were.  
So thy strong muse her maker like repairs,  
That from the ruins of her wasted urn,  
Into a body of delicious airs:  
Again her spirit doth transmigrated turn,  
That scorching soil which thy great subject bore,  
Bread those that coldly but expressed her merit,  
But breathing now upon our colder shore,  
Here she hath found a noble fiery spirit,  
Both there, and here, so fortunate for Fame,  
That what she was, she's every where the same.  
M. DRAYTON   

To my dear friend DA: Murray.  
FAme (slave to Time) still flying here and there,  
Tells what sad wonders in this world hath been,  
Wrought with the tragic pencil of despair,  
Which doth naught else but horrid woes contain,  
Brave Sophonisba, fair, and stately Queen  
Whom Murrays wits, for virtue, now adores,  
None but this age her (matchless) like hath seen  
And none so high, her well deserving sores:  
For what she lost, his Muse again restores,  
Her life adorns his everliving lines  
His pen, her praise, each other still decores,  
So in here worth, his verse, most brightly shines:  
Fair Queen whose death did end the Romans strife,  
Hath made his Muse give her a braver life.  
SIMON GRAHAME.    

The Tragical Death of Sophonisba.  

SAD Massinissa, swoolne with grief and rage,  
When all his credit served not to entreat  
His brave victorious friend, to disengage  
His late-spoused Lady from a servile state:  
Half mad, distraught, confusedly doth he writ,  
To show, the Roman Conqueror thinks to sand  
Her as a slave his triumph to attend.   

But lo (quoth he) t'avoid this unkind doom,  
And that my oath un-uiolate remain,  
Made once to thee, thou never shouldst see Rome:  
That her proud Dames might glory in thy pain,  
And point their fingers at thee in disdain:  
I sand thee here a potion with my letters,  
To save my faith from foil, and thee from fetters.   

Yet if my unfeigned tears can have the force,  
(Dear Idol of my soul) with thee so much,  
I pray thee only have this small remorse  
Of thine own life, this cup thou never touch,  
Till that thou see thy hapless fortune such  
As nothing else can serve: I say (though loath)  
Drink this to save thine honour, and my oath.   

In this mean time il' labour with thy foe,  
In whose assistance I have spent my blood,  
To pity thy estate, and ease my woe,  
In the releasing of thy servitude;  
Which if his gentle Nature shall think good,  
Strait you shall know, if he refu●e, too soon,  
These lines, ay me! have said what should be done.   

Thus having written, with a sighing spirit,  
He folds those black news in a snowwhite sheet,  
Vtt'ring these speeches, to the scroll; her merit  
Deserved a better present than this writ:  
Yet shall she see so sare a thing in it,  
From servitude and shame shall save her now,  
And likewise me from a polluted vow.   

Than quickly calls he unto him a post,  
Whose secrecy he oft-times used to prove,  
Whom straightways he commands to leave the host,  
And bear these gifts of death unto his love;  
Who doth no sooner from his sight remove,  
But strait his conscience summons out his fact,  
TO appear before him in a shape most black.   

Behold the resolutions of man,  
How unaduisdly, sometimes, they proceed  
Breeding repentance oft-times, when they can  
Not bring a back that which they once decreed;  
The all-ruling heavens being the cause indeed,  
Which scorhing human wisdom lets us-know,  
The imperfections of our thoughts below.   

For lo this Prince who lately thought his faith,  
And his sweet Lady's liberty to stand,  
In the post-speedy acting of her death,  
Which made him this sad message to command,  
Which being passed he rows it out of hand.  
But can not now remend it which is worse,  
" Too late repentance ever breeds remorse.   

The messenger whom time and use had learned,  
Obsequious duty to his masters will,  
Hasts to his journey, having not discerned,  
The sudden passion that his soul did kill:  
Each cannot gaze a Prince's breast in till.  
Whose outward-iestures seldom do bewray,  
Those inward griefs, whereon there thoughts do prey   

So ist with him who on his journey goes,  
Thinking on nothing but a quick return,  
Leaving his master so or-come with woes,  
That down he lies upon his bed to mourn:  
Whose scalding sighs which inwardly do burn,  
The perly conduits of his tears up dries.  
As Phoebus, drinks the May due from the skies.   

It was the time by this the post departed,  
That golden Phoebus hides his glorious beams,  
Low in the Western Ocean, when uncarted:  
His neighing steeds leaving their wearied teams.  
Whose mouths through travel yet the froth out fumes.  
Goes to their nightly manger, and their guide,  
In Thetis lap his hoary head did hide.   

His sorrow-silent-stricken-toung, cannot  
Keep back the passage of his sighs, no more  
Which so assails it, that it leaves his throat,  
Returning thither whence it fled before,  
While coming to his breath's fair ivory door,  
It begs a passport from his lips of new,  
To those greefe-boyling sighs which so pursue.   

But they like volleys, willing to be wrocken,  
On it poor tongue, that stayed their course so long,  
Disorderly do march, their ranks being broken  
All would be first for to revenge their wrong,  
Even as we see a mad unruly throng,  
Of country Clowns, to sack some bordering town,  
Run swarming from the hills and mountains down.   

Or as a Crystal current, that is stayed,  
To pay his debtfull tribute to the sea,  
His channel stopped, whereby his course delayed,  
He's forced a back unto his source to fly,  
Till that his streams increased, he grows so high,  
That over banks and brays he runs a main,  
Impetuously unto the sea again.   

So his unruly sighs all headlong follow,  
Each striving first who shall prevent an other:  
But his throats entry being strait and hollow,  
And they in number numberless come thither,  
Cannot afford them passage altogether.  
While striving for the place each in disdain,  
Sends one another smothered back again.   

His eyes which all this time enclosed lie,  
Gazing upon the motions of the thought:  
How soon those civil broils they do espy,  
That sorrow had to his minds kingdom brought,  
Not longer in their Coverletts they might  
Behold the tragic view of their friends dying,  
But strait retires them to their former being.   

His tongue and eyes now comed to their own place,  
It enters to complain, and they to weep,  
For since the ardour of his sighs did cease,  
The humid vapours which his heart did keep,  
Vnboyld by them, to his eyes cisterns creep.  
From thence upon his tender cheeks down hops,  
Hanging like Pearls upon his soft-downe crops.   

And after long spent tears, his tongue at length  
In piteous sort those woeful words did breath,  
Wretched Massinissa, had thou not the strength,  
To save one poor distressed Dame from death,  
Brought under by unconstant fortunes wrath?  
Who only under safety of thy shield,  
Poor Lady, life and liberty did yield.   

And that on such a covenant alas,  
She thee engaged these jewels of her mind,  
That thou should still preserve her from disgrace,  
Which thou to do, thyself by oath didst bind,  
OH cruel, cruel, thousand times unkind,  
That could not else observe thy passed faith,  
But by thy hapless lovers woeful death.   

Ah! who had seen her, when thou didst behold her,  
Heaving her fair and snowwhite hands to thee.  
Craving thy pity, as thyself than told her,  
(Though in th' extremest state of misery)  
Become much rather her sweet self to be  
A pity giver, then to beg the same,  
That so with looks the conqueror overcame.   

Thrown down by fortune, plunged in deep distress,  
Crossed with affliction, overcome with sorrow:  
Touched with each passion, could a mind oppress;  
Captived or night, that was a Queen at morrow,  
Yet her sweet looks, though sad sweet looks did borrow,  
Both pity, and compassion, to her grief,  
Deferring present evil, t' a worse mischief.   

Vindictive thoughts, calamity and care,  
Foes unto beauty, majesty, and grace,  
Made her not seem less beautiful, less fair,  
For though that sorrow seemed to mask her face,  
Yet her fair eyes, as if they scorned disgrace,  
While floods of liquid pearls down from them powers,  
Did glance like Phoebus' rays in April showers.   

Aye me! unhappy, thus to mind her rarities,  
To which all hearts and eyes did own their beauty,  
While all her virtues (as contesting parties;)  
Do now upbraid me with the breach of duty,  
For had she not been of such birth and beauty;  
And always matchlesse-excellent, God knows,  
Her mischiefs had been less, and less my woes.   

For, o! this grieves me more than death tenfold,  
To think that one of such desert must dye,  
And that I have not power to control it,  
Yea that I must the author thereof be,  
O wondrous! wondrous contrariety!  
O woeful chance! grief past compare to give  
Death to that life, by which I only live.   

O this it is torments my martyred mind,  
That my unhappy destiny is such,  
To prove most cruel, where I would most kind:  
Is this th' effect? o gods! of loving much,  
If it be so, let never love more touch  
The plagued heart of such a woeful wretch,  
Cursed be that love that cruelty doth hatch.   

Sweet Sophonisba, when thou shalt receive,  
That hateful potion, which I now have sent thee;  
It will not grieve thee half so much to leave  
(I know the heavens so great a spirit have lent thee)  
Thy lingering life, as that it will repent thee.  
Thou was not killed in that unhappy day,  
When in proud Cyrtha thou become my prey.   

For had thou then by rage of victor's wrath,  
Been cruelly killed by force of Sword or Dart,  
Moore happy thrice had been thy hapless death,  
And gladlier might thy Ghost to Styx departed,  
Nor left to dye by one to whom thy heart  
Thou gave in pledge of liberty and life,  
Who saved a captive Queen to kill a wife.   

But now to die when life was most assured  
By oath and promise sealed with wedlocks knot,  
An heavy burdning ne'er to be endured,  
Detested fact which cannot be forgot,  
Heinous offence which never Time shall blot:  
But that it shall by all-relating fame,  
Fly through the world to my eternal shame.   

Why did I not forewarn thee at thy taking,  
Freely to death or bondage to give place?  
But then (alas) was no such bargain making,  
For the nere-like-seene beauty of thy face,  
Bewitched me then with such enchanting grace,  
That in despite of all the Roman swords,  
I vowed thy safety and defence by words.   

Which o! hath proved a weak and strengthless vow  
Afoording nothing unto thee but death:  
For had thou deigned thy haughty heart to bow  
To th'meanest soldier that our Legions hath,  
He rather would have sacrificed his breath,  
Or that he would have suffered thee to be  
Used by constraint, much less have seen thee die.   

But I much more than common soldiers be:  
A Captain, a Commander, and a King,  
Whom Fortune in her grace advanced so high,  
That mighty Princes I to bands did bring,  
Cannot (alas) OH to be wondered thing!  
Thee poor distressed Dame from bondage shield,  
Who to none living but myself would yield.   

Thou neither life, nor kingdom didst implore,  
Nor yet thy husband Syphax his relief,  
Nor that they would thy royalty restore,  
Nor that thy followers might avoid mischief,  
Not, hapless Queen, this was thy only grief,  
And woeful suit, that to no Roman borne,  
Thou might be given to live in servile scorn.   

Innated hatred, bred in either blood,  
Of Carthaginian and of Roman race,  
far worse than death, fear of their servitude,  
Made thee alas, to think it less disgrace,  
To have been sacrificed in that place,  
By some— blood guilty hand, nor lived a Queen,  
In chains of gold, in Rome's fair City seen.   

Which made thee to rely thy hopes on me,  
Whom neighbourhood and nature did combine,  
Comed of Italian blood by no degree,  
But of that ancient great Numidiau line,  
Which ever at Rome's greatness did repined:  
And most of all, this one thing moved thy mind.  
That I was theirs by chance, and not by kind,   

And on my part much more did challenge love,  
Than country, blood, or birth, or high degree,  
Majestic courage, beauty, grace, did move,  
And pled compassion in the cruelest eye,  
Hard Tygrist hearted, and remorseless he,  
Hearing thy sighs and plaints, viewing thy tears,  
Would not have freed the scorning world of fears.   

Is death a jointer equal to thy dower?  
Should such a beauty be bereft of breath?  
But feeble Massinissa see thy power,  
Behold the fruits are frustrate of thy faith,  
Who couldst not save a Lady fair from death,  
To whom (alas) were left no other means,  
But she must die a Queen, or live in chains.   

OH Liberty! too dearly, dearly bought  
At such a rate, so ransomed and obtained,  
And who procures you so, may well be thought  
Of his own life too prodigal a friend:  
OH cruel freedom! that must be maintained  
By bloods expense, and by no other way,  
As this unhappy wretched Queen may say.   

Yet wronged Lady, thou art not to blame,  
Now to exchange thy life for liberty:  
I must sustain the blot thereof with shame,  
As th'only author of thy misery;  
Happy, (though hapless I) thou aye shalt be,  
For thy brave mind into renown be had,  
Though still detested I who thee betrayed.   

What shall the world and coming ages speak,  
When they shall read the story of thy fall?  
Shall they not swear that I might justly break  
To flinty Scipio, and the Romans' all?  
A traitor to my heart they shall me call:  
To thee but mercy: cruel, and unkind,  
And justly all to me may be assigned.   

Both to my Dear ungrateful, and to Nature  
I shall be thought (alas) for ever still,  
That furnished death, unto so rare a creature,  
Whom even Death's self did pity (o) to kill:  
OH to be thought-of-memorable ill!  
Which by no tract of time shall be forgotten,  
But shall grow ever green, when it seems rotten.   

What rests there then (detested wretch) to thee?  
But that thou found out some repairelesse place  
To wail thy woes: but whither shalt thou fly  
To save thee from the sting of thy disgrace?  
For no where great Apollo shows his face,  
To Indus, Tagus, Tay, nor Nilus' stream,  
But all shall know vile Massinissa's shame.   

Mourn forth thy shame with never-stanching tears,  
Sigh for thy error till thy heart be broken,  
Acquaint thy wrong to Tigers, Wolves, and Bears,  
Whose quenchless thirst of blood, thy blood may slocken,  
That so thy fault may be severely wrocken:  
And for thy beastly cruelty, that they  
To staunch their hunger, on thy corpse may pray.   

But if more pity in their savage hearts,  
There be nor was in thy remorseless mind,  
Think that the same naught else to thee imparts,  
But as thou nature, so they'll pass their kind,  
Which being to rapine and to blood inclined,  
Yet lest it were a benefit to thee,  
From torturing thoughts deny thy soul to free.   

And sometimes while the Turtle moans her make,  
With many a heavy, shrill, and piteous cry,  
Leaning her soft breast to a withered stake,  
Still craving death, (poor bird) but cannot die:  
Not other beast near-hand, nor no fowl nigh,  
Who having lost her love, doth hate repair,  
Be thou her Echo to resound her care.   

Sing thou the triple to her mournful songs,  
Reply her sad notes with thy dying groans,  
While she bewails her griefs, bewail thy wrongs,  
And as she sits on pricks, sit thou on stones:  
This sympathy shall best become your moans;  
This harmony of never-dying plaints,  
Best fits the humours of such malcontents.   

This Purgatorie-penance to endure,  
With patience thyself till death content,  
Into those deserts where thou must immure  
Thy errors everlasting penitent,  
ne'er finding one with whom thou mayst frequent;  
Unless thou hap upon some homely cell,  
Where Pilgrims haunt and hoary Hermits dwell.   

Live then this death, or rather dye this life,  
Let it be death to live, and life to die:  
Let thy own soul be with thy soul at strife:  
Let thy own heart, thy hearts own bourreau be,  
Let all the evils on death triumph in thee,  
Let still thyself be of these evils the worst,  
In actions all, in life, in death accursed.   

Thus all the night he did his plaints renew,  
Mourning his sweet loves wolfull misery:  
And now the Morning lent a loathed adieu,  
Till amorous Titan in a scarlet dye,  
And the swift-winged Consort mounting high,  
Tun doubt their sweetest warbles in the skies,  
Till Phoebus wakened with their restless cries.   

Who piece and piece his golden head upheaves,  
Above th'unconstant watery liquid Maino,  
There weeping Memnon's loss, Aurora leaves,  
Whose tears for pity he quaffes up again,  
Which all the night bedewed had each plain:  
The tender grass seemed by their withered crops,  
To wail the wanting of these wholesome drops.   

And now the Light (expelling darkness) shined  
Through Sophonisba's chamber where she lay,  
Who all this night was most extremely pined,  
With ugly visions did her mind astray,  
That she can naught discern: if it be day,  
She thinks she dreams that which she waking sees,  
Scarce if she will give credit to her eyes.   

But whether that accustomated time,  
Or then the loathing of a restless rest,  
Or of imagination of some crime,  
The waking Sent'nell of each careful breast:  
Or then the nature of a mind oppressed:  
Made her to knows, or if that all in one,  
But now she finds the night away is go.   

Than enters she for to bethink what end,  
The Oracles imported she had dreamed,  
To which her fancies Commentar's do lend,  
Direct contrary to that they had proclaimed,  
To apprehended the worst she is ashamed:  
Love makes her judge of things in such degree,  
Not as they were, but as she wished to be.   

But now t'avoid those ominous conceits  
Sleep did afford, she quickly up arose,  
Leaving the snowwhite, soft, and lawny sheets,  
Impoverished thereby t'enrich her cloes,  
Which to presage her worser-comming woes,  
That day by fortune were of colour black:  
And thus unwares death's livery she doth take.   

In which her heart-bereaving beauty shined,  
Like fair Diana in the fable night,  
Or like a polished Diamond of Ind,  
Set in black jet, to give a glance more bright,  
Or like the great bright Pattern of the light,  
When that his glorious glistering beams do chase  
Some over-shadowing clouds that mask his face.   

Her conquering eyes were in ambuscad laid  
Of golden glittering heir, where twinkling they  
Sand forth such dazzling glances from that shade,  
As Phoebus' brighter never did display:  
There wanton Cupid sporting himself lay.  
In those pure streams, which from those eyes distilled,  
From whence un-wares the haughtiest bears he killed,   

Her smooth cheeks whiter than the whitest lawn,  
Or winter snows which cover Atlas' face,  
Where Nature artificially had drawn,  
Her fairer nose, that fairer part to grace:  
On whose each side a little distant space,  
vermilion Roses, and sweet Lilies grew  
Which chequered that fair field● with crimson hue.   

Her teeth like ranks of oriental pearl,  
With coral died lips were compassed round,  
From whence far sweeter than the well tuned merle:  
Her heart-bereaving tongue did softly found:  
Words of such force the flintiest heart to wound.  
Her balmy breath, in worth, in taste, in smell,  
Did civet, musk, and amber-greaze excel.   

Her dimpled chin (loves cabinet) where he,  
To gaze on hidden beauty often repar'd,  
Their sat the wanton, and with lusting eyes,  
Now on her breast, now on her belly stared:  
Whose amorous soul with such hid joys ensnared.  
Betwixt her milky globes skipped often from thence,  
A littler lower to delight his sense.   

Her marble neck did underprop those graces,  
Which from her line straight-body stately sprung,  
Her folding arms into there several places,  
Close by her tender dainty sides down hung:  
From whence her snow white hands, smooth, sleek and long  
In ivory columns, did themselves forth spread,  
Whose smallest touch the heaviest heart could glad.   

Her breast the cabin of her Princely mind,  
Whereon two alabaster globes were fixed,  
Whose wounding aspect the beholders pined:  
Being here and there with azur'd veins commixed,  
To tell her other rar'ties were prolixt.  
Imagine all her clotheses of crystal glass,  
Where eyes cannot, let apprehension pass.   

But lively to express her right idea,  
And in a word her matchless parts to tell,  
Such was sweet Sidney's fair, fair Philoclea,  
When her brave rivals at contention fell  
By Ladons streams, yet ours did her excel.  
In that his brain but dreamed of such as she,  
Ours was that which, his brain dreamed her to be.   

Thus decked (sweet Lady) both by Art and Nature,  
Viewed, wondered at, admired by each eye,  
She leaves her chamber like some heavenly creature,  
Adorned with all the pomp of Majesty,  
But ah! who can avoid the Fates decree?  
What power can fly death, when he list to strike,  
In court and cottage privileged a like?   

Nor doth this breath-bereaving monster keep,  
A certain diet, or appointed date,  
For sometime they who most securely sleep,  
Who do on nothing less than death conceit,  
There life then hangs into most dangerous state:  
For why unwares he oft-times comes to many,  
But being called for, seldom comes to any.   

And when he comes, request, nor yet entreat,  
With this remorseless caitiff naught avails,  
For when he finds approach the fatal date:  
The execution never in him fails,  
So many kind of ways this thief assails,  
That where so ere we go, we walk, or far,  
Head-longs we run the post into his snare.   

Ten thousand divers means he has, whereby  
He does destroy this little world of man,  
Sometime by natural sickness makes him lie,  
Till Atrop's cut the thread her sister span:  
Sometime by sword, by pestilence, or than  
By cruel famine, which of all is worst,  
Poor silly man to quit his breath is forced.   

He sometime stirs up brother against brother  
To cruel jars, like earthborn Cadmus' brood,  
And which is more unnatural, makes the mother  
TO inwombe again her child for want of food,  
And sometime makes within the raging flood,  
The monstrous great Balena to entomb,  
Poor wretched man within his hollow womb.   

And in this last age 'mongst so many hunders,  
Of divers kinds of instruments he hath,  
The devil has moulded one engine that thunders  
Destruction, ruin, horror, terror, death;  
This mercy-wanting frame, this birth of wrath,  
Not only brai's to ashes, flesh and bones,  
But ruins mountains, hills and towers of stones.   

Yet notwithstanding all those diverse ways,  
He hath reserved secret means, where by,  
To kill whom neither sword nor famine slays,  
Nor natural death, nor pestilence makes die:  
Nor that is swallowed by the raging sea.  
With powerful poison secret and unseen,  
He can dispatch, as he did serve this Queen.   

For now the post, who, as you heard, was go,  
From Masinissa so his journey hied  
That by the swift paced horses of the Sun,  
Were in their places to his Chariot tied.  
He Sophonisbae's palace had espied.  
And even as from her chamber she did go,  
He doth his letters and his credit show.   

But he no sooner doth approach her sight,  
When lo her always harme-misdeeming mind,  
Takes apprehension all things went not right:  
Whether 'twere that her Genius so divined,  
Or that her thoughts suspiciously inclined,  
Marking the letters date and his great speed,  
Conjectures some sad matter to succeed.   

Yet doth she all that lies in her to cover,  
This sudden fear that so appalls her heart,  
And to that end asks for his Lord her lover:  
In what good health he was, and in what part:  
And with that word her staggering tongue did thwart.  
For the remembrance in what part he was,  
enforced her mind to sadder thoughts give place.   

Than with a hovering silence still she stands  
And gazes on the ground with staring eyes,  
The simple swain to such abrupt demands,  
E'er he could answer long amazed stays;  
At last with bashful tongue he thus replies,  
Your royal husband, Madam, and my Lord,  
Rests in good health as I can well record.   

Of which (said he) I hope his princely letter.  
Can better far than I inform your grace,  
I thank thee friend (said she) but sighs did let he▪  
To say the rest, such was her careful case:  
Transported for a while, she held her peace.  
Words kill sighs, sighs kill words again,  
So that betwixt them her discourse in slain.   

This airy combat, this debate of breath,  
This speech restraining, strife, this sighing war  
Did even bewray what she to show was saith:  
And makes the carrier to discern her care,  
Who sad to see a beauty matchless fair,  
In such a plight (poor swain) he smiling told her,  
How much his loving Lord longed to behold her.   

By speech and gesture she remarks him then,  
Undoubted badges of a troubled mind,  
And neither token, nor appearance can  
Of any harm by his behaviour found;  
So that her fears they vanish with the wind.  
And her disturbed thoughts of new takes hold,  
Of better hopes which makes her somewhat bold.   

She takes the letter and with smile cheer,  
She opens and vnfoulds the seals with speed,  
At the first view whereof it did appear,  
The crimson beauty of her cheeks did fade  
Which strait returns into a brighter red,  
In scarlet colour dying all her face,  
Which to pale whiteness soon again gives place.   

But howsoe'er her blood thus went and came.  
Uninterrupted she reads out the letter,  
And having read it still reads o'er the same:  
The more she reads it seems she likes it better,  
The standers-by thought it some lovely matter,  
Which in the reading bred her so great pleasure,  
Leaves her alone to read it at more leisure,   

Thus left, and left in such a taking to,  
She takes the poison and remarks it well,  
Which she could not so vnamaz'dly do,  
But that her heart a sudden change did feel.  
Her dazzled eyes began for fear to reell,  
And if that honour had not come to aid her,  
Frail flesh and life to view it more had staid her.   

Than enters strait a combat in her soul,  
Betwixt her honour and her fearful life,  
Life wishes her to shun a death so foul:  
Honour by death prays her to end all strife:  
Life yet entreats for respite to her life,  
And honour still protests that in no case,  
But by her death she can avoid disgrace.   

And adds this more, that if she meant to live,  
She needs would leave her, and with her also,  
Her chastity which heavily did grieve,  
To be a prey to an insulting foe:  
And prays her to accept of either two,  
A glorious death with honour and with fame,  
Or still to live with foul reproach and shame.   

But life again those reasons t'overthrow,  
A thousand sweet alluring baits doth lay  
Before her eyes, thereby to make her know,  
'Twas inhuman herself to kill and slay:  
Said she let skil-contending Doctors play.  
Such tragic fits that do maintain like fools,  
This honour in their Academic schools.   

And whereas honour now would threaten thee,  
That if thou live, thou must quite claim, for ay  
Thy wont fame and spotless chastity,  
Who shall accuse thee for the same I pray?  
Thy husbands lost, captived, go, and away,  
For that no ransom ever can redeem him,  
So that for dead I doubtless do esteem him.   

Dead must to dead, the living to the living,  
The grave cannot be capable of love,  
It ill beseems thy youth to be thus grieving:  
Must thou a mourner restless ever prove?  
Thy beauty was not framed to such behove,  
That thy sweet years should still consumed be,  
A votaress unto loves-foe, chastity.   

Let vestals, who all other Nuns excels,  
Closely immured from men's society,  
While as they chat in their religious cells,  
Maintain this idle theme of chastity,  
Let this their Evensong, and their Matins be,  
A text more fitting that retired sort,  
Than for the tender beauties of the Court.   

Beauty (God knows) was not ordained to moon,  
Nor to live chastely at her first creation:  
For skilful Nature, who hath made the Sun  
To give us light, made her for procreation,  
Not Image-like for ostentation,  
But as choice fruits are made-of for choice seeds,  
And stately Stallions to breed stately steeds.   

As th'Apple to the taste, the Rose to smell,  
The pleasant Lily to delight the eye,  
Gould for the touch, sweet Music grief to expel,  
So rarest beauty was ordained to be,  
The minds desired full satiety,  
The treasure of the soul, the heart's delight,  
loves full contentment both by day and night.   

Stray but along the pleasant fields and see,  
If that each creature loves not in some measure,  
The wanton birds sit billing on each tree,  
To see the fair Pawn woo, it were a pleasure,  
Beauty alone is not the Prince's treasure,  
Mark well each flock, by mountain or by plain,  
Is followed by some loving Nymph or Swain.   

There feeds the Heifer, and the gentle Ewe,  
Courting the proud Bull, and the sawey Ram,  
There does the courser his hot love pursue,  
With his brave breeder in a mutual flame:  
The timorous Hare, and Conie doth the same,  
So doth the princely Stag, the milk white Hind,  
All love according to their course of kind.   

And if it be not that sole bird of wonder,  
The Arabian Phoenix, nothing breath's but loves,  
Which vestal like, doth spend of years five hunger,  
And never loves sweet operation proves;  
The thought thereof, so much her chaste mind moves,  
That as aggrieved to live so long alone,  
At length she burns for sorrow in the sun.   

How then unkindly honour with thee deals,  
Who so untimely would thy life bereave?  
As if that nothing now save death avails,  
Nor that thou could not live unless a slave,  
How fond lo, she seeks thee to deceive,  
There's no such danger, if thou wilt believe,  
From hence therefore, let no such thoughts thee grieve.   

The meekest conquerors to a yielding foe,  
That ever yet aspired to greatness height,  
Are the brave Romans, who as wisely know,  
To use their mercy as they do their might;  
Let not despair so much thy soul affright,  
For why thy fates more good to thee design,  
If thou do not against thy fates repined.   

Conceit that thou must bravely live in bliss,  
Think that thy mind and fortune shall agreed,  
Who knows but that thy noble friend ere this,  
Has mollified proud Scipio's hard decree?  
' 'tis time enough sweet Queen for thee to dye,  
When thou art not thyself, even then alas,  
When thy true glass shall show thy wrinkled face.   

Thy dainty corpse fits better to receive  
The sweet embracements of a loving friend  
Than to be made a morsel for the grave,  
From whence again it cannot be redeemed:  
Oh! that from thence it might be still exeem'd,  
Thy beauty is too delicate a prey,  
By loathsome worms to be consumed away.   

Thus fearful life did for herself protest,  
Still seeking entertainment by delays;  
Till Honour mad to see her so possessed,  
With such enchanting, false, and Siren says,  
Her conquering colours boldly forth displays,  
Into the face of life, and in this sort,  
Her arguments and errors doth re●ort,   

And what OH life! and must thou too conspire  
With her disgrace t'outlive a glorious name?  
Fie dastard, banish such a fond desire,  
And blush thou didst conceit the same for shame,  
I put the case thou pass the date of fame,  
And that thou scape th' insulting victor's wrath,  
Yet what assurance hast thou of thy breath?   

Which like a dream, a smoke, a vapour flies,  
Without assured or prefixed date,  
How many well at morn or evening dies?  
" Such is the frailty of our humane state,  
" Most certainly uncertain of our fate.  
Yet this we know for certain, we must dye.  
When, where, or how God knows, uncertain we.   

Than peevish hag, how dares thou thus presume,  
With thy be-lying reasons to persuade,  
This fortune-wronged Lady to see Rome,  
As if no danger thereby might be had?  
Shall it of Sophonisba (ah) be said,  
That she t'shunne a transitory pain,  
Made choice to live unto her honour's stain.   

Not, not, it were an unadvised choice,  
Great Queen, for thee to live with such disgrace,  
What more dishonour couldst thou do to those,  
I mean to Syphax, Carthage, and thy race,  
Than that thou shouldst now fearfully give place  
To life's allurements, which doth seek with shame,  
To kill thee by the kill of thy same?   

Would not great Syphax blush to hear it told,  
His souls chief minion, darling of his heart,  
T'enjoy whose love, he was so fond bold,  
From the great Romans friendship to departed,  
Which makes him live captived in endless smart,  
Should now t'his eternal grief be made,  
A lustful prey unto a lawless bed?   

And would not Rome's Corrival to be sorry,  
Great Carthage that her Sophonisba should  
Be made a trophae to the Roman glory,  
Whose matchless beauty oft-times purchase could  
more friends to her then all her wealth or gold,  
It doubtless would breed in that famous city  
Moore hate to her then either love or pity.   

What would thy parents, friends, and kindred say,  
If thou shouldst yield a captive now to be?  
But all bewail the cursed unhappy day  
Of thy conception and nativity:  
Than drink this potion, that thou mayst set free  
Thy matchles-noble mind from being thrall,  
So shalt thou be most famous in thy fall.   

Look how we see on glassy Neptune's face,  
Two warlike ships a furious fight begin,  
Now flies the one, the other now takes chase,  
Now by the loof, now by the lee they run,  
The liquid Main with their sharp beaks they twin:  
At length they grapple, and then boards in haste,  
And who first enters back again is chased.   

Not otherwise within her care-fraught breast,  
This powerful combat twixt her life and honour,  
Is still maintained by turns, whiles th'one is chased,  
While th'other flies, whiles both do set upon her,  
Yet neither of them to their side can win her:  
But now to honour, now to life gives place,  
And dares not either freely to embrace.   

Now in the midst of this intestine war,  
Uncertain thus to either side to yield,  
Her passions still augment, more grows her care;  
Her woes the greater that they are concealed:  
" Sorrow is lightest when it is revealed:  
" A heavy burden to a troubled heart,  
" Is much to feel, and little to impart.   

Yet in this sad and silent agony,  
While life and honour furiously contend,  
Enters brave Courage with audacity,  
And gives this inward strife a fatal end,  
And Honours high attempt doth so commend,  
That in despite of what her life could say,  
Makes her resolved to die without delay.   

At last she gently enters to unfold  
Her coral lips, from whence her balmy breath,  
Even loathe to leave that paradised hold,  
Where it so long time sweetly sojourned hath,  
Fly's hovering 'bout her lips afraid of death,  
Till gentle Zephir's gales finding it there,  
Doth softly blow it to perfume the air.   

Look how in clear Meanders winding brinks,  
The snowwhite Swan her exequys doth sing  
In sweetest notes, till that for pain she shrinks,  
And doth her music with her breath resign:  
Even so doth she, OH to be wondered thing!  
Unto the poison such sweet speeches breath,  
As she had courted Cupid and not Death.   

Thrice-happy welcome gift (said she to me)  
And much more welcome had thou been (God knows)  
If husband's hands had not afforded thee,  
For Deaths more grievous friends do give then foes,  
Yet art thou not to blame, thou knewst my choice  
Was ever to prefer a glorious death  
Before an ignominious servile breath.   

I thank you heartily for your kind regard,  
And for the due advertisement you give  
Of Scipio's plots, against poor me prepared,  
Who for his own sake suffers me to live,  
The period of Ambition to achieve,  
To lead in triumph such a mighty Queen,  
Who never shall at Rome alive be seen.   

Nor shall that proud ore-all-empiring city,  
Or her more proud inhabitants, whose rage  
My father, friends, and kindred all but pity,  
Killed and undid their fury to assuage,  
Behold me captive closed up in a cage,  
Or lead in triumph to their Capitol,  
I rather choose a thousand deaths to tholl.   

Where her fair glorious Dames enriched by spoil  
Of an unlawful conquest, daily wears  
Those robes and jewels which with great turmoil,  
Others have conquered to their hapless heirs:  
Who overcome with this great power of theirs,  
Give all they have to ransom their poor lives,  
Which they sand home to beautify their wives.   

Shall they into their windows richly decked,  
To gaze upon my miseries remain?  
Or shall they with their longing looks expect  
My wished approach, their eyes to entertain  
With the sad object of my glories wain?  
But ere their sights be satisfied so,  
I rather choose quick to my grave to go.   

Not, none o'er me shall so insult or vaunt,  
Whom slave nor captive they shall never see,  
Though conquered and over come myself I grant,  
In all things else, yet of my liberty  
None other living shall commander be;  
Which I esteem and prize at higher rate,  
Than whatsoever riches, wealth, or state.   

Shall I who in the highest chief degree  
Of Fortune's favour lately shined in grace,  
Abase myself so low a slave to be,  
To those who ruin'd me and all my race?  
Not, not such thought nor motion shall have place,  
Though all the evils on earth should me oppress,  
I lived a Queen, and I must die no less.   

Let Rome triumph to hear of my distress,  
But never glory to behold my woe:  
Scipio my wrack in words may well express,  
But me a captive shall he never show:  
Go who so list, I never mean to go  
One foot, to grace his victories, I vow,  
With his designs being so acquainted now.   

Have not mine eyes as yet beheld alas,  
To many woeful objects, but of force  
They must behold and view their own disgrace,  
To grace the breeders triumph which is worse:  
Is there no other pity nor remorse?  
My crown's bereft, what rests there more to do,  
Must they bereave me of my honour to?   

The gods and nature to the world did give me,  
Most free by birth, and so drop reg've lived as yet,  
And of my birthright would they now bereave me  
To curb me with captivities hard bit?  
I mind not so from Nature's gift to flit.  
My freedoms lease till death doth not expire,  
Which I to forfeit never shall desire.   

Thrice happy ye that spent your blessed breaths  
In the defence of country liberty,  
Who by your glorious and renowned deaths,  
Expressed your minds great magnanimity:  
And left sad tokens to the enemy  
Of your great valour and courageous spirits  
While each his death, with his foe's death acquits.   

As most kind children to your native soil,  
In her defence ye spent your dearest blood,  
Your eyes ne'er viewing the regratefull spoil  
Heavens having your attempts and force withstood  
Which the proud fortune-followed multitude,  
Of your fierce foes took on your hapless airs,  
Being plagued both in this your loss, and theirs.   

Of which none justlier may lament than I,  
The woeful type of fortunes fickle grace,  
Who with those hapless eyes (alas) did spy:  
My noble father slain before my face:  
And by his side the most part of our race.  
My husband conquered and captived also,  
In whose each grief I felt a several woe.   

But fortune never wearied of change,  
Unconstant goddess which affects naught more,  
As if alone on me she meant revenge,  
While death and horror stood my eyes before,  
Did then present me with a show of glote,  
As if repenting of her former wrong,  
And yet meant greater injuries ere long.   

Who would have thought amidst a world of woes,  
While nothing but destruction did appear,  
All being in power of the insulting foes,  
Life, liberty, or what I held most dear:  
Tears in my eyes, my heart possessed with fear,  
Looking for nothing but a shameful death,  
That fortune than had mitigate her wrath?   

Oh! had I died when death was so expected,  
It had not seemed so grievous far (alas)  
For while I stood at under and dejected,  
Bearing the burden of a sad disgrace,  
I would have thought he pitied had my case  
Who had me killed in such a woeful plight,  
For death, in sorrow and despair, seems light.   

But fortune false, her fury to fulfil,  
Reserved me then to a more wretched end,  
As to make him the author of my ill,  
Who from all evils did ever me defend,  
But pardon me dear friend if I offend,  
In counting thee a partner of my wrack,  
Since death seems grievous which from thee I take.   

Scarce have I dreamed yet of that matchless pity,  
Which undeserved you did extend to me,  
When in the ruins of this sacked city,  
Thou did preserve my wished liberty,  
And which is more, vouchsafst me then to be,  
Thy blessed and happy, now cursed hapless bride,  
Since this sad potion must our loves divide.   

How can I but regrate, complain and moan,  
When scarcely yet I have begun to taste  
Those speechless pleasures that attend upon  
The sweet fruition of a Nuptial feast,  
Where sacred Hymen should be chiefest guest,  
Sweet Madrigals, and blessed hymns be sung,  
And no sad tolls of buriall-bells be rung.   

O let them judge, who with delight and joy,  
Have felt the pleasures of sweet wedlock's bed,  
What grief, what care, what sorrow, what annoy,  
It's to forsake the same ere it be had!  
Thus only this, and nothing else that's said,  
Makes me to hate this woeful gift of thine,  
Which otherwise seems a most blessed propine.   

But what, OH love! and must thy passions be  
So powerful in my soul, that they must move  
Me to accuse him of severity,  
Who in his actions all, most kind doth prove?  
Not rather far detested be all love,  
Or it enforce me in a thought to fall,  
To him I honoured ay, and ever shall.   

Sweet Massinissa, courteous, gentle, kind,  
That you are so, i'll seal it with my blood,  
Nothing torments so much my dying mind,  
Thou wast not in my better fortunes loved,  
And OH that thou, if fates had thought it good,  
Had cropped the blossoms of my beauties prime,  
Which now you scarce have tasted out of time.   

This, this it is, breeds my eternal smart,  
That in the desolation of my glory,  
My waning beauty did surprise thy heart,  
Dear Lord, this makes thy dying spouse most sorry,  
To think that she must be the woeful story,  
A registered remarkable mischief,  
Whose love had birth and burial both in grief.   

That you are guiltless of my hapless death,  
I both attest the heavens and spirits above,  
In witness whereof here I do bequeath,  
My heart to thee, in token of our love,  
From hence no amorous motion shall me move:  
Farewell therefore, to life, to love, and thee,  
True witnesses of dear bought liberty.   

Go wanton Cupid, sport thee with thy mother,  
In some more happy climate than is ours,  
Here thou and Death will ne'er agreed together,  
He likes the Graves, and thou the reveling Bowers,  
Lascivious Rome with her skie-mounting towers,  
As Empress of all kingdoms and Empires,  
Seems fittest place for fuel to thy fires.   

Whose amorous youths, when once they feel the force,  
Of thy envenomed shafts, shall freely story  
Me and my masinissa's sad divorce,  
Feeding their Lady's ears with farre-fetchd glory,  
Straining their tongues, their wits and memory,  
In their best form, with eloquence to show,  
Such accidents as they desire to know.   

One in his arms holding his dearest dame,  
May haply court her with such words as these:  
Fair world's admired beauty, here I am,  
Who not long since, amid ten thousand foes,  
Most valiantly did this pure breast oppose,  
Against the fury of the cruel'st fight,  
Yet never wounded till approached thy sight.   

Hard by my feet, great hasdrubal lay slain,  
Who to all Romans', bore innated hate,  
Not distant far from him was Syphax ta'en,  
Who to oppose himself against our state,  
Received in Dower his Daughter but of late,  
Who now attends Scipio's triumphant car,  
As the proud trophae of this famous war.   

Let them thus vainly prattle of my grief,  
And mock my woes, my miseries and wrongs,  
Let them spend time in telling my mischief,  
Let my disgrace be subject to their songs,  
And let them all, these jolly things amongst,  
Proclaim their valour, and reveal our wrack,  
Yet in my bonds they shall no pleasure take.   

For death and I are now agreed together,  
Even from this moment never more to sunder,  
Who by no means will grant I should go thither,  
Where worlds of eyes upon my fall shall wonder,  
Scipio may threaten, and proud Rome may thunder,  
That I shall rest their everlasting thrall,  
Yet death has vowed to set me free from all,   

Welcome thy friendship, sweet confederate Death,  
Who still most faithful in distress dost prove;  
Who would not gladly yield to thee their breath,  
Since only thou canst miseries remove,  
OH how my soul with thee is fallen in love!  
Knowing how quickly thou her pains can finish,  
Haste then sweet death, ere she her love diminish.   

How falsely have they wronged the truth, that feign,  
(Thereby to make thee odious to our eyes)  
Thee to be ugly, cruel, meager, lean,  
Drawing thy portrait with deformities?  
Some paint thee fleshless, all but bones and knees:  
Most like a withered vile Anatomy,  
Some with a lethal Dart do picture thee.   

But let the world thus paint thee as they list;  
Yet thou appears most lovely to my sight,  
Who in this cup comes but to quench my thirst,  
And not my soul with ugly shapes t'affright:  
Well may that torment be accounted light,  
That emptying with one draft this little bowl,  
From all disasters so may free my soul.   

Why stay I then to surfeit out this potion,  
Whose drowsy liquor shall breed such a slumber,  
As I shall need to fear no careful motion:  
Nor with my sad disgrace my thoughts to cumber,  
My woes, my griefs, and my mishaps past number  
Shall all be buried in eternal sleep,  
My heart, and eyes shall no more sigh and weep.   

This body thereby shall be saved from scorn,  
These hands from bands, mine eyes from misery,  
This head, which late imperiously hath worn  
A Princely crown shall not so abject be,  
As from another's liberality.  
Which tyrannising did the same bereave,  
In servile manner it again receive.   

Victorius Scipio, Carthage fatal foe,  
The scourge of Africa, and the glory of Rome,  
Whose chiefest drift and aim is t' have me go,  
TO attend his triumphs vainly shall consume,  
Those idle hopes by which he doth presume,  
With my disgrace, to grace his high renown,  
In his proud entry, to that more proud town.   

For why my better destiny now says,  
From Africa, Europe shall no way divide,  
This wretched remnant of my worse days,  
The best being spent already here in pride:  
How can it justly be to me denied?  
But as kind Africa, gave me life and being,  
To her again I give her own, I dying.   

Than OH dear country! yet in love receive,  
This hateful life that still your harm procured,  
And in compassion grant my bones a grave:  
Which while I breathed your quiet still injured,  
Wherhfore from hence that you may rest secured:  
Dear soil disdain not such a small request,  
That breeds thy peace, and my desired rest.   

Yet one thing let my dying ghost entreat,  
(Which to my grief thy ruin doth presage)  
Live still with Rome, and Romans at debate,  
Let arms 'gainst arms, rage be opposed to rage:  
Kill, murder all, forbear no sex, no age.  
Agreed at last, and that will be to soon,  
When either Rome, or Carthage is undone.   

To thee then freely, now I drink my last,  
With that the poison to her head she hied,  
And while her looks she doth about her cast,  
Lest any had this act of hers descried:  
Her staring eyes unwares by chance espied,  
The woeful story of Queen Dido's fall,  
Drawn by some curious pencil on the wall.   

Which with attention she remarks and views,  
Wondering the beauty of the workman's art,  
Who in a thousand strange and divers hews  
Of choicest colours had discharged his part,  
All was so portrayed in this matchless Chart,  
That lifeless shadows living bodies seemed,  
The painter had each lineament so limned.   

Aeneas Navy on the waving Main,  
Spread forth their proud sails for to catch the air,  
Here swelled a billow, there it fell again:  
A thousand Daulphins skip up here and there,  
The mariners aye two and two by pair,  
With suppling palms did span their heavy oars,  
At whose sad strokes the wounded ocean roars.   

High in a turret wretched Dido stood,  
For to behold her faithless lovers flight,  
From whose fair eyes distilled a crystal flood  
Of brinish tears when she beheld that sight,  
Each thing was framed so curiously and right,  
That whatsoever was to th'eyes presented,  
Seemed in effect far rather, them invented.   

A little lower did present to view,  
The saddest object in this matchless frame:  
There one might see how in despair she drew  
The cruel sword, than fell upon the same.  
OH how the streams of purple blood forth came!  
From which, as it had been yet warm, did fly,  
A little smoke which purld into the sky.   

Look how a rose which from the stalk is cropped,  
Leaves here and there some blossoms on the ground,  
So here and there the place was all bedropt  
With her vermilion blood about her round:  
The Painter's skill in painting of her wound  
Seemed most divine and exquisite indeed,  
For still therefrom the drops yet seemed to bleed.   

Sad Sophonisba wistly notes the story,  
And giving forth a death-presaging groan:  
Dear wronged Lady (quoth she) I am sorry,  
That time will not permit me to bemoan  
Thy sad mischance, nor shalt thou grieve alone;  
For why I hope our ghosts shall meet ere long,  
Where each to other shall complain our wrong.   

OH how my fortune doth resemble thine!  
How like thy sorrows are (alas) my woes!  
Africa thy country, Africa likewise mine:  
Both our destructions from one fountain flows:  
Aeneas thine, his offspring now my foes;  
He bred thy ruin, they my sad distress;  
He wronged a Queen, they wronged me now no less.   

And since the greatness of thy mind was such,  
Death to prefer unto a living shame,  
Shall not thy brave example move as much  
Desire in me for to perform the same?  
Let coming ages hear it told by Fame,  
How Sophonisba imitating thee,  
choosed rather death, then living Infamy.   

This spoke without amazement, fear or dread,  
She drinks the fatal poison (noble Dame)  
Which straight his venom through her veins doth spre▪  
Scorning resistance whereso ere it came:  
Even as we see a little spark or flame,  
When once it kindles where it finds fit matter,  
From place to place his furious flames doth scatter.   

Now while this powerful potion in her veins,  
So fiercely wrought, her life began to fail,  
Which no more lordship in her breast retains:  
So bitterly death did it their assail,  
Which having bidden to her heart farewell:  
Her chiefest dwelling strait for fear she flies  
For safety upwards to her lips and eyes.   

There as if death had comed awhile to play  
Under the shadow of dischevild hair,  
Which dangling o'er her face and shoulders lay,  
She yet retains a countenance most fair,  
Her gesture did her willing death declare:  
And as her breath by intermission dies,  
So piece by piece her beauty fades and flies.   

Most like unto a tender Lily fair,  
That's overblasted with some raging storm,  
Whose savoury blossoms late perfumed the air,  
Hangs down his head, losing his wont form,  
Or as a flower choked with a canker worm,  
Even so the native beauty now o'erblown,  
Of this fair Queen seems borrowed, not her own.   

Thus while her life stays in an hovering fear,  
Within the precinct of her coral lips:  
Finding grim death had ta'en possession there,  
Not willing more to enter in his grips,  
Giving a bitter sob from thence she skips,  
Leaving free passage to her soul oppressed,  
To leave the dainty prison of her breast.   

But soul and body loath to part asunder.  
Both seem some little respite to entreat:  
Yet th'one must go, the other stay: a wonder  
For all the world that views it to regret:  
Victorious death now strikes, he leaves to threat:  
So this brave Dame her gallant ghost up yields,  
Which flies with triumph to th'elysian fields.   
FINIS.   

CAELIA. Containing certain Sonnets.  
BY DAVID MURRAY, SCOTO-BRITTAINE.   

To the right Noble and his most honoured good Lord, RICHARD Lord DINGWALL.  

LEet it not seem offensive to your sight,  
(Most noble Lord) that here my Muse propines  
You, with her youthful follies, in those lines  
Decked with Invention of conceits so light?  
For the dread sounds (which dastard minds affright)  
Of neighing coursers, and of trumphets' shrill,  
Had been a Subject fit for my quill,  
T'have bred unto thy haught eres delight.  
But since my Muse, as yet, did never frame,  
Her sporting vain, to sing of Martial blows,  
(Which Mirror-like, your valorous arm often shows  
Both to your own, and to your country's fame)  
Yet deign to view, there lovesick verse mean while:  
Mars oft-times joys to see fair Venus' smile.   

And if unto this idle humorous Vain,  
Where Youth and folly show their skilless Art,  
She breed acceptance, she her wits shall strain,  
(E'er it be long) a subject to impart,  
That to your noble ears shall seem more worth:  
Till when, accept this her abortive birth.   
Your LL. to be commanded, DA. MURRAY.   


Sonnet. 1.  
MY infant Muse, when I began to writ,  
Led by the fury of my vnstay'd years,  
Sung ever as my fancy did conceit,  
As by her method-wanting-layes appreares:  
Now praised she Caelia's beauty, then admires  
The enchanting Music of another's quill:  
And now again she would bewail with tears,  
The untimely falls of some whom death did kill.  
Thus never staying at one settled theme,  
Till that she grew more grave, and I more old,  
Under protection of a royal name,  
Fair Sophonisha's tragic death she told.  
Yet jest poor Muse her first conceits were smored,  
She here presents them to a NOBLE LORD.   

Sonnet 2.  
KInd Nature once did labour so in birth,  
That all the gods to help here were convened,  
ALL's Mother then such bitter throws sustained,  
Or she this child of wonder could bring forth:  
At length supported by celestial might,  
She's brought to bed even of a girl divine,  
Whom all the present Deities propine  
With what rare graces could enrich the sight,  
loves Queen gave Beauty, Diana Chasteness rare,  
Minerva judgement, thundering jove the Name,  
Apollo graced her with her golden hair,  
juno the Heart that should all hearts in flame,  
Cupid gave her his own two lovely eyes,  
Wherewith all the ●are darted who her sees.   

3. Sonnet.  
BEauty being long a resident above,  
With importune celestial suits was deaued,  
Of sacred spirits who still her favour craved,  
That she from thence resolved to remove:  
And so at last from top of all the Rounds,  
Love on his wings convoyed her here below,  
Where she not willing any should her know,  
Sought out the North to be her resting bounds,  
There she remains her name being changed, yet still  
For beauty now fair Caelia she is called,  
Whose sight sometimes, as it the gods all thralled,  
So now her looks poor human souls doth kill.  
And o not, wonder! if they thus do end,  
Since th●●●ut fail where gods could not defend.   

4. Sonnet.  
THy beauty Caelia so betrayed mine eyes,  
That at the first they forced my heart to yield:  
Thus overcome into a bloodless field,  
A yielding slave unto thy mercy flees,  
Where humble prostrate on affections knees,  
Tied with the chains of strongest love (alas)  
I do entreat thy pity to my case,  
Pity but which thy hapless captive dies,  
Than as thy beauty did but stroke or come,  
So let thy mercy without rigour save,  
Remorse and pity shall thee best become,  
Remorse and pity which not else I crave.  
Thrice happy thraldom if thou p●●y move,  
Unhappy, bondage if disd●●●● 〈◊〉   

5. Sonnet.  
MY griefs increase still urged me to impart,  
My soul's felt-paine unto my fairest fair,  
And that she might b' acquainted with my care:  
I choosed my tongue the agent for my heart,  
Which being well instructed as I thought,  
In all the passions which oppress a mind,  
And being glad to show how I was pined:  
With swift winged haste I Celia's presence sought:  
But I no sooner had attained her sight,  
When lo my tongue betrayed me to her eyes,  
And dastard-like into my throat strait flies,  
Leaving me clean confounded with his flight,  
Beaten back with sighs, yet it returned again▪  
But spoke of pleasure when it should of pain.   

6. Sonnet.  
STill must I groan, still must I sigh, still mourn,  
And cannot groans, nor sighs, nor tears have place,  
To make fair Caelia one sweet smile return▪  
Or at the lest to show some sign of grace?  
Ah! who would say that one so fair of face,  
So rare of beauty, so divine in all,  
Disdained to pity one in such a case,  
And one poor soul who leaves her beauty's thrall?  
Still must I breathe those grievous groans in vain:  
Still must my sighs vanish in the air,  
Still must those tears be spent in waste I strain,  
Still must my passions all increase my care.  
Than gentle death come and dissolve my pain,  
Since sighs, tears, groans and passions bred disdain.   

7. Sonnet.  
PAle, sad Aurora leave thy showers to rain,  
Of perl-like crystal tears thou daily sheds,  
In tender bosoms of the flowery meads,  
Wailing his death wh'at llions siege was slain:  
O let thy soul appeased! with this remain.  
That those thy tears pleads pity by there sight,  
And more, the great bright pattern of the light,  
To quench his drought carrouses them again,  
Cease then to weep, and leave me still to mourn,  
Complaining best becomes my mirthless state,  
Wh'in quenchless flames of luckless love does burn:  
(Thy Memnon's loss requires no more regrate)  
And since my own cannot procure but scorn,  
Lend me thy moving tears, sweet weeping morn.   

8. Sonnet.  
ANd is it true dear, that you are unkind?  
Shall I believe sweet Saint that you are so?  
I fear you are, but stay, o! stay my mind:  
Too soon to credit that that breeds thy woe,  
Yet whether shall my resolutions go,  
To think you are, or not unkind I must  
The effect says I, and yet my fancy, not,  
Being loath such undeserved harm to trust;  
My passions thus such operations breed,  
In my divided soul that I can not,  
Conceit you are that which you are indeed:  
Imperious love doth so control my thought,  
Unhappy I that did such love embrace,  
Unconstant you that bats such love (alas)   

9 Sonnet.  
BRight Angels face, the paradise of Love,  
High stately throne where Majesty doth shine,  
Beauty's Idea, sweetness sweetened shrine,  
Clear heavens, wherein proud Phoebus daz●ers move,  
Fair pearly rolls that stain the ivory white,  
Environed with corroll died walls,  
Sweet-nectard breath, more soft than Zephir's gales,  
Heart-reaving-tongue whose speech still breeds delight,  
Smooth cheeks of Rose, and lilies interlaced,  
Art-scorning-nose, in framing which no doubt  
Nature of her whole skill played bankrupt.  
When it in midst of such perfections placed.  
Gold-glittering-tresses, and soules-wounding-lockes,  
Only proud ears, more deaf than flinty rocks.   

10. Sonnet.  
MY Caelia sat once by a crystal brook,  
Gazing how smoothly the clear streams did slide,  
Who had no sooner her sweet sight espied,  
When with amazement they did on her look,  
The waters sliding by her seemed to mourn,  
Desirous still for to behold her beauty,  
Neglecting to the Ocean their duty,  
In thousand strange Meanders made return,  
But o! again with what an heavenly tune,  
Those pleasant streams that issued from the spring,  
To see that goddess did appear to sing,  
Whom having viewed did as the first had done.  
If those pure streams delighted so to eye her,  
judge how my soul doth surfeit when I see her.   

11. Sonnet.  
THe Sun's fond child when he arrived into,  
The sights inveigling palace of his sire,  
Incensed with a preposterous desire,  
Would needs to guide his father's cart step to,  
So fond I once, entering (alas)  
Her chamber who bereaves not eyes, but souls,  
And whiles my bold approach there's none controls,  
I needs would venture to behold her face,  
But as Apollo's child more rash than wise,  
Did manage those fierce steeds with skilless Art,  
They like a firebrand flung him from the skies:  
Thus while I eyed her, beauty fired my heart:  
Only this difference rests betwixt us two,  
I ceaseless burn, his flames were quenched in Po.   

12. Sonnet.  
AS Icarus proud of his borrowed wings,  
Following his flying father through the skies,  
Above the eyrie region did arise,  
And for to gaze on Phoebus' upward springs,  
Where while with hovering pens he staring hangs  
Thinking the glory of that cart to tell,  
From which his match in fondness headlong fell:  
Apollo's rays his waxed feathers sings:  
So I resembling him like fond flew,  
For my desire being winged with fancies plumes  
To gaze on brighter rays than those presumes:  
Wherewith the Sun, the son of Dedal slew.  
And as our flights so were our falls (alas)  
He in the sea, I into black disgrace.   

13. Sonnet.  
A Due sweet Caelia for I must departed,  
And leave thy sight, and with thy sight all joy,  
convoked with care, attended with annoy:  
A vagabonding wretch from part to part,  
Only dear Caelia grant me so much grace,  
As to vouchsafe this heart befraught with sorrow,  
TO attend upon thy shadow even and morrow:  
Whose wont pleasure was to view thy face,  
And if sometimes thou soliter remain,  
And for thy dearest dear a sigh let's slide,  
This poor attender sitting by thy side  
Shall be thy Echo to replied again.  
Than farewell Caelia for I must away,  
And to attend thee my poor heart shall stay.   

14. Sonnet.  
FOrsaken whether shall I go (alas)  
What place to me can any comfort grant,  
Sigh I must leaveth' only happy place,  
That doth retain the worlds admitted Saint?  
O never let the rising Sun avant,  
I saw his brightness! not her brighter face;  
Nor let the night in sable shadows haunt,  
If that I dream not of my dear some space.  
Not longer wish I to enjoy this air,  
Not longer crave I breath, no more to live,  
Than that I may still gaze upon my fair,  
Whose sweetest smiles all kind of comfort give.  
Days, hours and nights, and places where I go,  
Till I her see shall but procure my woe.   

15. Sonnet.  
Days, hours and nights thy presence may detain,  
But neither day, nor hour, nor night shall not  
Bar thy sweet beauty from mine eyes unseen,  
Since so divinely printed in my thought,  
That skilful Greek, that loves Idaea wrought,  
And limned it so exactly to the eye,  
When beauties rarest patterns he had sought,  
With this thy portrait could not matched be,  
Thomas on a table he, most skilful he,  
In rarest colours rarest parts presented,  
So on a heart if one may match a tree,  
Thomas skilless I thy rarer shape have painted.  
Not by loves self, loves beauty form he,  
But by thyself, thyself art formed in me.   

16. Sonnet.  
MOunt Aetna's flames may peradventure cease,  
Yet my true heart shall burn still in a low,  
The swelling streams o'er banks and brays that flow,  
By miracle may stay their swiftest race.  
But restless streams of liquid tears (alas)  
Shall never stay from my poor eyes to run,  
The congealed ice long frozen may grow thin,  
By the reflex of bright Apollo's face,  
But ah! my hopes shall frieze still in despair,  
Till I enjoy again fair Celia's sight,  
Whose beauties beams which shined o'er me so bright,  
Through longsome absence thus procures my care.  
Sweet Caelia then make speed my flames to quench,  
To raise my hopes and those my tears to staunch.   

17. Sonnet.  
GAzing from out the windows of mine eyes,  
To view the object of my hearts desire,  
My famished looks in wandering troops forth flies:  
Hoping by some good fortune to espy her,  
But having flown with staring wings long space,  
And missing still the aim that caused them soar,  
Scorning to feed on any other face,  
Turns to their cabins back and flies no more,  
And there enclosed disdains to view the light,  
Shadowing my face with sable clouds of grief:  
And thus I breath in cares continual night,  
Till that her sight afford me some relief.  
Sweet then make haste these cloudy cares to clear,  
And glad those eyes that holds thy sight so dear.   

18. Sonnet.  
Dear once you told me that you dreamed my breath  
Was past, and that your eyes beheld my grave,  
Likewise you said that sorrow for my death,  
From out those eyes distilling tears berave,  
Ah 'twas no dream! if you will but perceive  
How in effect for you I hourly die,  
Think that no vision did you then deceive,  
Sigh you may view the very truth in me,  
If so you dreamed this only seems to be:  
A dream that for my death such tears you spent,  
Worse than a thousand deaths for you I dry,  
Yet for my grief you never tear once lent.  
But if for dreaming so you mourned so much,  
far rather mourn that in effect its such.   

19 Sonnet. Being accused by a Gentlewoman for stealing of a Book.  
LEt not thyself, fair Nymph, nor none of thine,  
Accuse me of no sacrilegious theft,  
For by the world, and by the starry lift,  
And by the honour I do own thy shrine,  
By the infernal spirits, and gods divine,  
And by the hallowed stately Stygian brayes,  
I never meant (sweet dame) thee to displease,  
For why thy grief had likewise then been mine,  
If ever aught deare-love from thee I stolen,  
I both protest and swear it was no book,  
Not nothing but a poor inveigling look,  
For which again I left my freedom thrall,  
Than blame me not for stealing of thy books,  
Since you steal hearts, I only steal poor looks.   

20. Sonnet.  
POnder thy cares, and sum them all in one,  
Get the account of all thy heart's disease,  
Reckon the torments do thy mind displease,  
Writ up each sigh, each plaint, each tear, each groan,  
Remember on thy grief conceived by day,  
And call to mind thy night's disturbed rest,  
Think on those visions did thy soul molest,  
While as thy wearied corpses a sleeping lay,  
And when all those thou hast enrolled a right,  
Into the count-book of thy daily care,  
Extract them truly, then present the sight,  
With them of flinty Caelia the fair,  
That she may see, if yet more ills remains,  
For to be paid to her unjust disdains.   

21. Sonnet, Made at the Authors being in Bourdeaux.  
THou Sun, those trees, this earth, fair river clear,  
Vouchsafe t'attend my piteous plaints, alas,  
And if remorse of a distressed case  
Can pled for pity, listen o to hear!  
Than be reporters to my fairest fair,  
To Phoenix Caelia of my restless pains,  
This age's glory, whom the North retains,  
Enclosed by Neptune for his darling there,  
But ah! those trees, this earth cannot remove,  
And Phoebus fears her rays shall dim his pride,  
And if this river should my complaint guide,  
Than Neptune would grow jealous of his love,  
So that I crave all these supports in vain,  
I plagued alone, alone must bear my pain.   

22. Sonnet: On the misfortune of belizarius, great Lieutenant to the Emperor justinian.  
STay passenger, and with relenting look,  
Behold here belizarius, I pray,  
Whom never-constant fortune, changing ay,  
Even at the top of greatness quite forsook,  
And which is wondrous, in a moment took  
Me from the height of an Imperial sway,  
And placed me here, blind begging by this way,  
Whose greatness sometime scarce the world could brook,  
And while thou daignes thy pitiful aspect,  
Ah sorrow not so much my fortunes past,  
As I beseech thee to bewail this last!  
That from such honour abjectly deject,  
I yet am forced a spectacle to live,  
Glad to receive the meanest alms thou'lt give.   

Sonnet to the right worthy Gentleman, and his loving cousin M. john Murray.  
WHile Eaglelike upon the lofty wings  
Of thy aspiring Muse thou flies on high,  
Making th'immortal Spirits in love with thee,  
And of those Ditties thou so sweetly sings,  
Where quaffing bowls of their Ambrosian springs,  
And sweetest Nectar, thou divinely stays:  
Low by the earth (poor I) sings homely lays,  
Till like desire of fame me upward brings,  
Than borrowing, from thy rich Muse, some plumes,  
Icarian-like beyond my skill I soar,  
While coming where thy songs are heard before,  
My lines are mocked, that thine to match presumes:  
And thus I perish in my high desire,  
While thou'rt more praised, the more thou dost aspire.   

Idem.  
Enriched spirit by great Apollo crowned  
With cirkling wreaths of stately laurel Bays,  
Scorning as't seems that thy enchanting lays  
Should have their praise but of immortal sound:  
For heavens seeing earth, so be thy songs renowned,  
Draw up thy sweetest Ditties to the skies,  
Whose well tuned notes Phoebus t'his harp applies:  
While as his chariot wheels about the Round.  
And thus thy divine-sprite-inspired Muse  
Hath made thee here admired, beloved above,  
She sings so sweetly that she doth infuse  
Wonder in mortals, in the godhead love:  
Not marvel if thy songs b'admired then,  
That yield both music unto gods and men.   

The complaint of the Shepherd Harpalus.  

Poor Harpalus oppressed with love,  
Sat by a crystal brook:  
Thinking his sorrows to remove,  
Oft-times therein did look.   

And heating how on pebble stones,  
The murmuring river ran,  
As if it had bewailed his groans,  
Unto it thus began.   

Fair stream (quoth he) that pities me,  
And hears my matchless moan,  
Is thou be going to the sea,  
As I do so suppone,   

Attend my plaints past all relief,  
Which dolefully I breath,  
Acquaint the sea Nymphs with the grief,  
Which still procures my death▪   

Who sitting on the cliffy rocks,  
May in their songs express:  
While as they comb their golden locks,  
Poor Harpalus distress.   

And so perhaps some passenger,  
That passeth by the way:  
May stay and listen for to hear,  
Them sing this doleful lay.   

Poor Harpalus a shepherd swain,  
Moore rich in youth then store,  
Loved fair Philena, hapless man,  
Philena o therefore!   

Who still remorceles-hearted maid,  
took pleasure in his pain:  
And his good will (poor soul) repaid  
With undeserved disdain.   

ne'er shepherd loved a shepherdess  
Moore faithfully than he:  
ne'er shepherd yet beloved less,  
Of shepherdess could be.   

How often with dying looks did he  
To her his woes impart?  
How often his sighs did testify  
The dolour of his heart?   

How often from valleys to the hills,  
Did he his griefs rehearse?  
How often re-echoed they his ills,  
A back again (alas?)   

How often on barks of stately Pines,  
Of Beech, of Holen green,  
Did he engrave in mournful lines,  
The dole he did sustain?   

Yet all his plaints could have no place,  
To change Philena's mind:  
The more his sorrows did increase,  
The more she proved unkind.   

The thought whereof through very care,  
Poor Harpalus did move:  
That overcome with high despair,  
He quat both life and love.    

Sonnet on the death of the Lady Sicily Weemes, Lady of Tillebarne.  
Fair Cicil's loss, be thou may fable song,  
Not that for which proud Rome and Carthage strove  
But thine more famous, whom ago not long  
Untimely death entombed so soon in grave.  
Dear sacred Lady, let thy ghost receive  
These dying accents of my mourning quill,  
The sweetest-smelling incense that I have,  
With sighs and tears upon thy hearse to spill.  
To thee (dear Saint) I consecrated aye still  
These sad oblations of my mirthless mind,  
Who while thou breathed, this wondering world did fill  
With thy perfections, Phoenix of thy kind;  
From out whose ashes hence I prophecy,  
Shall never such another Phoenix fly.   

Epitaph on the death of his dear cousin, M. David Murray.  

Receive (dear friend) into thy tomb those tears;  
Those tears which from my griefe-fraught eyes distill,  
Whose dreary show the true resemblance bears  
Of those sad cares which inwardly me kill:  
Take them dear friend, since sent from such a one,  
Who loved thee living, wails thee being go:   

No feigned tear, nor forged sigh (God knows)  
I sacrifice upon thy woeful hearse,  
My mournings are according to my woes,  
And correspondent to my grief my verse,  
My sighs are ceaseless echoes, that replies,  
For thy sad death my hearts relenting cries.   

Ay me! how can I but regrait thy case,  
Who in the full Meridian of thy years.  
While strength of body held the chiefest place,  
And while thyself, thyself even most appears:  
Death so untimely should thy life bereave:  
Impoverishing thy friends, t'enrich the grave.   

Ah! had thou not been social, gentle, kind,  
Most loving, courteous, liberal by measure,  
Rich in all parts, but most of all in mind,  
Which thou instord'st with virtues precious treasure:  
Had thou not been I say replete with those,  
Less had thy praises been, and less my woes.   

In nothing more thy virtue proved her power,  
Than in thy friendships well advised choice:  
Who loved thee once, still loves thee to this hour,  
The grave their fight, but not their love doth close,  
And which was more, the mightiest of the land,  
She joined to thee into affection's band,   

And well the greatness of thy mind did merit,  
Even that the greatest spirits should thee cherish,  
Who of itself, did from itself inherit,  
That which in great men does but greatness perish:  
" True worth is not discerned by outward show,  
" Virtues Idea by the mind we know.   

Ah foolish they that brag so much in vain,  
Only by blood nobilitate to be,  
While in their bosoms they do scarce retain,  
The smallest spark of magnanimity!  
I hold this for a general Maxim good,  
True honour comes from virtue as from blood.   

And yet I cannot but confess indeed,  
That virtue in a generous stomach still,  
Doth shine more clear than when it doth proceed,  
From out a base-born breast, mark who so will,  
For why thy worth had ne'er so clearly shined,  
Had not thy birth been equal to thy mind.   

Without affection I must truly say,  
Thou wast a well-born Gentleman by birth,  
Comed of a race near spotted to this day,  
Thy ancestors were men of noble worth,  
Famous in blood, in virtue and in name,  
And all, as thou, went to the grave with fame.   

Whereof this comfort doth arise I see,  
To those that loved thy life, condoles thy death,  
Though thou be dead in part, all cannot dye,  
Thy minds brave conquest shall survive thy breath,  
Death may well triumph on thy bodies fall,  
But thy great virtue ever flourish shall.   

Than let thy ghost go in eternal peace,  
To the Elysian sweet desired rest,  
There with the happy to enjoy a place,  
To taste the speechless pleasures of the blessed:  
〈◊〉 surfitting those everlasting joys,  
That never feel disturbance, or annoys.   

There live still happy, while I hapless here,  
Must celebrated thy exequys in sorrow,  
Paying this tribute to thy tomb each year,  
Of sighs and ●earess, which from my griefs I borrow:  
And ah! no wonder that I do the same,  
For both I bear thy surname, and thy name.    

Sonnet on the death of his cousin, Adam Murray.  
I Know not whether discontent or love,  
(Dear friend) hath bred this thy abortive death:  
Or if that both united show'd their wrath,  
To make thee this thy fatal last to prove,  
But be the motion what it list, did move,  
This thy unlooked for sad untimely fall,  
Yet with the loss of breath thou losd not all,  
Thy better part still lives the heavens above,  
And here thy pen immortalised thy name,  
From time, oblivion, envy, and the grave,  
That to corruption now thy bones receive,  
But can no way deface thy glorious fame,  
Which still must sore on wings of endless praise,  
While years have months, months' weeks, and weeks have days.   
FINIS.