Monodia OR WALTHAMS' COMPLAINT,  
Upon The death of that most Virtuous and Noble Lady, late deceased, the Lady HONOUR HAY,  
Sole Daughter and Heir to the Right Honourable EDWARD, Lord DENNIE, Baron of Waltham, and wife to the Right Honourable JAMES Lord HAY.  
Virtus post funera vivit.  
By R. N. Oxon.  
LONDON, Printed by W. S. for Richard Meighen and Thomas jones, and are to be sold at their shop without Temple-bar under S. Clement's Church. 1615.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND RELIGIOUS PATTERNS OF VIRTUE, AND PATRONS of Learning, EDWARD, Lord DENNIE, Baron of Waltham, and his most noble Son JAMES Lord HAY.  
RIght Honourable Lords, though unworthy and unknown (as n●t worthy to be known to your Lordships) I want that good opinion begot by foreknowledge, which, like a pleasing glass that makes any thing that is seen through it seem better than it is, might set a fair gloss upon the forefront of this rude Poem; yet not doubting, but that your Honours will vouchsafe to look upon my imperfections herein, with more affection out of passion for the deads' sake, whom here I honour, than judgement out of reason to discuss, how unworthy I am to discourse of such honour. I presume to offer up in my waltham's Complaint this funeral Obsequy, or mournful M●nodia, at the shrine of your Favours, as the Sacrifice of my last duty to that most Noble, and to you most dear, dead Lady; of whom living, by her Sister's tears, my Muse in her first Infancy of being known, finding gracious acceptance, but deprived the fruition thereof through inevitable chance, and hoping with her weak breath to revive those sparks that my enforced absence had raked up in the ashes of oblivion, lately singing the Image of her Honer, was (alas that: I should say she was) too suddenly thunder-striken by that unlooked for Dart of Death, in top of all her hopes. Wherefore both of that consecrated to her Honour, then living, and of this, devoted to your lordship's, in honour of her now dead, most humbly craving your gracious Protections, I live  
Your Honour's most ●umbly at command. R. N.   

To the same right Honourable Lords, the Lord DENNIE, and the Lord HAY.  

THe last, the least, and yet best deed alone  
Done to the dead by those that d●e survive,  
Is to record their virtues, they being gone:   

For only virtue keeps the dead alive.  
My last, my least, and yet my best I can  
Of duty to that honoured Ladies name,  
Which from her virtues first in me began,   

I owe to you, that best can judge the same.  
My subject (Noble Lords) doth fit your worth,  
And since my humble ●lile is far too base,  
I for the subjects sake do pick you forth,  
That style and subject both may purchase grace.   

Which if (great Lords) my humble Muse obtain,  
waltham's complaint cannot be told in vain.   
Your Honour's most humbly devoted. RIC●. NICCO●S.   

WALTHAMS' COMPLAINT,  
IN that sixth month, whose name at first begun  
From great Augustus, good octavius son,  
When in each fertile field the flowery grain  
Shot up on high, did bow their heads again,  
As doing humble homage to the earth,  
From whence they took their being and their birth;  
And every fruitful tree did seem to groan  
As burdened with the fruit that hung thereon,  
Inviting all that past by their abode,  
To strip their boughs, and ease them of their load;  
Beside the banks of Lees delightful brook,  
Which 
a Waltham Abbey.  Waltham's ancient Town doth overlook.  
I walked, expecting in the days prime birth  
The joy, with which the morning greets the earth:  
But she, as not disposed to mirth, did lay  
Her azure robes with silver fringed away;  
And in their stead, whose wear the world doth glad  
Was in dark russet mantle meanly clad.  
A vale of mist her silver brow did hide,  
The golden trammels of her hair were tie  
In fillet of black clouds, and with ●ad look  
She mourner-like to heaven her journey took:  
Earth, as it had a part in sorrow bore,  
Upon her back a cloak of vapours wore,  
And, as if wanting eyes her grief to show,  
Her grass in stead of tear●s dropped weeping dew  
Into the river Lee, by which I stood.  

b Marra●● Be●ne and S●ower with an arm called the 〈◊〉 because it devid●th 〈◊〉, and Hartfordshi●es.  Three other brooks, that to increase her 'slud  
Did poor themselves, with her along did glide  
As if no grief their waters could divide:  
Which their mixed waves did mutually declare,  
By breathing vaporie sighs into the air:  
Whose waters bubbling o'er the pebble stone,  
As if they would unto the trees upon  
The banks on either side express by voice  
An inward sorrow, made a murmuring noise.  
All things that came beneath my sight did show  
As each with other would consort in wo●;  
Which through mine eyes did steal my hearts consent  
To bear a part; for I to Waltham went,  
Beside whose Abbey there a work of praise,  
Which worthy hands in antic time did raise,  

c The Lord Dennie.  That noble Barons Hospitable sea●e,  
Where rich and poor find bountiful entreat,  
Sad spectacle of sorrow I did see,  
The sight of which did much impassion me.  
On the bare ground, sitting in open field,  
A fair, but forlorn, Lady I beheld,  
Without remorse, now rending from her head,  
Her yellow hair, like threads of gold dispred  
About her silver neck, now beating sore  
Her breast, the lodge of grief, and evermore  
Fixing her eye so steadfast on the ground,  
As thence, from her own tears, which did abound,  
As from a Crystal glass, help she would borrow,  
To see the face of her own faces sorrow;  
Whose woeful gesture did my heart so wound,  
That I requested her to show the ground  
Of this her grief, and she as loath to speak,  
Yet in these words at last did silence break.  
In vain, my voice, in vain thou dost impart  
Weak words, for signs of my wo-wounded heart.  
In vain my heart do thy sad sighs arise  
From inward thoughts with tears to fill mine eyes:  
In vain mine eyes your moist tears overflow;  
No grief so great, that can express my woe.  
Weak words, sad sighs, moist tears, in vain ye be,  
Mine Honour dead I nevermore shall see.  
To hear her mourning and her sad complaint,  
I silent was awhile with griefs constraint;  
Till sorrows self did urge me ask her name,  
To which thus she this sad reply did frame.  
Waltham I was; and though some think I am  
What I have been; yet bear I but the name  
Of what I was; and yet in my distress  
Such is my chance, (hard chance you well may guess)  
That wretched I of late through death's despite,  
Have lost my Dear, my Da●ling, my Delight,  
The Light of nature, Ornament of earth,  
Model of heaven, the Pearl of grace, whose birth  
Did with that Honour grace my fruitful womb,  
Which now, she dead, lies buried in her tomb.  
For know (alas that it should ere be known)  
My honour late is dead, is dead and gone.  
Was't not enough that fortune, who takes pleasure  
In human woes, bereaved me of that treasure,  
Which daily Lees large stream (though now a poor  
And petty brook) did bring unto my shore;  
Till 
d or Alured which upon this occasion 〈◊〉 called the King's stream at Waltham. Ralph Holles●lia, Descript. Britt.  Alfred, scourge of Danes, that Royal King  
Her larger stream to lesser brooks did bring;  
When Denmark's Navy did on her broad breast  
My sister Hartford with long siege molest:  
Where he that time his foes proud hearts did ●ame  
And burned their Danish Fleet with English flame?  
Was't not enough I say, I so should be  
Bereft of comfort in beloved Lee:  
But that by death, eu'u she, whom all did know  
To be (ay me that now she is not so)  
My garlands fairest flower, should be defaced,  
The fairest flower, that ere my garland graced?  
No hand will crop the stem up in despite,  
That yearly yieldeth flowers ●or delight;  
No churl will lay his axe unto the root  
Of such a plant, that yearly yieldeth fruit;  
Yet she, true plant of Honour (O ste●ne death)  
e'en bearing fruit was blasted by thy breath.  
If ever beauty might prevail with thee,  
A rarer beauty eye did seldom see;  
If ever honour; she, most noble Dame,  
Was Honour self in nature and in name●  
If ever Virtue; she was that fair shrine,  
Whence Virtues beams unto the World did shine.  
How couldst thou looking on her lovely face,  
●ift up thy hand to strike, when in that place  
Youth, graced with a●l the grace's heaven could give,  
Did with such beauty beg thy leave to live,  
How couldst thou but let fall thy deadly dart,  
When sadly she (at thought of which my heart  
Now bleeds afresh) distilling from her eyes  
D●●ps pure as pearl, did show in woeful wise  
Her childed womb, that thou shouldst pity take,  
I● not for hers, yet for her infant's sake?  
H●w couldst, I say, but mildly look upon her,  
When in her barthened womb, that babe of Honour  
Did for the mother mercy seem to cry,  
And she again, for her dear babe would die?  
O unrelenting death thou couldst not then  
Strike, though thy hand were I f●ed up: but when  
Lucina brought the sweet babe from the throes  
Of the chaste mother to this world of woes,  
Then, then, thy hand did crop my honours clowre,  
My Beauty's bud, my Bounty's Paramour.  
But why did Nature, to augment her fame,  
With cunning build up such a glorious frame,  
And heaven with her more glorious spirit grace it,  
Finding no fairer mansion where to place it:  
Yet leave it, like vain bubble made of breath,  
To be a triumph to victorious death?  
Poor Nature well I see, that all thy power  
But weakness is: Death daily doth devour  
Thy noblest works: of beggars and of Kings  
The generation from corruption springs.  
Flesh is but dust, made up in human shape,  
To which, weak Nature, like th'Eternals Ape,  
T'ind●ce us to believe that she can give  
Eternity to make it ever live,  
A lively colour over it doth lay,  
Which makes ●lesh think it never shall decay,  
But flourish ever; when unlookt-for Death  
Doth in a moment blast it with his breath;  
" Flesh is but flesh, the fairest things do fall,  
" The strongest stoop, Death is the end of all.  
Love-drawing load-stars, unto whom is given  
Shape, like the winged messengers of Heaven,  
To whose sweet beauties all men's knees are bend,  
Help me, O help me, kindly to lament  
This honoured Lady, Lady of all Honour,  
And in your gentle hearts so think upon her,  
That in the glass, when you with curious care  
Trimming the tresses of your golden hair  
Shall wonder at yourselves, you then may say,  
This beauty is but borrowed for a day,  
An hour, a minute, or a moment's space,  
Death's here, is there, at hand in every place.  
The Springs most hopeful bud in youthful May  
Is sometime with the blossom blown away:  
The fruit sometimes doth perish in the bud,  
At most it can attain but so much good,  
As to grow ripe, and drop into the shade:  
Both blossom, bud, and fruit in time do vade.  
Nor do I simply challenge Death alone  
Of that late wrong, too soon alas yet done,  
To the dead mirror of all wome● kind:  
Th'inevitable end of things designed,  
And written by the great Creator's hand  
In the star-text of Heaven, shall ever stand,  
And in itself is good, but every end  
Upon a mediate cause doth still depend.  
And though by means at evil ends we aim;  
Yet divine providence directs the same,  
And makes, when wicked we all good neglect,  
An evil cause produce a good effect:  
So that sad instrument of wicked ill,  
By which death doubtless found the way to spill  
This glorious work of nature, evil meant,  
Spoil was the end and scope of his intent.  
But heaven did frustrate what his purpose was;  
Yet in his action suffered him to pass,  
That so her ●oule, shut up in house of clay,  
Unworthy such a guest might find a way,  
Upon death's ladder from base earth to rise:  
For death is honours scale to climb the skies.  
But woe to thee the while, whose wicked hands  
Were instruments of death t'vnknit the bands.  
Which in that body held so fair a mind,  
In which soul envies self no fault could find;  
O wretched world, whose crooked back doth bow,  
And groan beneath four ages past, yet thou  
As old in evil, as in age dost nurse  
Thine own disease, and which alas is worse  
Dost only yield thine aged paps to those,  
That are black mischiefs friends and virtues foes:  
Thine iron age the worst of all the four  
In no part good, when good men did deplore  
Astr●as flight from hence to heaven above,  
Was not so bad; but that it may improve  
This thy last age, of clay, of dirt, of mud,  
Of anything more vile or void of good  
When evil spirits in shapes of men do dwell,  
And earth itself is made another hell:  
Astraea then from earth to heaven did fly,  
Because truth trodden down did helpless lie  
Beneath oppression, and to her was given,  
That place, where now she holds the scale in heaven,  
Yet Honour with us st●●l did seem to stay▪  
As if from earth, heaven would not take away  
virtues reward, till Vice did so abound,  
That now true virtue no where can be found:  
Or if it can, yet doth it want reward;  
The sons of Honour now have no regard,  
To base vice greatness of state inclines,  
Who●e upstart grooms, each where in purple shines;  
soul-saving virtue shames to show her face,  
To be true virtuous now is to be base,  
And honesty, whence Honour takes her name,  
To those profess it, is accounted shame:  
Then happy she, though hapless we lament  
The absence of her noble soul, which sent  
From Heaven at first, as heavenly dew did fall  
Upon this sinful earth, and finding all  
Too gross end muddy, where she might remain,  
Was through the poors of her life's fru●t again  
Exhaled from earth by those attractive rays,  
Which heavens bright sun of mercy thence displays  
Where unto her all glory now is given;  
Astraeas self and all those stars in heaven,  
Which antic times did stellify of yore,  
Give honour unto Honour evermore:  
No part of those rare parts, that did excel,  
Whose worth no tongue, much less thy Muse could tell●  
Though she obliged by duty gave th'g assay,  
While time doth last, on earth shall ere decay.  
For heaven▪ whe● living she did truly honour,  
Now dead bestows a living name upon her;  
A name to live, while fame hath wings to fly,  
For sure on earth, the fame shall never die  
Of her true noble Sire, a patron known  
Unto weak want, and second unto none  
For great good deeds, which Envy cannot blame,  
Nor to this Lord deny; but yield, what fame  
To 〈◊〉, and his dear daughter dead doth give,  
That she by him, and he by her may live;  
May live in those two noble pla●ts which she,  
True honoured ●o●d, hath living le●t to thee:  
In whom, that so t●ine image and her own  
May unto all posterity be known,  
Heaven give them length of days, & bless them so,  
That from suc● plants fruit evermore may grow:  
Who in all 〈◊〉 times may claim the crown  
Of that il●st●ate deed, which doth renown  
Their Father's name, of which if these bad days  
Which slights best things would hearken to my lays,  
My Mus● (great Lord) should strike so high a string,  
T●at boldest Bards should cease to hear her sing.  
And on thy falcons wings aloft should soar,  
To tell of thy great Ancessors of yore,  
And of their valour, whence derived came  
Those arms, that now nobiliate thy name.  
When like a tempest that proud Pagan host  
F●om the North seas arrived on 
h 〈…〉  Scotland's coast,  
Where near 
i 〈…〉  Loncart the noble river T●y  
From that sad sight, as grieved, did glide away.  
When she beheld her country's lot sink down  
And fame in fight her foes with conquest crown.  
Till with his ploughbeame glory-thirs●ing Hay  
Aided by his two sons did cross the way,  
And forced his flying countrymen again  
With courage to 〈◊〉 head upon on the Dane,  
Whose host destroyed, with a ploughbeame that day  
He saved his 
k 〈…〉  King and country from decay,  
Of which upon that field, the Hay●● own land,  
The falcons stone a trophy still doth stand.  
But back my Muse, their glory may not be  
Thy subject now; yet we by this may see,  
That by him living, bles● is she now dead,  
Who made him blessed by a fruitful bed:  
She dead, he living both blest evermore  
In that fair fruit, which her chaste bosom bore;  
Her chastest bosom, which was once the bower,  
Where virtues Queen did keep her court, whose clowre,  
Which from a plant in paradise did spring,  
Set in her thoughts fair garden forth did bring,  
The fruit of chaste desire and spotless love:  
For which her happy soul now sits above  
Those, that for other virtues praised been;  
In women chastity is virtues Queen,  
Which through that grace, which unto her was given,  
For her true zeal unto the King of heaven,  
Without the which none can possess the same,  
While life did last, she kept from touch of blame:  
(Ye nobler Dames) that all vain thoughts despise,  
Who would preserve from theft of hungry eyes  
Your clowre of beauty, and would quench the fires,  
Which fal●e termed love hath tined in base desires,  
Ensue her steps in grace and piety,  
Which are the guardians of true chastity;  
O let not those shape-shifters, that do steal  
By false pretence of sanctimonious zeal,  
Into the closet of your thoughts, entice  
Your ears from truth, who by a new devise  
Teaching to be unchaste, to be no crime  
Or veial at the least, abuse the time:  
Nor let those Palace parasites, those apes,  
Who putting on the gestures and the shapes  
Of graver men, with their pro●aner lips  
To make their Ladies laugh, spit forth court quips  
Against devotion, mocking holy things,  
Improve your sanctity, whence all good springs:  
Shame not to show in public, as she did  
Your zeal to heaven, true zeal will not be hid;  
join outward action to your inward will,  
Not to do good, she knew, was to do ill.  
But from her faith the efficient cause of good,  
And those diviner virtues understood  
Of heavenly souls, in which she did excel,  
Let me proceed her other gifts to tell.  
Least courtly ease, of great ones counted state,  
To wanton Vice might open virtues gate,  
Her studious soul was exercised sti●l;  
For where ease is, 'tis easy to do ill.  
When she herself to solace did dispose  
To pass the time, no vain delights she chsse's:  
If in her needle she did tak● delight,  
What fairer pattern than her hands fair white?  
If she by art the I illies white would show;  
Then if not there, where did white Lilies grow?  
If azure brooks winding the lands about  
In their true figure she would portrait out,  
Then th●se blue veins were such, which on her hand  
Made little islands in a little land.  
Would she work roses with a perfect red,  
Her lips, as often as she did beh●d  
The si●●e grown short with pearl-like teeth, had power  
To give a ●●imson colour to each flower,  
Which on her w●●ke so like the life did show,  
As if h●y by her eyes fair be●ames did grow,  
And through her t●uch for sent did so excel,  
As if her brea●h had given them fragrant smell.  
In which for skill with that ra●e Lydian Dame  
She seemed with Pallas to contend for ●ame.  
Sometimes her dainty voice with breath as sweet  
As April Zephyr's gentle gales, that g●eet  
Our scent with odor of the morning's rose,  
Sweet ditties did in such sweet tunes compose,  
That all ●hat h●ard her so amazed were,  
As if their souls were only in the ear:  
While her soft hand wou●d gently touch the Lute,  
And sometimes bid the Viol not be mute,  
Who taught by her, as if they did rejoice  
To bear a part to so divine a voice,  
Such heavenly music to the ear wou●d bring,  
That ●oues nine daughters could no better sing:  
With whom she (honoured Lady) nights and days  
Would spend in hearing their melodious lays,  
And unto learning ever being a friend  
To hopeful wits her help she would extend.  
But here (perhaps) if thou do hap to write  
Her noble worth, which now I do recite,  
virtues companion black mouthed Envy says,  
Thy pen doth drop a mercenary praise;  
But to acquit thee here the world may know,  
She lived not (noble Lady) to bestow  
Her purposed favours on thy forlorn Muse,  
In whom, her worth yet, which I more abuse  
Then truly blazon, cannot silent sleep;  
Of her great worth what Muse can silence keep?  
Ye thrice three sisters of that sacred spring,  
About whose banks ye sit and sadly sing  
Your heavenly skills contempt and learning's scorn,  
Double your grief; for greater cause to mourn  
How can ye have? your art must now need● perish,  
Since all are dead with her, that arts did cherish.  
Look not in Court or City any more  
To find that grace, was given you of yore,  
Now gentle bloods trained up in fancy's school,  
Do give the due of learning to the ●oole;  
Your art is base, your skill is counted shame,  
You must be poor with those profess the same;  
A●d thou unhappy Swain whose Muse did raise  
An image of her Honour, poor ●ssay●s  
In haste compiled in hope her grace to gain,  
Neglect of which sorced absence did constrain,  
This Lady's loss may most of all lament,  
Too hasty death did all thy haste prevent;  
What boot● it here to bid thy Muse be sad,  
Who now more grieves, that she may say she had  
Hope in good hap, till that unhappy day,  
That death with her took hope and hap away;  
Then justly hast thou part in my complaint,  
To wail the loss of that now heavenly Saint;  
For who like her (ah none like her is left)  
Will deign to hear thee sing, thou art bere●t  
Of future hopes, who spoke thee fair, forlorn,  
Now mock thy hopes and laugh thy ears to scorn;  
Break then thy pipe, that was thy wont bliss,  
Whose tunes once pleased, if some think not amiss,  
Ne let thy Clioes trump, whose sound did bring  
The dead to life, when envies ears did ring,  
To hear the praises of Eliza's name,  
Be ever heard to sound the deeds of fame,  
May none alive, that do the Muses wrong  
Once dead, be named in any Muse's song.  
Ne let the painted Theatre be gr●e'd  
With tragic scene from thee; Wit so misplaced.  
Hath weaved the webs of folly, neither let  
Thy Muse henceforth more serious things, ●orget,  
To please the world: who best deserves, shall find  
Best friends wax cold, and all the world unkind.  
Then henceforth silent sit in thy sad cell,  
And evermore bid such delights farewell.  
Or in thy thoughts, if to thyself thou raise  
A shrine to virtue, where to offer praise,  
To whom so chaste, yet fair as eye could find,  
To whom so fair, and yet so meek in mind;  
To whom so meek, yet borne in honours Throne,  
Canst offer it but unto her alone?  
In them that live, what now is worthy found,  
Who only vaunt to hear false flattery sound  
Their painted beauties, chiefly they provide  
Them Parasites to praise their foolish pride,  
Sly Apes, that can but congee with a leg,  
Do gain their grace, while learned wits may beg.  
Go then, ●h go thou to you sacred Fane,  
In which her chaste dead body doth remain;  
For left to me poor Wal●ham nothing is  
Of my dear Honour now, excepting this,  
That burial to her body dead I give,  
Who gave it birth at first, when it did live:  
There as thou didst before her living shed  
Thy sister's Tears for Royal Henry dead,  
Unto her Tomb, let tears thy duty tell,  
And from sad Wal●ham bid a sad farewell.  
This said, she sighed, and as that sigh did rise,  
She rose and vanished from before mine eyes,  
Which not so maz'de to see, as grieved to know  
Her cause of grief, I to that place did go,  
To seek the grave and bless that happy stone,  
Which keeps the shrine where Honour kept her throne  
Where when I came, the doors did say me nay,  
From whence debarred with grief I went my way,  
Else on her Tomb, whose soul now lives in bl●sse,  
I had imposed this honours Pyramid.  
FINIS.   

 

Sky   

Azure  
'Bove the  
T' endure  
Most s●●e   

Then this here  
And greater,  
far better,  
In HONOUR   

Ever to live  
God her doth give  
That place of ●est,  
For Abraham's breast;  
To place her in.  
To mean hath been,  
An Angel's room,  
Where being come   

To this her bold assay  
And Charity made way  
Hope made her heart soar high,  
●aith gave her Wings to fly  
To blast her youths May flower;  
That Age might have no power  
'tis thought this ●ady past,  
And thither with mo●e hast  
Above each heavenly stair:  
She is ascended far  
Which Fame bestowed upon her,  
For leaving ●ar●hly Honour;  
Her sweet Soul did aspi●e▪  
'Bove which with brave desi●e   

Above the Earth they do abide,  
The base Earth can never hide  
Her Virtues and her Nobler part●,  
But her true ●oue to learned Arts  
Her part of Earth to Earth doth give:  
That was, while thee on Earth did live,  
As Fair a Fair as any one,  
Fair HONOUR here beneath this stone▪