AN ITALIANS dead body, Stuck with English Flowers. Elegies, On the death of Sir Oratio Pallavicino.  
LONDON Printed by Thomas Creed, for Andrew Wise, and are to be sold at his shop in Paul's Churchyard. 1600.   

TO THE RIGHT Worshipful and virtuous, his singular good Lady, the Lady Pallavicino. Theophilus' Field, her devote servant, dedicateth these mourning weeds.  

RIght virtuous, and fair Lady, may it please  
Your fair, now slubbered eyes, with weeping long,  
To take a truce with tears, that whilst you cease  
To mourn, with which you do your beauty wrong,  
There may be time for me, for to express  
My loss, which by your loss is comfortless,  
Some comfort may from hence to you arise,  
(If it be comfort not to weep alone)  
Oh give me leave to speak, that which mine eyes  
Have writ in tears, with which my heart doth groan  
To be delivered. Lo this child of grief  
Seeks unto you as Nurse for some relief:  
Be a dry Nurse to it, let it not draw  
From nipples of your eyes one precious tear,  
You need not give it suck, for it can chaw,  
And what it chaws, his stomach well will bear:  
Uphold it not with helping it to moon,  
'Tis big enough, and now can go alone.  
This Infant new borne of my moister brain,  
I clothed in black, exposing it to view  
Of many witnesses, some of their train  
Not well trained up, but of the ruder crew  
Disrobed it, robbed me, without privilege  
To touch a holy thing is sacrilege.  
No less was this, nay more (o foul disgrace)  
They did not only touch, but took away  
A holy Poem from a holy place  
Upon a birth, and on a burial day  
A mourning, weeping birth day to my verse,  
A day of burial to Horatio's hearse.  
Hence you profane, what had you there to do?  
Lady my babe was on your altar placed,  
Sacred, devote, and consecrate to you  
By your eyes gracious aspect to be graced,  
They were Church robbers who did dare to spoil  
The holy labours of an others toil:  
After long search and much inquiry made,  
The lost child by his mother found again,  
Who travailing a new on childbed laid,  
Seeks unto you as Nurse to ease her pain,  
After your clouds of grief be over blown,  
Desires you to adopt him for your own:  
His father would be yours, (for yours he was)  
Whilst he belonged to your deceased mate  
No patron of his poems now he has,  
And therefore doth them to you dedicate:  
Love them for his sake, from whose sorrowed death  
Half dead for sorrow, they have borrowed breath.    
An Italians dead body, stuck with English Flowers.  
The heralds office, I'll assume to me,  
Forward my Muse, chief mourner thou shalt be:  
Impute it not to pride I for most go,  
'tis a poor pride, to be the chief in woe.  

Upon the death of the Right Worshipful Knight, his very honourable Patron, Sir Horatio Pallavicino. Verses thrust out by force when tears fell, and followed of their own accord.  

NAy spare not Envy, malice spit thy gall,  
Say what you can 'gainst my Horatio,  
'Gainst my Maecenas: be not partial,  
Virtue, nor dead, nor living, wants a foe.  
Him living, 'gainst you both I have defended,  
He dead, in spite of spite shallbe commended:  
Envy lays hand on mouth, nay shear thy teeth,  
O art thou toothless? she points to the grave,  
And saith she is buried with him. Dead▪ and seethe▪  
She winks. Nay that is not that we would have.  
There needs no winking where there is no error:  
Look on this sight, thy sight confounding mirror.  
Put on thy spectacles and thoroughly view,  
We crave no favour: still she will be blind,  
Because that virtue shall not have her dew,  
She can no fault, she will nought praise-worth find.  
I could saith she, say then and say but sooth,  
Envy still hath, though she doth hide her tooth:  
I for Horatio held my hand at bar,  
Of what small blemish canst thou him indite?  
I have withdrawn my action, dead men are  
Dead to the law, who bites that cannot bite?  
A dog.  
Such is that many headed Cerberus▪  
The common people, whom Horatio fed:  
Yet could not stop their mouths. Now woe to us  
They cry, and to our starvelings. He is dead  
Who when with hunger we were all nigh dead,  
Refreshed and revived us with bread.  
And yet (oh how far envy carrieth men?)  
He carried and transported, stop tongue there,  
Recant a lie, thy words call back again.  
He did transport corn. When? when corn was dear?  
Whither? to heaven: even corn of life the staff,  
Which when God winnowed, he found no chaff:  
And for he found no chaff, he stored it up  
In his own garner.   

Livor post fata quiescit  
Virtutem incolumem odimus  
Sublatam ex oculis quaerimus invidi.   
Theophil. Feild.   

Upon the same.  

Patron's and Poets have been always scant,  
Is now there number then increased▪ no▪  
Shall dead Augustus then a Virgil want▪  
Oh for a Horace for Horatio,  
Horatio, Maecaenas call him rather,  
Or if ye will, the Muses foster father.  
Rhymesters, enough, enough can make a song,  
A Ballot, or such like, and thereunto  
Annex a woeful tune: they do thee wrong  
Apollo, and thy true born sons undo.  
For why are Poets clogged with poverty▪  
Because these bastards embase poesy.  
Augustus nor Maecaenas near till now  
Were missed and wished till Horatio died,  
In him they died both: the laurel bough  
Did wither, as his body putrefied.  
Hence neither Horace, nor a Maro lives,  
Since Poets are their Patron's relatives.  
Deceased Augustus lives by lively verse  
Of Maro, Maro lived by his purse:  
Horace reviveth his Maecaenas hearse,  
Whose bounty had been erst his Muse's Nurse.  
Life given for living, and bread given for breath,  
Virgil gives most, he gives life after death.  
How can you spend your treasure better than  
Then treasuring up eternal memory?  
(You muckwormes of the world, the scorn of men)  
This gift is in the gift of poetry.  
My Patron was a pattern for you all,  
Whose fames life is his body's funeral.  
Virgil and Horace, I envy you not  
For having so great Patrons as you had:  
In poetry you had a greater lot,  
Augustus for bad ware so much near bad,  
Near gave so much. He gave to Publius  
A Baker's dole, a box to Chaerilus.  
Bread, bare allowance for life's sustenance,  
Dry morsel beggars alms (necessity  
Did ask no more) more royal maintenance  
Gave my Augustus. Superfluity  
So thinks the base clown, what's given to us  
I mean to Scholars, is superfluous.  
I Chaerilus, or Poet worse than he,  
Had royal Phillips for my quarters pay:  
Virgil and Horace did deserve their fee,  
To give them, is to sell, not give away.  
No gift (to sell for gain) but greediness,  
The less my worth, the more my worthiness.  
I Chaerilus, do pity Chaerilus,  
No verse did sound ill to Augustus' ear,  
But Charilus his ear must straight untruss  
Like school boy, and his fists correction bear.  
Are not such Patrons rife? say Satirist  
Who bear in open hand bread, a stone in fist.  
Maro be silent in thy Patron's praise,  
Let Chaerilus Augustus dead fame rear,  
Commend him for his fist, thy Muse upraise:  
As high, as he is arm: a box on the ear,  
A pox upon his hand, much kinder they,  
Who with a flea in ear do send away:  
It bites not half so much, who looks for more  
Than flap with Foxetaile? nay 'tis well if so  
We scape: yet make a cross upon his door,  
Near beg more there: O my Horatio!  
My patron when I view these Carls in gross,  
Thy death presents to me a greater loss:  
I was a dear, dear plot of ground to thee,  
I was waste ground, till in a barren field  
Made fruitful by thy liberality:  
You sowed and planted, yet I near did yield  
Better than flowers: in them thou lookest delight  
Living, with them thy deads' corpse shall be dight.  
Six winters did thy bounty rain on me:  
Six summers with thy Sunbeams oversplead,  
So many summers brought not into thee  
One harvest: I still green, thou withered  
Before my fruit be ripe, for I could pay  
Tithe of thy April shewres, in flowers of May.  
Would thou hadst lived till Pan the shepherds god  
Had entertained me into his rout,  
I might have charmed men's ears with Aaron's rod,  
Shimey his railing tongue have pulled out.  
Give virtue her due praise: which never lives,  
Till death to envy, death and honour gives.  
Would thou hadst lived till then, and then thy field,  
For all thy cost and labour would have paid  
Some better use, now only it doth yield  
Ten in the hundred, being overlaid  
With too much seed. If tears were spent and all,  
My Landlord might have lost his principal:  
But I am rich in tears, oh that they could  
Supple thy withered roots, reduce thy spring,  
My earth should turn to water, and I would  
Weep Oceans: when I could no longer wring  
One poor tears sap from fountain of my eyes,  
My heart should be thy tomb, I here he lies.   

Namque prius timidi pascenter in aethere Cerui  
Et freta destituent nudos in littore pisces,  
Ante perratis amborum finibus exul,  
Aut Ararim Parthus bibet, aut Germania Tigrim  
Quam nostro illius labatur pectore vultus.    

Upon the same.  

Death went a roving for to find a mark,  
His day is night, his white is black and dark:  
At last by chance a pair of Doves he spied,  
Who had three lovely Pigeons by their side.  
Five lovely birds in all, all full of life,  
Too fair a booty for so foul a thief:  
His arrow to his bowstring he did fit,  
And so the biggest and the fairest hit  
But in the foot, who could not run away,  
The other fled, so he seized on his prey:  
And well they did to fly, for sure he meant  
T'have killed them all, but missing his intent,  
He doth excuse his fact, and saith that he  
Meant to kill none, but scare the younger three.  
How comes it then, this fair Dove lost her mate?  
He killed him sure for love and not for hate:  
For Death indeed with Cupid's arrows dight,  
Sought the love shaft, on deadly shaft did light.  
Why shot he not at her? He oft did try,  
She was too glorious object for his eye:  
Had he killed both, I would have surely thought,  
That Venus for her chariot had them bought.  
Yet see not how of price they could agree,  
Since the two Doves could no way valued be.  
Why killed he not the young ones? Oh quoth he,  
They smil▪ d upon me, 'thad been cruelty.  
Besides ripe fruit▪ fed soul make death best cheer,  
As yet young Pigens out of season were:  
'tis well thou slew'st not them, for on their death,  
Did hang a fivefold thread of vital breath.  
'tis well thou slew'st not her▪ for had she died,  
None but death should have been his second bride:  
And mother to his young ones. So in this  
Death hath been merciful, our comfort is  
He lives, and still shall live in his, whom we  
Murdered by deaths dead hand suppose to be.  
And yet then so lives better, for indeed  
The cause why this my Dove to heaven did speed,  
Was this: Ioues Eagle was in some disgrace:  
This Dove made Eagle does supply his place.   
The same.   

An other.  

Dead doubtless death thinks Sir Horatio is,  
But death, deceived, he took his marks amiss:  
Two young Horatios he hath left behind,  
The lively Image of the father's mind.  
In them Horatio lives in spite of death,  
And shall so long as they on earth draw breath.  
Good luck it was: doubtless had death them seen,  
These two fine boys now living had not been.  
Your Ladyship he saw: but thought you might  
Be killed with grief for your deceased Knight.  
Deceive wise Lady his expectation,  
In making moan and lamentation.  
Cheer up your heart: yet look still as you cried,  
And see your pretty sweetings be not spied.   
The same.   

An other.  

Once Sir Horatio from the Pope did steal,  
He stole away into our Commonweal:  
But well and wisely from hence he stole,  
Where still he lived in peril of his soul.  
But ill thou didst to steal the second time  
Away from us, that was no venial crime:  
True it was mortal: death was is in the fault,  
That stole him hence: for some looked on & saw't,  
Who did their part in making hue and cry,  
Which forced the thief the while forego his booty:  
Yet afterwards he spied his time and sped,  
Do what they could that stood then by his bed.  
I rather think he got himself away,  
At least consented to his dying day:  
Nor can I justly blame him for his deed,  
What brought him hither made him hence to speed,  
His soul's estate, which was not at the best,  
Until it came to everlasting rest.   
The same.   

An other.  

If when the party hath penance done,  
And in a white sheet stood his time,  
For him that law and penalty will shun,  
It is not good once ●o object the crime.  
Deserve not they be taught to rule their tongue,  
That now he lies leapt in his winding-sheet,  
Stick not to do that noble Knight such wrong,  
In saying still (their dove will with them meet.)  
He robbed the Pope, did other things beside,  
Wherein he was the while he lived belied.   
The same.   

Another.  

A wandering Knight was Sir Horatio,  
In this, the low, and other countries more:  
He lived and died a stranger with us here,  
Why name I where? that's neither here nor there.  
All men on earth they run a strangers race,  
Pass on along and have no biding place.  
Wherefore Horatio died not for age,  
He died, because our life's a Pilgrimage.   
The same.   


An English man Italionate,  
Becomes a devil incarnate:  
But an Italian Anglyfide,  
Becomes a Saint Angelifide.   
Ed. Ma. Pemb▪ Hall.   

To the right virtuous▪ his much honoured Lady, the Lady Pallavicino.  

THus have I clothed my child the second time,  
Because I had no flowers, in mourning weed:  
Both fields and flowers, and weeds are passed their prime,  
Do on them all a charitable deed.  
It lieth in the flags exposed, rejected,  
Unless by your fair hand it be protected.  
Like Pharo's daughter take it into grace,  
Though meanly borne, yet brought up by your hand▪  
It may in time aspire to higher place,  
And effect wonders by enchanting wand.  
It hath already turned earth to water,  
It may dry up your sea of tears hereafter.  
This colour suiting to the time I chose,  
Hoping it might be precious in your eyes▪  
This black, those fair, and that it would expose  
By foul your fairness, as two contraries  
(Let them be white and black) together placed,  
Are by their opposition jointly graced.  
My book's a perfect mourner, see it wears  
Your livery, and mourneth for your Lord  
His patron, drops of Ink in steed of tears  
Have blubbered his leaves. His strings accord  
Unto the mourner's fashion, all in all,  
It goes as they went to the funeral.  
In this respect you ought to welcome it,  
That it will be copartner of your grief:  
Nor suffer you alone lamenting sit,  
But mourning with you, give some relief.  
'Twill tell you, he you mourn for is not dead,  
But from this country to a better fled.  
My child I called it for his infancy,  
Because it cannot tell his tale of woe  
As it conceives: but only yet can cry,  
And sound the name of dead Horatio.  
When it grows troublesome, do you but will it  
It soon will cease, cease crying and you still it.  
It only yet can cry, but when 'tis grown  
Able to tell his mind in better words:  
If you mean while vouchsafe it for to own,  
It then shall give you what his skill affords.  
Then shall you gather for these weeds I yield,  
A Coal-wort at the hardest in your field.   
Your ladyships bounden in all duty and service. Theophilus' Field.   


Horatio's departed, so men do say:  
Great pity he could here no longer stay.  
Say he's departed, say not he's dead:  
Nor as of others, let of him be said.  
He was not quelled, nor conquered of death:  
But him did combat while he was in breath.  
His breath him failing, cause he would not fire,  
He challenged death; and for he has his rite,  
His body challendged: as a challenge glove  
He gave his body: plighting faith to prove,  
Death in a deadly combat and affray,  
When the last sound shall call all men away.  
Till than his soul, above, doth heavenly pleasures gain,  
Then will his body win from death, for aye to reign.   
T. S. Pemb.   


Horatio's departed, so I heard them say:  
Pity he could here no longer stay.  
Say he's departed say not he is dead:  
But from one place unto an other sped.  
Say not of him that he is dead and gone,  
Say only he is gone. With company or alone?  
His wife and children he hath left behind,  
Though to have borne him company was their mind.  
But thus he thought: a long dead way and ill  
For them poor souls to go, it would them kill.   
Alter Idem.   

Another.  

Who says Horatio died in his bed  
He lies: he died like a dubbed head,  
He died I say like knighthood in the field,  
Encountering death, which forced him not to yield.  
I saw the fight: the knight near shrunk for death,  
But stoutly stood to't while he was in breath:  
When breathe him failed, his foe him did confounded,  
With deadly blow he field him to the ground.  
A coward's part. Might he have took his wind  
The knight had lived, yea killed I bear the mind:  
Who dying mindful of his honour, grasped  
And held his arms (men dying use hold fast)  
Nor did his foe out of the field them carry,  
You saw the Herald did them with him bury.   
The same.   

Another.  

A Knight of late death challened into field,  
To fight a combat at sword and shield:  
The Knight him answered as did become,  
And when they met as I have heard by some,  
He felly fought, and stood to't to the death,  
He tried it out till he was out of breath.  
A noble knight, death did him valiant find,  
And had the worst while he might fetch his wind.  
Pity our life's no better than a blast,  
And bravest mind should so be spent at last:  
When breathe him failed, that day was at an end,  
He ceased hi● sword against his foe to bend:  
And giving death the glory of that fray,  
Dared him to try▪ t again another day:  
Withal▪ his corpse his challenge for to prove,  
He cast in steed of gauntlet or of glove,  
And swore by th'honour of his head he would,  
Again recover what was cast on mould.  
Death took up one, and undertook the other,  
And bids him point both place and places brother:  
He points the Churchyard, and the latter day,  
When sound of Trump shall battle bid array.   
The same.   


What ist thus many eyes one object have?  
And all are bended to yond new made grave.  
O 'tis on yonder Corpse their eyes are fixed,  
It sor to see, thus people here are mixed.  
And as the twinkling diamonds of heaven,  
When all things are of Phoebus' light bereven,  
B● spread the heavens appearing to our sight,  
And lend the earth their little borrowed light:  
So they all deeming this thrice worthy Knight,  
Worthy more days, his day now turned to night▪  
Endeavour to illustrate with their light,  
In spite of cloudy death to make him bright:  
They do not look upon the fatal bear  
As most of them afore accustomed were.  
His body having lost his soul and breath,  
They says become a soul unto the earth:  
His Coffin is a Coffer as they say,  
Wherein this wary world thought good to lay  
This precious jewel brought from farther parts,  
An ornament to Scholars and the Arts.   
T. S. Pemb.   


Horatio's Coffin no more it call,  
Death's Coffin call't, if ye call't at all:  
Wherein he hath laid up a precious Pearl,  
A Noble man, though neither Lord nor Earl.  
Muse you on earth death would not let him tarry,  
Men in the earth their Treasure use to bury.   
Alter Idem.   

The conquest of two Traitors, Envy and Death, by the worthy Knight, Sir Horatio Pallavicino.  

Envy and Death conspired both together,  
'Gainst Sir Horatio, two lean-faced fiends,  
Which ever haunt the best, birds of one feather,  
Void of all love, that pray upon their friends.  
Both qualified alike, both treacherous,  
Envy is deadly, death is envious.   

Th'one to the body mortal wounds doth give▪  
The other doth impeach a man's good name:  
Th'one pines, the other lives by them that live,  
Yet fretteth at the livings living fame.  
Th'one is (like Sagittarius) with shafts dight,  
Th'other (like Scorpio's venomed teeth) doth bite.   

This the conspiracy was which they wrought,  
That Envy for his life's uncertain lease  
Should wrack his fame, whose overthrow she sought▪  
When death should warning give, then to surcease▪  
Death vowed not to hasten till that hour,  
When Envy on his name should have no power▪   

Envy who never looked with cheerful eye,  
Was glad at this, wishing no longer date  
Her malice all-bewitching force to try,  
And exercise her inward-boyling hate.  
Thinking that sooner heat would fire fail,  
Then any thing her force abate or quail.   

eftsoons she as impatient of delay,  
With tooth and nail endeavoured to outrace  
His rising fame; taking the cause away,  
Virtue I mean, and good deeds which win grace.  
Which buildeth up more high admired fame,  
Then the Pyramids sky▪ climbing frame.   

At first an ill opinion she raised,  
(Oh how much first opinions prevail!)  
She rend her hair when once she heard him praised,  
And for ones praise, she made a thousand rail.  
He stole from Rome, he for no goodness fled,  
Cozened the Pope, transported England's bread.   

These falsly-bred and misconceived tails,  
Feeble at first, grew too headstrong at length:  
And flew about more swift than ships full sails,  
And by their farther flying got more strength.  
Thus Envy had his name in credit placed,  
With others helping mouths well nigh defaced▪   

But his true virtues beams obscured before,  
In spite of envies teeth at last appeared:  
And could not be by Envy hidden more,  
But his decayed fame again upreared.  
This sight astonished Envy, like that head  
Of Gorgon, caused men down to fall stone-dead.   

Who to herself reviving came again,  
And seeing his good deeds the more increased,  
(The more his goods deeds, the more envies pain)  
Could not suppress them, yet she would not rest  
But sought always to hinder his intent,  
Hindering his fame, hindering the good he meant.   

At last she said, sithence I spent my power  
And can prevail no more, ere all his fame  
He do again recover in happy hour,  
Or altogether clear his blemished name,  
Death (that I cannot) shorten thou his days,  
Lest he in time exceed his former praise.   

Short after, came th'appointed hour by death,  
When Envy no more bitter gall could spit:  
Till than he granted Sir Horatio breath,  
Till than he vowed his body not to hit.  
Then death approaching near, saw Envy stand  
Stopping his silent mouth with open hand.   

Has Envy parbrackt all her poison than  
(Quoth Death) and cast her tongues three-forked sting?  
Upon no object can Detraction scan?  
Can Slander no more loathsome venom fling?  
Envy replied, what I can does in vain,  
Yet see, by me inflicted scars remain.   

Then o, then quickly cut him off in time,  
Ere he can heal scars unto his name:  
Nor let his fame flourish again in prime,  
Since I have laboured long to stain the same.  
Still while we talk, his good name doth increase,  
And though I cease, his good deeds never cease.   

Death envious himself, by Envy moved  
Soon condescends, not brooking living name:  
And on his envies object his force proved,  
Thinking t'have also nipped his rising fame.  
Death is deceived; his rising fame not dies,  
As he to heaven his rising fame shall rise.   
P. P. P.   


Come doleful Muse  
My soul infuse  
With that death-sounding strain:  
Which Orpheus played  
When he assayed  
To win his spouse again.   

Or let me sing  
Tuned to that string  
Which mournfully he struck  
When hellish jove  
Recalled his love,  
As he on her did look.   

With Cypress bow  
Engirt thy brow,  
Thou queen of angry mood▪  
That with thy quill  
Dost volumes fill  
Of murders, death, and blood▪   

Thou troup divine  
Of virgins nine,  
Which sing on Parnasse hill:  
If Castaly  
With drought be dry,  
With tears the fountain fill.   

Fallen is your star,  
Surpassing far  
That glorious lamp of light,  
Whose golden ray  
Makes brightsome day,  
Whose frown makes dusky night.   

Where shall ye find  
Maecenas kind,  
To cure poor Horace woe?  
Horace must want,  
(Sith such be scant  
As was Horatio.)   

This Phaenix-dove  
Religion's love  
Made fly from Italy:  
And did install  
By Latium's fall,  
Alba in Albany.   

(As Troy being won,  
Fair Venus' son  
In spite of destiny,  
With danger brought  
(Through danger sought)  
Ilium to Italy.   

Then silent spirit  
Unto thy merit  
Give leave this dirge to sing:  
Whose worthy name,  
Outstrips bright fame,  
And tires her flitting wing.   

Since Caesar died  
In height of pride,  
Whom guilty hands did wound:  
A fairer flower  
In Latium's bower  
Then thee was never found.   

Since Venus' son  
Did Carthage shun  
Bend to the Rutiles land  
A worthier knight  
Did never pight  
His tent on foreign sand▪   

Sith then by thee  
Fair Brittany  
The name of Rome shall have:  
She gives thee room  
Within her womb,  
And makes her breast thy grave.   

Thee Italy  
Did once deny,  
Albion a friend doth moan  
Now not with men  
A Citizen  
Installed in heavens throne.   
Han. Pemb.   

Certain verses written and sent in way of comfort▪ to her Ladyship.  

IF those salt showers that your sad eyes have shed  
Have quenched the flame your grief hath kindled.  
Madam my words shall not be spent in vain,  
To serve for wind to chase that mournful rain.  
Thus far your loss hath striven with your grief,  
Whether each piteous eye should deem the chief.  
Whiles both your grief doth make your loss the more,  
And your great loss doth cause you grieve so sore.  
Both grief and loss do willing partners find,  
In every eye, and every feeling mind.  
So have I seen the silly Turtle Dove,  
The pattern of your grief and chaster love,  
Sitting upon a bared bough alone:  
Her dearest mates untimely loss bemoan.  
Whiles she denies all cares of due repast,  
And mourning thus, her weary days doth waste.  
Thus nature's self doth teach us to lament,  
And reasons light our sorrows doth augment.  
Yet reason can itself this lesson teach,  
Our reason should surpass their senses reach.  
Reason our sense, and Grace should reason sway,  
That sense and reason both might Grace obey.  
Those silly birds whom nature hope denies,  
May die for grief because their fellow dies.  
But on this hope our drooping heart should rest,  
That maugre death their parted souls are blest.  
That their swift course, that Goal doth sooner gain,  
Whereto ere long, our slow steps shall attain.  
Some few short years your following race shall spend,  
Then shall you both meet in a happy end.  
But you mean while all in a stranger coast,  
Are left alone, as one whose guide is lost.  
Madam what ere your grieved thought applies,  
We are all Pilgrims to our commons skies.  
And who is nearest to this home of clay  
May find the worse speed and further way.  
And as I guess, unless our Artists fain,  
England is nearer heaven of the twain.  
There is your home, where now your Knight doth bide,  
Resting by many a Saint and Angel's side.  
Walk on in Grace, and grieve yourself no more,  
That your so loved mate is gone before.   
Io. Hall. Imman. Coll.   

An Epitaph.  

Some leave their home for private discontent,  
Some forced by compulsed banishment.  
Some for an itching lust of novel fight,  
Some one for gain, some other for delight.  
Thus whilst some force, some other hope bereaves,  
Some leave their country, some their country leaves.  
But thee no grief, force, lust, gain or delight,  
Exiled from thy home (thrice worthy Knight)  
Save that grief, force, that gain, delight alone,  
Which was thy good, and true religion.   
Io. Hall. idem. Imman. Col.   


You Nymphs that in the meadows keep,  
And midst the smiling Daisies sleep,  
Your Odours power  
On this dead flower:  
Whose loss doth make Aurora weep.  
A flower he was, then crown his tomb  
With flowers sprung from his mother's womb.  
But if the modest Roses want,  
Or maiden Lilies waxen scant:  
Watch where Horatia weeps her showers▪  
And you shall find a bed of flowers.  
Like as of Helen's tears once came,  
The herb which Emila we name.  
A flower he was, and as a flower he died,  
But now to stars as fairer flowers is hied:  
There to behold the chief rose of the field,  
The fairest Lily that the valleys yield.  
Sweet flower of peace, & love both red & white,  
That God and man together doth unite.   
R. S. Coll. johan.   


Two Countries do contend for me,  
Fair Albion, and Italy:  
To both I owe myself at once,  
There was I borne, here lie my bones.  
There did I rise, here do I fall:  
That gave me birth, this burial.  
That was my cradle, this my grave,  
There had I life, here death I have.  
But that gave life which now is run,  
This life which never shall be done.   
R. F. Pemb▪ H.   


Admired Maro let me use thy name,  
To prove Aeneas to Italia came:  
Italian Knight, if I should dare define  
That thou art come of this Aeneas line,  
How ere perhaps some Critic will say no,  
Yet will thy life and likeness prove 'tis so.  
And yet me thinks Ulysses though a Greek,  
Was like Horatio too, since both did seek  
A tongue of eloquence, so by a chaste wise  
Each of them had three children in his life.  
And now to travel is Horatio gone,  
Leaving his Penelope to mourn alone.  
Now doth she tell herself, how he doth live,  
And to her thread of life, that doth length give:  
Now doth she think he's dead, and 'gins lament,  
And wish her thread of life were also spent,  
Thus like Penelope's lingering web of pain,  
She weaves her life, and it unweaves again.  
But it may be when twenty years are past,  
That thy Ulysseses will return at last:  
A ye if he were on earth: but he's too wise.  
For earth to leave the heavens fair Paradise.   
R. Sen. Coll. john.   


See here lie Myrmidons, more hard than steel,  
That no remorse, nor woe could ever feel,  
This dear dear tomb that doth Horatio keep,  
And learn of this moist marble how to weep.   
Idem.   


The Elements that when he was alive,  
Conspired in one to give Horatio breath:  
Are since he died divided and do strive  
Which shall be kindest to him after death.  
The earth doth promise gently to enfold  
His tender body in her cold embrace:  
And for he softly trod commands the mould,  
Softly to he upon his lovely face.  
The water for his sake to tears will turn,  
And drown all eyes in never ceasing woe,  
That where Horatio they gi'en to mourn,  
Whole streams may from the swelling circles flow▪  
The air will through his lightsome Regions sound,  
In doubled echoes great Horatio's fame:  
That through the world no Kingdom may be found,  
Whose utmost shore have not received the same.  
The fire no more will burn his Pictures frame,  
But gliding from his native seat above,  
Will henceforth use the virtue of his flame,  
In kindling hearts with dead Horatio's love.   
N. F. Reg. Coll.   


England lament, thus of thy neighbours checked,  
A stranger came thy fruitful womb to cherish,  
But him thou sufferest without due respect,  
Ungratefully within thy womb to perish.  
For such a one within thee is enshrined,  
As of thy own scarce one is left behind.   
S. H.   


The fates are Queens, they cannot be controlled,  
This object proves it, who can it deny?  
Their law is ostracism 'mongst young and old,  
They expulse the best, for still the best doth die.  
But A eacus is just what ere betides,  
At Pluto's Court I'll sue these homicides.   
I. Cecil. S. john's Coll.   

To the surviving Lady of the deceased Knight.  

Waste Venus? no. The fates have stolen your love,  
Oh cutthroat queans, (I hope they hear me not)  
This year forsooth they spun tissue for love  
To gain a thread, they'll spoil a true-love knot.  
Let not his absence (Lady) be your doom,  
Phoebe shines most, when Phoebus is from home.   
Idem▪   

Noctuluctus, or his Night-mourning.  

1  
RIch tapird-Sanctuarie of the blessed,  
Palace of Ruth, made all of tears and rest;  
Day of deep Students▪ dead Night, nurse of death,  
Who breathless seed'st on nothing but our breath,  
To thy deep shades, and desolation,  
I consecreate my dying living moan.   

2  
You dreadful Furies▪ visions of the night,  
With ghastly howling, all approach my sight:  
And palish Ghosts, with sable Tapers stand,  
To lend sad lights to my more sadder hand.  
Foxes come bark, and Night-ravens belch in groans,  
And Screetch-owles hollow times confusiones.   

3  
Or I will furnish up a Funeral bed,  
Strewed with the bones and reli●ques of the dead:  
Redoubling Echoes shall like passing bells,  
Chiming the dismal accent▪ of their knells,  
Revive the dead, or make the living die,  
In Ruth, and terror of deaths torturie.   

4  
Here lives imprisoned sorrow, clothed in black,  
A doleful hearse, fit for a dead man's back:  
Nature's fair red, clad in pale sheets of Ruth,  
Expressing in dumb show, a serious truth.  
A Funeral solemnized in sad cheer,  
Where eyes be mourners, and where legs the beer.   

5  
But ah my Muse, my Muse can but lament,  
With hair disheveled, words, and tears half spent,  
This dead quick-spirit, wits strange Chameleon,  
Which any author's colour could put on,  
And not in one sole tongue his thoughts dissunder.  
But like to Scaliger our age's wonder,  
The learneds Sun, wrapped in whose admiration,  
The rarest wits are fired in every Nation,   

6  
Whose happy wit with gracious judgement joined,  
Could give a passport unto words new coined:  
In his own shop, who could adopt the strange:  
Engraft the wild, every with mutual change  
His powerful style▪ yet sanz respect of sweets,  
Death folded up his earth in earthen sheets.   

7  
O had I eyes to weep griefs great'st excess,  
Or words expressing more than words express,  
Each line should be a History of woe,  
And every accent as a dead man's throe.   

8  
But tears shall serve for Ink, for paper stones,  
Eyes pens, for letters drops, for subject moans,  
For Epitaph these Threnes. Entombed here lies,  
(In grave of memory digged with weeding eyes)  
Wits strange Chameleon, dead quick-sprited Roman,  
Most like himself, else almost like to no man:  
Arts various-varnish, enriched so with th' Italian,  
French, Latin, Spanish, Dutch, and Nubian  
That Rome, Rhine, Rhone, Greece, Spain, & Italy  
May all plead right in his Nativity.   

9  
Ye living spirits then, if any live,  
Whom like extremes, do like affections give,  
eat, shun this cruel light, and end your thrall,  
In these soft shades of sable Funeral.   
Omnis ut umbra. Io: May:   

An other.  

Muse's loss lamenting treasure,  
Destinies crosse-tormenting pleasure,  
Wisdom wailing, honour crying,  
Virtue weeping▪ judgement dying.  
Altogether all betoken,  
Griefes-griefe, not without grief spoken.   

Learning's Legend, Physics Phusicke,  
Sense of Science, Muse's music,  
Pandora's Dowry, Grace's Glory,  
Sad Melpomines sad Story.  
Write in tears▪ and in tears read,  
Nature's grace, Horatio dead.   

Dead not dead in heaven he rains▪  
Dying life such living gains:  
Living-dying was his state,  
Now dying living spite of Fate  
Raised from earth to heaven, where living,  
lives consent, consent life-giving.   

Though body's life here dead do lie,  
Life of his soul lives ne'er to die.   
The same.   

Idem Lectori In Funera Pallavicinaea.  

ASpice quot vates Pallauicinaea crearint  
Funera, quos nunquam vates potuêre Magistri  
Reddere; noctem unam magnos fecisse Poetas  
Fama est, extempso velut olim Perseus inter  
Enituit summos vates, Helicone relicto.  
Tu modo (si quis aves) fueris cona●ine tanto  
Versifices inter▪ si non potes esse Poeta.   

Eia age sis, delubra Deum, delubra Dearum  
Sedulus implora, totumque Helicona duobus  
Haustibus epotans, ingentem imitare furorem,  
Atque altum quiddam spira, dignumque cothurno:  
Ad fingendum audax: sic nostri ex tempore facti  
Grandiloqui vates, sic tu, plaudente popello,   

(Si nihil est aliud) dic occubuisse Mineruae  
Aonidumque decus, dic interijsse decorem  
Pol Latij▪ et qui omnes paenè praedatus Honores  
Dic obijsse diem, dic invida Fata, colosque  
Detestare nigras, nentesque ex ordine Parcas  
Exagita diris, Musasque & Apollina, quoquo  
Versu itera, atque illas vitam attribuisse perennem  
Defuncto exclama, mortem nos vivere▪ vitam  
Illum perpetuam▪ vatesque videbere tandem  
(Dum nulla occurret melior, via trita terenda'st.)    

Idem Pictoribus, ●que Poëtis.  

Siuspiam vapulet Priscianus (Bone)  
Scia● (Lector) vapular● a Typographo.  
Si verbum, syllaba, vel desit litera,  
Ve● punctum, scias, culpa est Typographi.  
Est primum tempus parce, nunquam prius,  
Latinas literas impressit hic Typographus:  
Si non parces, nunquam imprimet imposterum.   
Io: May: Ce● potius alter Idem, Ignotus.   
FINIS.