VIRTUS POST FUNERA VIVIT Or, Honour Triumphing over Death. Being true EPITOMES of Honourable, Noble, Learned, And Hospitable Personages  
WILLIAM SAMSON.  
Printed by JOHN NORTON. 1636.   

A Proem.  
To the right Honourable, and most nobly deserving Lord, WILLIAM Earl of Newcastle, Barron Ogle etc.  
Right Honourable.  
CAESAR did adventure to write his own acts, & heroic deeds by commentary (and very well he might) I, that with Virgil's gnat, have nothing to write of myself (save misery) have assayed to write the lives, Pious, and virtuous deeds of others (not that by this they are immortalizde) for their own Worths, Virtues, Hospitable, and Pious deeds united have eternised themselves. My full scope, & modest aim is to perpetuate them on Earth, that posterities unborn may not let such Honourable, Religious, & virtuous acts, as your nobleprogenito●s have done, & daily do perform, slip into oblivion, but as in a crystal mirror we may here behold them (as from the beginning we had our sacred laws in the first table writ) your Honour is the Sanctuary to whose high Altar of goodness, I always fly too for redress in all extremes ●one, whom I know with  
Anaxeritis had rather receive a cruse of cold water from your Poor Sinetis, than a goblet of rich aromatic, or cretan wine, from a flattering Gnatho, the God of Heaven, & earth bless you, my honourable. Lady my Honourable Maecenas, and all your noble, and Honourable families, and posterities, sending you your hearts wish Temporal, & Eternal.  
Your Honour's humblest Creature. WILLIAM SAMPSON.   

To the right Honourable most Religious, and truly noble Lady CARISTIAN DOWAGER Countess of Devon: Mother to the right honourable WILLIAM Earl of Devon: and to the right Honourable the Lady, A●n: Ri●h, her honours sole Daughter.  
Right Honourable.  
Fame, and Envy that used to be sworn enemies of the dead (either in detracting, or saying too much, (in this place subject themselves) Envy submits, and fame continues her resolution, which is to divulge unto the world, deeds of Honour,, Piety, and Truth worthy of Fame's Trumpet! To your families, your Honour, and your issue these properly belong! you are the needle by whom these Sun-dialls of Charity hourly, and daily go, 'tis you that lengthen, and not lessen these Charitable, and most Religious deeds begun by your progenitors of blessed memory! I need not say with Horace. Tn recte vivis, si curas esse quod audis. For the lives, and actions of this family, all tend to divine honour; Heaven continue it, and with it long days, and happy ones, and send that noble stem your Honourable Son that lovely branch of Honour, a Halcyon gale, that he may safely arrive at your feet for a blessing and continue an arm of comfort to your Hnnor., and all this most Honourable family.  
To whom, and to your Honour I rest an humble servant. WILLIAM SAMPSON.   

To the right Honourable CHARLES Lord Vis-count Mansfeild, Son, and heir to the right Honourable my singular good Lord WILLIAM Earl of Now-castle, Baron Ogle, etc. Lord Lieutenant of his Majestics too famous Counties Nottingham, and Derby.  

SOle heir of thy great father's virtues! I  
Present these Funeral odes unto thine eye,  
Wherein though young, like to Tully's Son  
You may perceive, what great deeds have been done  
By your progenitors! deign then to read  
These living Trophies of true honour dead.  
Though wise Cratippus reach you, yet behold  
How virtue robes nobility in gold.  
We know there is a Sun, because his light  
Ap●'y distinguishes 'twixt day, and night.  
Your Ancestors like to th' glorious Sun  
Have led the way, (you Honours race m●●st r●n.  
Your infant Honours like to a welcome Spring  
Are by the Graces marked for virtues King.  
Live there, and grow there! never may I see  
A fall'oth Leaf, in your progenitrie.  
Shine in thy Prince's favours, and appear  
Like the blessed Sun, when as hetrotes the sphere.  
Let no cloud blemish thee! still may your e●e  
Aime at the graces of high Majesty.  
Outgrow thy honoured father's goodness! then  
Th' art honour's Map, the non-p●reill of men.  
Your Mother wears the wreath of goodness! you  
From such fair Trees must need a Trophy grow.  
Blessed be you ever, may I still deserve  
Next my devotions (them, and theirs to s●rve)   
Your honour's servant till Death. William Samson.   

In laudem Authoris.  

LAudabunt alii vel Classica vatis Achaei, Phaliscus.  
Vel Dircaei Candida Cigni  
Carmina, sive Lyrâ Flaccum, Sophoclemve Cothurno  
Insigneis, aut pectine Bassum.  
Sunt quibus unum opus est numeros celebrate Maro nis;  
Plurimus in Nasonis honorem  
Aptum dicit amoribus alter: singula singlî.  
Me nec tam lasciva Propertî  
Cynthia, Teia fides nec tam percussit, avena  
Quam nostratis moesta poetae.  
Quicquid habet Laurus, Jovis arbor, Populus, Ilex,  
Hac Cupressi fronde plicatur.  
Hic gravis, et brevis est, operosus, castus, acutus;  
Tales lectores facit Autor.   
Ph. K. Mr in ar t●.   

An Elegy.  
ON THE RIGHT Honourable Elizabeth Countess of Shrewsbury wife to the right Honourable GEORGE Earl Shrewsbury Mother to the right Honourable William Earl o● Devon: Sir Charles Cavendish who married Katherine baroness Ogle, Henry Cavendish who married the Lady Grace Talbot, and Mary Countess of Shrewsbury wife to the Lord Gilbert which Mary was Sole builder of the second Court of St. john's in the famous University of Cambridge, Frances Lady Peirpoint This Countess Elizabeth was Erectoresse of the two famous fabrics of Chatts-worth, and Hard-wicke, and sole foundress of the famous Almshouse in Derby. Grandmother 

To the right Honourable William last Earl of Devon:  
William Earl of Newcastle  
Robert Earl of Kingston  
Sir Charles Cavendish.  
Countess of Pembroke  
The Countess of Arundel  
Countess of Kent    
Great Grandmother to the right Honourable 

William Earl of Devon-shire  
The Lord Matreve●s  
Charles Lord viscount Mansfield  
Henry Viscount New work  
Charles Cavendish, & Henry Cavendish. Esquires.    

WHile Scottish Angus up to heaven doth raise 
Hector Boctiu● and, Aenca● Silvius in their description of the Rivers of Scotland.   
Her River Tay with inexpressable praise,  
While Bamfe, & Louthan, Fife, and Devern sing  
And old Legea brags of her Dane King  
While Northern Tweed disjoining them, & us  
Saith of herself sl●ees most conspicuous,  
Shall I our silver Thames, Severn, and Dee,  
Trent, Owze, and Avon, of one quality  
Forget? nay to your praise I'll bring  
My Alpine peakish Dove, whose fertile wing  
Yields Milk, and Honey, till herself she trill  
Into swift running Darwent on the hill.  
And lastly though a little rivulet  
T●out yielding Crawley shall in measure jet,  
You boast of stately Turrets, births of high rate,  
There in an equippage I'll meet your state,  
You brag of stately fabrics, guilded Towers,  
Whose splendour both the eye, and sense devours,  
My Muse shall meet you there too; but her wing  
Must some sad Funeral notes, and dirges sing.  
This blessed Eliza this bright Diamond,  
Which long-time grew upon our peakish strand  
Graceing the serti●e quarries! waste not strange  
That Hills, and Rocks their sterilnesse should change  
Yielding a fruitful eedenes; as if she  
By nature's help had wrought maturity,  
And from rough quarries taught the ploughshare go  
(Some deity for her sake formed it so)  
She like a Sea Nymph decked the River sides  
With Trees like garlands, ornaments for Brides.  
The wanton sis● would leave the bait, and hook,  
And dance in aierie bubbles, on her to look  
As when the Sun his fiery beams displays,  
And o'er sweet Rivers casts his golden rays,  
Then every beam seems double: so did they  
In thousands in their Icy Kingdom's play,  
As if conceited that their gazer on  
Was Queen of them, and their low region,  
Nor were they cozened much in her great worth,  
For like a Queen she long lived in the North,  
Graced by her noble virtues! she alone  
Shone in her own orb (ungraced by none)  
Free from Ambition, or thoughts to aspire  
Yet was her temper all celestial fire,  
Her glory was in children, happy she  
That left behind her such a progeny!  
Three noble Earls sons of her great blood,  
Whose perfect Honour writes her Honour's good,  
Six Countesses descended all from her,  
Whose names, and fames deserve a Chronicler  
Whose births, and worths in future times shall stand  
Enrolled within the volumes of our Land,  
What need I speak of them? their worths are known:  
Their births were hers (their virtues are their own)  
Such uprightnes of faith, pureness of soul,  
The World beneath her feet she did control,  
Her Orisons like incense offered up  
Ascendant were to drink salvations cup.  
The mighty Orb was witness of her power,  
With whom she sat in counsel every hour,  
The stars to her an everlasting book,  
Whose mighty volumes she did overlook.  
Knowing that there she was appointed one  
To sit in splendour, adding to the zone.  
Now while that Thames boasts of her buildings high,  
Whose Turrets seem themselves to stellify. 
Tay said to be the most noble River in Angus.   
Though Angus boast of her strong maiden Tower,  
Yet comes it short of Rosamonds fair Bower,  
My little River shall compare with them,  
Yet ne'er reflect upon the diadem. 
johannes Major.   
Darwe●t thy Chatworth I will call upon:  
Thy structure merits admiration.  
Thy situations fair, hills like to clouds  
On every side thy guilded ●urrets shrouds,  
Th' art like the ●unne when he is going West  
Rowzing Aurora from her silver nest.  
Amid thy valleys Da●went swiftly runs,  
Who like a tender Mother to her sons  
Yields fords, and springs, and waters sweet, and clear,  
As the blessed Sun in his meridian sphere.  
There may you see the Salmon, Tench, and Trout,  
Like Neptun's Tri●ons nimbly frisk about.  
Sometimes along the flower enamelled vales  
She d●es inundate, and tells wanton tales  
Unto the Meadows: f●r she takes a pride  
Her crystal limbs on pearly sands to glide.  
As if she were enamoured on the Hills,  
Whose steep descents her water courses fills.  
As loathe she were to leave the continent,  
And thrust her head into her sister Trent.  
Who sometimes angry doth her course forsake,  
Thrusting her head into the Germane lake.  
Above her valley the●e you may deserie  
As in a Landscape things beyond the eye.  
The Alpes themselves you'd think were thither come  
And Ponto Angelo removed from Rome,  
I glance but at the outside, for within  
Those be the Judge's ●ave that structure seen.  
And next to thee, feigned Hard-wick, which dost stand  
Like to a promont peering o'er the Land:  
Or like a quarry that's unpenetrable  
'Gainst pick, or crow rest unvulnerable.  
Or like a Diamond's glittering in the night  
Which in the darkest room gives greatest light.  
Or like a perspicil that doth descry  
Things fair remote, and bring's them to the eye,  
So stands this second Colosse built by her,  
By this blessed Woman this world's wonderer.  
Distant four Miles, there stands her truest lover, 
Guiccardine: 〈◊〉 Gildas in the Expul. of the Danes.   
The stately Cabinet of Bouls'over,  
Whence the insulting Danes by force, and might  
Were last expulsed, and beaten out in fight.  
Those that like Giants against great Jove did war,  
And darted rocks against the thunderer,  
Here their aspiring purposes were void,  
Their Lives, and their intentions all destroyed.  
Thence came the privilege those Feres enjoy  
'Cause they those Fin-land Giants did destroy.  
Beneath our Hard-wike, in the Valley trills  
The Beck of Crawley fed by springs, and rills.  
Whose watery course, no river can beget  
Till in the Rother she her head does set.  
Sometimes she's wanton too, and loves to kiss  
The Daizy meadows. when her Verdure is.  
You'd take her for an inland fen, or mere,  
When Hiems does the frigid Solstice steer;  
But when fair Sol hath burnished the fields.  
Not Zephyrs Bottles so much calmness yields.  
Yet in this little rill we Trout do find,  
Harmless Mullets, and Crevise in their kind.  
Pike, Tench and Barbell, Pickerels of high price,  
Which live within her watery Paradise.  
For which, and for those Fabrics, which you bear,  
Within my fancies you shall still appear.  
Darwent my Tempe thou shalt be, or non.  
Soft purling Crawley thou my Helicon,  
Enriched with minerals thy valleys are,  
Iron, Wood and Coals, Creatures that are rare  
In other climes, though not esteemed with us:  
For plenty ever was contagious.  
Things facilely come by we nothing deem,  
But what we cannot get we most esteem.  
Her bounty fame, and liberality,  
With all those Types of hospitality  
Were so inimitably absolute,  
A Parliament cannot that state refute, 
A most pious Princely gift 100 per Annum, and confirmed by Charter.   
With all the household gods that mourned her fall,  
To whom she was the full material.  
Witness that Almse-house which in Derby stands,  
Where every hour with pure religious hand's  
Twelve Almners habited in azure blue  
Yields their oblations tributaries due  
To her their foundress, where they have their pay  
By deed confirmed them at a certain day,  
With Gardens to delight them, and sweet Bowers,  
Where harmless souls there spend their pious hours.  
Our swelling Darwent is their neighbour there,  
Who often feasts them with her Icy cheer.  
Within All-hallowes Church entombed she lies,  
As if she here dreamt of that Paradise  
Above she was ascertained! her eyes run  
Like to the larks observant of the Sun.  
Like fire in some fat mineral of the earth,  
Finding the least vent, she would find new birth.  
Rest sweet Eliza; again I say go rest,  
Sleep with the Phoenix in thy spicy nest,  
Embalmed in thine own myrrh! merit, and fame  
As thine own attributes attend thy name.  
Though Mankind be but dust, yet by decree  
In every earth there's a diversity,  
Some soft, some hard, some sanded, some all Clay  
For several countries several soils display,  
Thine was a hard one, yet it brought forth lead  
Surpassing silver fined, and polished.  
Those Margaretas precious in the West  
Compared with thy worth are unworthiest,  
Those Cassiopean gems, dearer than gold  
Laid to her vertnes were for nothing ●old.  
The spirit of Tagus, Opsi●, Ind●a free  
Are gross and vile of no validity.  
Yet when all's done, Man is but kneaded dust,  
Subject to wither, canker, dy● and rust.  
Like to the Helitropium or go●d Flower,  
That Sun that warms him needs must him devour.  
Her virtues this Imperious ensign bears,  
Glory to her, and Honour ' to her heirs.    

On the Right Honourable the Lady Katherine Baronesse Ogle, worker to the right Honourable William Earl of Newcastle and the most noble Gentleman Sr. Charles Cavendish.  

When the two Tables first were writ in stone  
By the Almighty (which made all of none)  
They certainly were left us for to show  
How in this life our times we should bestow.  
Why may n●t● then boldly forage on  
To write a truth without detraction?  
Thy sacred virtues cannot lodged be  
Surer in Grave then in the memory  
Of thy dear issue● that emboldens me  
To write thy merits in an elegy.  
That Tree must needs be good, when as the fruit  
Is always ready for the taste, and tooth:  
I mean in leason. For Divinity  
Allows to each plant full maturity.  
Hadst thou been one of common birth, or gone  
Above thy female sex (in but in one  
Rare gift) my mournful elegies than might  
As offered incense do thee funeral rite,  
But when so many rarities conspire  
In oneself person, fit for all t'admire,  
Small wonder then if my amazed eyes  
Are dazzled with diviner rarities.  
And I of sense, and wonder quite bereft,  
Si ce for to praise thee, there's scarce one way left.  
For thou wert all divinity, so rare  
Few earthly creatures might with thee compare,  
So siled with knowledge, sanctity, love, zeal,  
As if by prophecy thou couldst un veil  
All holy mysteries! thy every word  
Had reference to the Almighty Lord:  
In Hymns, and Soliloquies thou didst pay  
Thy Orisons, as incense every day,  
Or balm poured on his Altars! therefore we  
Count it a blessing to remember thee,  
Whose good deeds we may aim at, but not touch,  
'Twere a Herculcan labour; and too much  
For women to aspire, or match thy worth:  
One Phoenix dead, there's yet no more come forth  
Out of thy ashes, and yet thine own fair birth  
Has brought a second blessing to the Earth  
Like spreading Vines they 'bout his tables grow,  
And like the lovely Olives stand in row.  
In these thou still dost live, thou art the Tree  
These stems of honour all are grown from thee.  
'Tis not a few poor lines that can portray  
Thy ample worth; the Muses lost their way  
Seeking to describe thee! then blame not me  
If I come short of thy known memory,  
Whose every word was all perfection,  
And what I now write mere detraction.  
I cannot reach unto thy ample story  
That was so fraughted with Zeal, Goodness, Glory,  
Humility was thy handmaid, and she  
Has wafted thee to immortality,  
Where sacred ravishing●s thou hearest above,  
Whiles we on Earth do memorise thy love,  
Bowls o'er retains thy Corpses, the whole World thy fame  
there's nothing here dead of thee (not thy Name.)    

On the right Honourable WILLIAM last Earl of Devon-shire who married the most noble Lady CHRISTIAN Sister to the Lord BRUISE and lies inter 〈…〉 d in DERBY.  

I Make no doubt but from the Muse's choir  
Some more sweet singers nobler, and higher  
Have offered to thy shrine! yet let not me,  
When others pay, live in obscurity,  
Without acknowledgement! 'twere a sin indeed,  
At which even Heathens do us far exceed.  
Ingratitude is ba●e, my treas'ry poor,  
Yet ●▪ le l●nd some things from my Muse's store.  
Thy honours gain▪ d not more unto thy name,  
Then did thy virtues in thy Funeral flame.  
Nay wert thou now alive, there is none that dare  
Thy living virtues then for to compare.  
For thou wouldst think we flattered! but now,  
Thy death shall all suspicion disavow.  
'tis sin for to belly the dead! yet we,  
Hold goodness speaks all truth (not flattery)  
I want that rhetoric, which the men of Rome,  
Did jointly bear unto dead Tully's tomb.  
Yet i'll not danbe thy utne; (since that there  
Can be no fowl things, where there's no fowl ear.)  
Thine ancestors of noble birth, and fames  
Whose good deeds have eternised their names.  
Whose zeal of faith, fealty to Prince,  
Detracting envy can no whit convince.  
With all those stratagems she works to eat  
Into a free breast void of malices seat.  
thouart not more honoured by thine ancestry,  
Than they are triply dignified by thee.  
Since all their honours thou didst multiply,  
And so didst leave them to posterity.  
For to be great-borne is not the mere cause  
Why men receive loud popular applause,  
But to be good-borne does transcend the great;  
(Goodness makes greatness for to be complete.)  
And she was thine inherent, virtue strove  
In various ways, all vices to remove.  
In France thy honours there did gain renown  
From the most Christian wearer of that Crown,  
Those courtly favourites that gazed on thee  
Said that thy looks promised maturity.  
E●en the greatest Feres of France, no more did wish  
But the Alliance of a Cavendish.  
They thy admirers were, and thou the Man  
In whom whole rivulets of virtue ran.  
Not by conceived hopes! for in thy face  
Were Characters of honour set in grace  
With virtues never found out, nor yet thought  
With sacred sanctity thy hart was fraught:  
With còurtesie courage, bounty, wisdom.  
What greater trophies can adorn a tomb?  
Honour, learning, knowledge, piety,  
The holy blessings of some deity,  
But that which makes these to perfection grow  
He who had all these could be humble too.  
But that's a blessing from eternity  
Successively given to thy family.  
Humility is a robe of high renown  
And amongst the cardinal virtues wears the Crown.  
These made the Princely Dolphin t'admire thee  
And all the French Feres in love desire thee.  
And with a mourner's sorrow wail thy loss  
When thou from France the English seas did cross.  
Thy parting from them was, as if some groom  
Should leave his Bride, and journey far from home.  
Yet hoping to enjoy her lord again  
In 'midst of anguish gave release to pain.  
He that from strangers had these favours shown  
What graces' then deserved he from his own?  
As great Ambassadors of eminence  
From foreign Princes do their suits commense,  
Are in all pomp, and honourable port  
Received, and graced by persons of the Court,  
Such is the Prince's will! so was this Man of men.  
Unto his native home received again.  
And married unto the Princely line  
Of noble Bruise beyond the River Tine,  
Of whom some noble branches still remain 
The Lord Rich married the Lady Anne daughter of William Earl of Deton shire   
Whose honours part of their great worths retain.  
The one engraffd in warlike Rich's Arms  
The other ready to sing war's Alarms.  
Then came each Poet with his sprig of Bays  
With all the Muses to set forth his praise.  
Into whose Palms he evermore did pour  
Such heapesas Jove in Danae's lap did shower.  
Thus like a goodly Fabric did he stand  
Admired, and honoured by all in our Land.  
Especially by sacred majesty  
In whose true service he did live, and die.  
Loved of his Country, honoured of the state,  
And his mortality died free from hate;  
For which the Muses to his memory  
Have now no other song but Elegy.    

On the right Honourable JANB Countess of Shrewsbury Wife to the right Honourable EDWARD Lord TALBOT of Shrewsbury last of that family dedicated to the right Honourable the Lady JANE CAVENDISH Daughter to the right Honourable WILLIAM Earl of Newcastle:  

YE sons of Phoebus, were ye drowned in Sack  
Or Lethe? did dull security slack  
Your feeble spirits? knew ye not she was gone  
That was sole governess of Helicon:  
She was the soul of learning, love, and grace,  
Row●e up your sack-braines, die not in disgrace,  
Let not each miser's Hearse adorned lie  
With your strong Verses, stead of heraldry  
She was sole Queen of the Castalian spring,  
Then to her feet your flowing numbers bring.  
Come sprightly on, and offer here your Bays  
For she deservedly was worth your praise.  
Since most ingrateful brainsick murderers,  
Court Parasites, Virtues smotherers,  
False Sons of Phoebus, bastards of the Nine,  
Since they their own worths sing, and conceal thine.  
May that rare miracle, ne'er Created be  
Nor found amongst'em (wealth in Poetry)  
Well, though I cannot sing, yet you shall see  
Honour, and ●ruth, kiss in an Elegy.  
Thy funeral Ode was not more full of fame  
Then mine shall be of truth (let spite spite shame)  
For Temper, Goodness, Liberality,  
Steadfastness in faith, Hospitality  
She was inimitable! beyond compare,  
No earthly Saint was so completed rare.  
Each day the poor kept market at her gates,  
And tasted largely of her wont Cates,  
Had all commodities the mart afforded,  
Yet paid for nothing, all went back rewarded.  
Rich Charity the while, when every buyer  
Has all for nothing, and is paid for hire.  
Here goodness floated, Hospitality  
Is the first stair leads to Eternity.  
These she at Rufford every day did show,  
As duly as she paid her morning Vow,  
Which sweet Oblations every day did fly  
As incense offered to the Trinity.  
Her soul set in her body, was a Gem  
Enclosed within a Glorious Diadem.  
Whose sparkling Inster, reachd unto the Skies,  
Where like a star it stands fixed in our eyes.  
Her mind was the gold cabinet of Art  
Richly completed in every part.  
Love, Honour, Knowledge, Learning, far beyond,  
The common strain of Ladies in our Land,  
Who are not so annexed to the tie  
Of sacred knowledge, as to nicety.  
Her youth spoke rare things, her virtues greater,  
She was rare i'th' first i'th' last completer.  
Such sacred comforts her sweet soul did give.  
As that she feared not death 'twas fear to live,  
Was her affliction! honoured she  
No TALBOT left of that great progeny:  
That progeny, I say, even at whose look  
All France have stood, as with an earthquake shook. 
Not of him that was the Terror of France though all the rest were brothers of his Line,   
Like crazy buildings when their pillars gone  
So have they trembled, and for refuge flown.  
The name of TALBOT, as a Bugbear still  
Affrights their children from attempting ill.  
If twattling rumour said but TALBOT's come,  
At her report all mutinies were dumb.  
That famous TALBOT whose authentic name  
Was never touched, by tainture, blot nor stain.  
Not to historify their high renown.  
(A Shrewsbury was keeper of the Crown.)  
Such were the unstained TALBOTS honours there  
Though now scarce mention of them is made here  
But honoured urns, and ashes! what are those  
But relics which our rotten tombs enclose?  
What can outlast time, rust wears l'ron away  
Small wonder then, if our great names decay.  
And yet her name, and honoured memory  
Shall never fade, till all consume, and die.  
Her servants are her Chroniclers, they found  
Those virtues from her, cannot fall toth' ground.  
Northumberland thy dear loss does lament  
In them thy goodness still is eminent.  
What shall I say of her? she was complete  
And in two Maxim's rare (born good, and great)  
Great-borne by birth, joined with that stile of blood  
But that which nobler was, (she was borne good.)  
Nay add to that which may all mankind vex  
All virtues lived in one of weaker sex.  
Then sweetest Madam, noblest Lady JANE,  
You bear her memory, her worth, and fame.  
And may you fairest Lady ever be  
As near to her in deeds as pedigree.  
You cannot miss her worth, you have the shrine  
Of goodness in you, (all parts speak Divine.)    

On the right Honourable ELIZABETH Countess of Huntingdon Wife to the right Honourable FERDINAND Earl of Huntingdon.  

Women lament her loss, for here she lies,  
That from your female sex deserved the prize.  
The Graces met in this bright paragon  
And but for her had perished long agone.  
The Lacedæmonians used to sacrifice  
Unto the Muses in most solemn wise  
To th'end their deeds might all be registered  
And Chronicled, for theirs (when they were dead)  
If they did thus, Ladies why should not you  
Pay to this pious Dame a holy due?  
She to her sex did all their virtues give,  
Envy cannot deface them! they shall live  
Till Time dissolves, and this huge fabric pass,  
And all to Chaos turn, as first it was.  
What s'ever worth, or merit, could define  
In her, as in a mirror, clear did shine.  
Those rich endowments sacred virtue claims  
To be sole Queen of; those she wore as chains  
Making a true love's knot of goodness! she  
The Lady was of blessed Humility.  
Charity, Love, Zeal, Religion,  
Were the Ideas that she doted on.  
She knew Court Ladies faults, and did not tie,  
Her faith unto her fashion! her eye  
Aimed at the starry Court of Majesty  
Absolute in Love, Zeal, Brightness, Glory,  
Honour loves not applausive multitudes,  
But virtue's self, which verity includes.  
Her soul was so engraffd in piety  
That she despised all popularity  
She needed not those Platonical Rings  
Of whom an old Philosopher thus sings  
The virtue made invisible; no no she  
Expressed all virtues in her modesty.  
She on true honour's Maxim did depend  
That conscience was the honourablest friend.  
From dead Eliza of blessed memory  
She did receive her Christianity.  
A happy Mother makes a happy Child  
She had her spirit, and her nature mild.  
Till pale Consumption made the way for Death,  
Then sweet Eliza, yielded up her Breath.    

On ELIZABETH WILLOUGH BY First Wife to HENRY WILLOUGH BY of RISLEY Baronet who lieth interred in the Parish of Wilne in Derbyshire.  

Why did the birds i'th' height of Summer's prime  
Their wont Chirpings leave; which used to chime  
Like silver sounding bells, from springs or woods  
Which Echo iterates from running floods.  
The sil'y robinet did leave to hop  
And senseless sat upon the cold house top.  
The Lark lay down loathing to get on wing,  
The Thrush had quite forgot her sonneting.  
Sad Philomela from her pensive breast  
In all dull sorrows tunes her notes expressed.  
Such mournful dirges were by her begun  
As if that sorrow sorrow would strike dumb.  
Thy loss best woman, was the cause why thus  
Both man, and creatures were incongruous.  
The Birds blessed woman ruefully did moan  
Thinking their Phoenix was to Ashes stone.  
But from thy flames few more such will arise.  
In thee th' Arabic perfection dies.  
Thou Orphant's Mother, and the Church's praise,  
Great pity Time did not protract thy days.  
But let a stock of virtues fall in thee,  
Which able were to make an History  
Of ample goodness! these for to look upon  
And dare to write 'em were detraction.  
Thou hast been long lamented, yet no verse  
Nor showers of rhetoric can grace thy Hearse?  
Thou hast outgone all eloquence; and we  
Need no invention, thy History  
Will find us work enough! and that we read  
Of thee at Risley, though that thou be dead.  
The neighbour Villages, that round are there,  
Receive thy bounteous alms, three times a year,  
Paid from thy Husband's open treasury,  
Whose soul sweet, Saint, hath long lamented thee.  
That wert the true Idea of his soul 
A famous Chapel, and the Tomb of his noble ancestors by him erected over her in the Parish Church of Wilne in Derbyshire   
Whose pious actions do all ills control.  
He o'er thy Funeral Hearse a Fabric framed  
A Chapel at Wilne! what needs that be named?  
All buildings come too short of that great worth,  
Which thy most honoured birthright did bring forth.  
And therefore dead thou canst not lodged be  
More in thy Grave, then in our memory.    

On the Right Honourable the Lady CLIFTON second Wife to Sir GERVASE CTIFTON Baronet, daughter to the Earl of Cumber-land.  

Wonder, and Beauty did contest,  
Which of them too should grace her best.  
Wonder then said that she alone  
Was fit to write on her own stone.  
Pride, and she at difference were,  
Vanity must not dare come near.  
Divinity, and she were one  
And best were pleased when most alone.  
Contemplation was the tie  
Which bound her thoughts in unity.  
For poverty she had a band  
Which like a harvest ear did stand  
Full, and open! her marble stone  
Still invites a parting groan.  
Beauty said she would not vie  
For out ward parts to please the eye.  
The in-ward beauties of the mind  
Soul Magazines she there did find.  
There were honours, riches, plenty,  
Grace, and goodness, glories dainty,  
Charity in a robe of Gould  
Sat their enthroned, all might behold  
They mental virtues did not weep,  
Her Leet, or Court, did justice keep:  
There were all that might be said  
Of goodness in a wife or maid.  
Beauty said, there was her store,  
And wonder cried, enough, no more.  
These are enough to build a tomb  
That shall outlast the day of doom  
Nature's Darling, Virtue's Glory,  
Thy best self, is thy best story.    

On the never dying memory of old Sir JOHN HARPER of Swarkeston Grandfather to the noble Gentleman Sir JOHN HARPER dedicated to him, and his most nob●c Lady.  

To number out thy Birth, thy years, and age,  
Each leaf would be a Chronicle, and each Page  
A volume! where our Patriots might read  
Thy living actions though thou long since dead.  
I shall want Trophies to adorn thy Hearse,  
Rather some pen of silver for thy verse.  
Silver, said I? nay sparkling diamond  
Or some more rare, if rarer can be found,  
For to engrave thy worth! a golden pen  
Well pointed with some glittering diadem,  
Will best become thy anthentique story,  
If that it fail not thy great history.  
Our Antiqua 〈…〉 es to thy seat may come,  
And offer volumes up unto thy tomb.  
And yet fall short of thee! nay sadly mourn  
O'er those few ashes strewed about thy urn.  
Their mystic Characters thou couldst make sense,  
And never wrest Case, Gender, Mood nor Tense.  
All foreign broils, and eke domestic jars  
Thou couldst by policy appease from wars.  
Such were thy sacred treasures in the law  
That even dissension thou couldst keep in awe,  
Setting at peace the uncontrolled splcene  
Of those thy neighbours which in suits have been,  
As lawyers did their Tully imitate,  
Yet could not reach unto his sugared fate:  
So now those imitators follow thee,  
Yet cannot reach thy sweet serenity:  
Justice in even scales thou long didst bear,  
At which Astrea joyed, set in her Chair,  
For she rejoiceth when her scale is even,  
And registers her upright Judge in Heaven.  
Our ancient Heralds to discourse with thee  
Thought it as much as to Historify.  
The Muses lost a father, for thy hand  
Did their necessities, and wants withstand,  
Yet thy benevolence as freely came  
As dew from Heaven upon this Earthly frame.  
Each brow was lawrelled, and each sprig of Bayss  
Was tipd with gold, foretelling Halcyon days;  
The gods of music since that thou went hence  
Have quite unstringed their sacred instruments.  
And took them to the Melancholy vales  
And there to one another tell sad Tales.  
Yet there's fair hopes their states they will resume  
And with their strains strike Melancholy dumb.  
Filling the groves with their harmonious sound  
Striking a double echo from the ground.  
A house as free, and open as a Court  
Managed by industry; not by report,  
Seeking to gain a populare applause,  
But chiefly aiming at Charity's Laws,  
The poor, and needy every day are fed  
Though thou be gone they still eat of thy bread  
This precedent was un-matchable, Ages to-fore  
Nay, and to come, cannot the like tell o'er.  
A family so guided, maned, and governed  
As that dissension scarcely was discerned,  
For twice six years, a house kept, and maintained,  
As if the master still on earth had reigned.  
If after-ages do not record this  
Our Chronicles are faulty, and remiss;  
No servant from his Master went away,  
Nay there are still maintained unto this day  
By thy successors! whose fair hopes do give  
Large testimonies that thou still dost live.  
And may they ever in thy goodness shine,  
For thou on Earth wert heavenly divine.  
Send them, great God, a many happy sons  
And all like thee (they will be holy ones.)  
Where Vbrious Trent her swelling veins does spread,  
Within a narrow room lies entoombed  
This noble precedent! and while Trent their flows  
All age's honour to thy memory owes.  
I will not longer trouble thy dead earth.  
Sleep on blessed JOHN, sleep till a second birth.  
If good men's prayers to Angels have access,  
Thou hast in heaven perfect happiness.    

On the renowned gentleman old Sir JOHN BYRON of Newsteed-Abbey.  

LIke to the silly freckled Butterfly  
Oblivious winter long hath let thee lie.  
But now the Sun his beams hath darted forth,  
And most illustriously guilds thy worth.  
'Tis not a marble Tomb, nor some few lines  
Writ with a golden pencil, that confines  
Our good or bad acts: 'tis memory  
That records them unto posterity.  
And that we have from thee, for thou wert all  
That can be said of goodness natural.  
Lives he that will not justify, how fame  
Raised early Trophies to the BYRON'S name?  
How by desert, thy noble virtues shone  
In their own orb, rectified by none.  
He truly served his Country, nobly the state,  
And was for both like Basills' magistrate,  
Free from Corruption, Avarice, or Pride,  
His virtues not his vices, he did hide.  
When Royal Anne was pleased for to try  
Diana-like her strong Artillery,  
In spacious Sherwood! famoused for the fame  
Of Robin-hood, whose bower still bears the name.  
Then had you seen our BYRON with what port  
He entertained her Majesty to th' Court.  
With music sweet, as if in harmony,  
The Earth, and Heavens in comfort did agree,  
To speak a bounteous welcome 〈…〉 such a one  
As well might vivify a hart of stone,  
How every office in its own sphere moved,  
Admired by all, and of the whole Court loved,  
Freedom, and plenty strove which should exceed,  
Bounty p oclaimed full welcomes to Newsteede,  
Yet with a free, and sparing hand! for she  
Sauced every juncket with sweet temp'rancie.  
But what of these? why nothing, all is gone:  
These are but shadows to perfection.  
He was religions friend, and with a sword  
And shield of faith did ever man God's Word.  
He lived till in the Autumn of his Age  
Death signed his Exit off this frail world's stage.  
But though he's gone, he that so dies, dies not,  
But lives, and never can be here forgot.    

On Sir GEORG MANORS of Haldon, father of the noble Gentleman JOHN MANORS Esquire.  

ANd shall thy honours which like Landmarks stand  
To guide the Seaman? shall those be writ in sand  
Or Carracts of oblivion? then let my pen  
Lose her sweet candour, and ne'er dare again  
To draw spruise Nectar from the Thespian springs  
Where merit freely sip's, and clearly sings.  
Were all wits frosty, and to Ice congealed  
That thou brave JOHN so long shouldst lie concealed,  
And not a memory sent to thy urn  
To blaze thy worth? did there so many mourn,  
And can so few remember? barren age  
When virtues must be sent on pilgrimage,  
ne'er to return liurely it was our clime  
Made with so barren, that nothing in due time  
From any Muse was offered to thy shrine,  
That wert on Earth so heavenly divine.  
Frosts dried our Springs, Mountainous heaps of snow,  
Upon our peakish Alpes did seem to grow,  
Which made our wits, as barren, leaden, dry,  
As that which on her Alpine brows did lie.  
Until Vertumnus with his luke warm veins  
From rocky springs bedewed all our plains.  
Till than our wits, like spring's chained up in frost,  
Or chillish thaws were sterile, drained, and lost.  
Then let my Muse, though weakest in all the choir,  
Unto thy Hearse offer Phoebean fire,  
Yet without Marts of oil, or flattr'ies Ink,  
My smooth Elegies never used to drink  
Affections liquor, truth play thou thy part,  
And Muse brave envy, write thou from thy hart.  
Some things oft times do simply good befall,  
And sometimes goodness happens accidental  
In outward gifts! use makes them good, or nought.  
As if a man his Country save, 'tis thought  
His strength is good! but if by violence  
His valour wounds the guiltless innocence  
Then is his valour nought! absolute fame  
love's all, hurts none, and gain's a glorious name.  
In this he did transcend, for in the field  
He never did to any foeman yield.  
Valiant, yet seldom angry, valour shows  
Most clearly perfited in smooth-faced brows:  
The emblem of an honest hearted mind  
Is to be valiant, yet to all menkind.  
As star's in magnitude, and splendour show  
Each from other; so mortals ever grow  
In goodness or in vices. Oft we see  
Two men in all things never did agree.  
If this has height, th'other wants his stature  
Deformed the one, th'other bookful of feature.  
Some Star's are fixed, so are some men's minds,  
Others all motion: so are most by kinds.  
Some star's are bigger, so are some men by birth,  
And some show lesser that are highest from Earth.  
As the fixde stars ne'er from their centres move  
But in their Epicycles roll: such was his love  
A Rock unmoveable, a Bulwark of defence,  
A Fort of Love, Arms, Arts, and Innocence.  
Just to his God, Religion, Piety:  
For all men's griefs, full of anxiety.  
His whole existence, this way was inclined,  
T'adorn his soul, more than to please his mind.  
Pride as a leprosy he still abhorred  
With all their vanities that sin adored.  
In spired by sacred knowledge from above  
That proud men never lived in perfect love.  
This Maxim's undenieable by disdain.  
(Pride's pension, and reward is called pain.)  
From that if outward signs do blazon forth,  
What the interior is addicted too: then worth  
Speak for thyself! I need no soothing lays  
Daubed with Encomiums to set forth thy praise.  
Thy Country knows it, that thy garments were  
For warmth, not wantonness; such as might outbear  
Storms, and tempests! some say pride lives in rags  
Yet thine were never cut in Flashes, Jaggs,  
Not like our gallants, at whose vanities,  
Ever sits blushing the poor taffetas,  
Whom though they cannot speak their colour rises  
To see Apes dressed in several disguises.  
Virtue is home spun, needing no gold lace  
To gild her russet coat with, Sacred grace  
With all the Cardinal Virtues she's endued,  
Her cabinet all goodness doth include,  
Bounty, Greatness, Hospitality,  
Unfeigned love, and liberality  
And that which under foot, does all else tread  
(A hand still ready to give poor men bread.)  
But I have lost myself, and my faint Muse  
Is so short of thy worth, she does abuse  
Thy memory: then let thy Country speak;  
And they'ill strike envy dumb, make malice break  
Her neck; if she dare to oppose them,  
For all these worths, and more he did enclose them.  
Charity was his robe, peace was his crown  
Good works the sword, with which he won renown.  
He Philip's Motto, every morn did scan  
(Remember mortal thou art but a man.)  
Therefore he knew that man's selected good  
Was his last act (which was to lose lives blood.)  
Repaying nature that which mortals must,  
A forfeiture called life, most true, and just,  
Therefore he armed himself with innocence,  
Love, zeal, humility, and patience,  
Strong Porters for to bear a sinful man  
up to the portals of Elysium  
Where like the Bay Tree, though to us unseen  
Though winter always were, (yet he lives Greene.)    

On Sir GEORGE PERKINS of Bunny.  

STay passenger, for there he lies.  
Who for his merit, gained the prize.  
Beloved i'th' City, famed i'th' Court  
Virtue makes the truest report.  
Such his gesture grace, behave'our  
From his Prince he had the favour,  
Of a servant! but no Court grace  
Can the rough hands of Death displace.  
His sandy hours do fleeting run,  
As snow dissolving 'fore the Sun.  
The greatest Feres, and Potentates  
Are all but subjects to the fates.  
But noble Perkins did not fall  
He mounted to the Tribunal,  
He served his Country, Prince, and state  
And did free from the Commons hate.  
An Alms he ever freely gave  
And those that wanted there might have.  
He was wise, judicious, strong,  
And yet he feared for to do wrong.  
Rich in sacred wisdom's store  
Which makes his Country him deplore,  
And adorn herself in black,  
For many such she now does lack.  
Such fair models, such brief stories  
As do heap on her more glories.  
And still add in worth, and fame  
More honours to his Funeral flame.  
But he is gone, and fates are just,  
For as he is, so mankind must.  
Yet this I say though he be gone  
His virtues shall strike Envy dumb.    

On the right Honourable WILLIAM CAVENDISH second son of that name to the right Honourable WILLIAM Earl of Newcastle. 1633.  
WILLIAM CAVENDISH  
Ana gramma  
All my will is Heaven.  

IT was heavens will, and sure it was performed,  
And thou in heaven art certainly adorned  
Amongst those Angels, whose bright Coronets.  
Transcend the Suns, and brighter rays begets.  
Sure Nature was empoverished, and her store  
Most certainly enfeebled, and grown poor,  
And therefore to enrich her treasury  
She sent her messenger pale death for thee,  
Making that Axiom from her own sex good,  
(All purity was borne in innocents blood)  
Thrice happy he that so departed hence  
In lamblike patience, Sacred innocence.  
Before he ever tastes earth's pompous dross  
So to gain heaven (a happy saint like loss)  
Conspired you all, did you oh fates conspire  
To crop this goodly tender growing spire?  
Did you and death Herodian like agree  
To work on innocents a Tragedy?  
Could no low Brambles but the talest Tree  
In all the forest give satiety  
To your dire vengeance? is Blood, Honours, State  
At no more price than Births of meaner rate.  
Since Adam's mourned fall, was there no degrees  
No difference in blood? no diversities  
'Twixt Kings, and Cottagers? no, not with death,  
His paile-eyd horse rides mortals out of breath,  
And 'tis small wonder, for 'tis often seen  
Rough Winter blows upon the Summer's Queen.  
The youthful Spring grown almost to his prime  
By Northern blasts does instantly decline.  
Both old, and young are equal in degrees,  
For death says mortals are but Nature's fees.  
She keeps her Courts. At her exchequer day  
All must receive (or if they owe all pay)  
Her rolls are open, every man may read  
Her just allowance, how her paths to tread.  
And he that derogates from her behests.  
Is straight way summoned to her court of quests.  
Sometimes her terms she warily rejournes,  
Making the dead tree live that sadly mourns.  
Lives sap being spent! contrarily  
The plant new grafted she makes for to die.  
As she has done this noble Imp of fame  
Just when his lives bright candle began to flame.  
Life like a Taper that gives others sight  
Consumes, and wastes in lending its own light.  
For all estates at Death's shrill Trumpets call  
In her star-chamber must be personal.  
The bodies goods, as beauty's strength, and health  
Which always are esteemed the bodies wealth,  
And eke the souls as (manners mild, and art)  
Which still do govern man's diviner part,  
Also the wills, as Justice Wit, and Virtue,  
Which unto her as attributes are due,  
Are of no prize, nor vigour in the scale.  
(For when death comes there's nothing can prevail  
His bounds are boundless, his malicious Ire  
Is like an Aetna, or consuming fire.  
All mortals are his butts, all lives the aim,  
At which he shoots, and never loses game.  
Death's an engrosser still; say what man list  
He scorns his laws, is a monopolist:  
What greater malice could a Tyrant show,  
That had the whole world set his guess to go.  
Where he might find souls pinched with poverty  
That s●de, and prayed, each minute for to die.  
Sape-gode usurers that ne'er did make  
An honest act, for Law, or conscience sake.  
These were no diet for thee, mischiefs sons  
The aptest are for thy companions.  
Those second helps which Nature does bestow  
Which in her treasury of Earth still grow  
Ordained for mankind, could not physic make  
From her large store, one compound that would take  
His dainty palate? no 'twas then in vain,  
For he did Physics help, and life disdain,  
And like a man enforced for to go  
A longer journey, than he first did know  
Cries Doctor spare thy physic for to day,  
(To morrow I'll take all, and thee obey.)  
Sweet divinity, when so sweet a child  
Reproves Hypocrates with speeches mild,  
Presageing that his Esculapian  
Was absolute, his soul's Physician;  
Yet knew not he to sin his tender years  
(Though all were borne in sin) that ambage clears.  
His mother's griefs, and honoured father's prayers,  
Vnpenetrable were in thy dull ears,  
Thou hast no hart, and pity cannot enter  
In any bosom where there's no centre.  
Dull is my Muse, yet my prophetic fire  
That slowly flames burns constant in desire  
To quench thy malice? monster now I see  
Why thou hewdst down this goodly growing Tree  
This Princely, lovely, gall-less, harmless dove  
Mirror of infancy, patience, and love.  
I've found the cause of thy invetraterage  
Thou killd'st his brother 'bout the self same age.  
And 'cause the Conqueror of Britain's Isle  
Was named William, famoused for his stile,  
Therefore successively thy malice runs  
To kill two William's natures champions  
For as th'one Phoenix out of flames did rise  
The other Phoenix into Ashes flies,  
And like Jove's Eagle leaves this vale of Earth  
Mounting Elysium for a second birth.  
Where death, nor time, nor envy candeface,  
Nor ought diminish of his heavenly grace.  
Farewell blessed babe, laurel decks thy brows,  
Death's live'ry ours, the saddest cypress boughs.    

Epitaph on the same.  

REader behold a wonder here  
A child here lies, that did not flare  
Pale death 〈◊〉 he valiantly  
Spurned fate, death, and destiny,  
Warriour-like he met his so,  
The aged wretch dares not do so.  
See what a guard has innocence!  
O'er all it bears preeminence.  
It loves not life, cares not for breathe  
It conquers sin, Hell, Paine, and Death.  
It is the Sword, and Shield of Faith  
The just man there his ground-forme laith.  
Then happy thou blessed honoured gem  
Sweet morning Star, bright Diadem  
thoust gained a Conquest by thy fall  
For Earth, the Heaven's high tribunal.  
Death surely was in love with thee  
Cybele on Atys doted (so did he.)  
Her love transformed him to a Pine.  
So death did thee amongst powers divine.  
Marble will moulder, thy name will live  
And harbour unto virtue give.  
Then Reader, underneath doth lie  
As much Innocence as could die.    

On the well learned, and truly noble Gentleman Sir PETER FRETCHVILLE of Stalie.  

COttons great fame, learning birth, and worth  
The Genti of our Nation hath set forth.  
And worthily compared him to a book  
Writ by the thrice three maids? On which to look  
Is full perfection? why may not we  
Renowned Peter read thy History?  
Each word contained a subject, every line  
Was worth a Kingdom that was all Divine:  
His body, nature's noblest frame, was strong,  
His silver hairs proclaimed him ever young.  
The Graces thronged together him to court  
Nay you would swear this man was virtues foart.  
Where learning, bounty, courage met in one  
Striveing to place themselves in virtue's Throne.  
There all the lies of goodness jointly grew  
Dressing themselves to tender merit due.  
Each limb of him, each arter, nerve, and vein  
Did in themselves a Microcosm contain.  
There charity in her rich robe was dressed  
Here liberality at full expressed  
Within his bosom there lay aptitude  
And there sat bounty kissing fortitude,  
Hospitality almost dead, and gone  
He did again bring to perfection.  
Adorning her in Heaven's Sky coloured hue  
(For poverty is charactered in blue)  
She at his gates was answered every day  
Before she knocked she had her Alms, and pay.  
Where others stretch their lands as men wrest cloth  
Stretching it on the tenter-hookes! when both  
The Farmer, and the keeper cursing cry  
Their hands are barred from public charity.  
Yet than this Nestor of experience,  
took pity on his tenants indigence,  
The third part he enjoyed, he had no more,  
Such Landlords never did make Tenants poor.  
Aged he was if reckoned by his years  
But you would deem him young seeing his hairs,  
More white than Snow or Milk! his grateful worth  
Got him the name (of white Knight of the North)  
His Country still laments him, and doth weep  
Since he that was her eye is fall'n asleep.  
Staley retains but his impurer part  
Heaven hath his soul, his best part we in hart.    

On the right Honourable HENRY Lord, STANHOT of the North, Knight of the Bath, Son to the right Honourable PHILIP Earl of Chesterfield, and KATHERINE his noble Countess. Anno. 1634.  

Life's there an eye of Honour did not weep  
'Cause thou so suddenly didst fall a sleep?  
Oh yes, even Virtue's self did sadly moon,  
'Cause thou so suddenly to heaven was gone.  
And yet this Crown she sets upon thy head,  
Thy Virtues are alive (though thou be dead)  
Who ever knew thee did not wail thy fall,  
Or wept not at thy solemn funeral?  
Such hopes thy Country had, such joys the state,  
And yet to see, they both unfortunate.  
Hopes had thy Country of a Patriot,  
The state a Counsellor though new begot.  
Born Man even from his Cradle; yet oh see  
How sudden vanishes maturity!  
Just like the Lily fairest of the field  
Which does her bravery to th'sickle yield  
Or like the flower that opens with the Sun,  
And falls, and dies, before his course is run.  
Thus did this noble sprig of honour fall  
Even from perfection to a Burial.  
And yet to say so were detraction,  
Since he is gone hence to perfection.  
For so much goodness, wisdom, knowledge, arts,  
Such rare endowments, and such sacred parts,  
Such gravity, as if experience had  
Invested him, and in her robes him clad,  
Such Activeness of body, acute wit  
As if the Muses in his breast did sit.  
And there kept court, instructing him all rules  
And abstruse secrets of their holy schools.  
Nay what unto him did not they impart?  
Urania had enshrind him in her hart.  
And all these rarities to be complide  
In one, not twenty one before he died.  
Great pity that a fabric of this state  
Should crazy fall, and subject be to fate.  
But vain are tears, there's little to be said  
For each of him is disinherited. 
Being his ●●der brother   
He had a brother who in's prime of youth  
Almost arriv'de unto his perfect growth.  
Pale death and time cut off: whose most dear loss  
He did embrace with such a heaviness:  
That from his day of death, unto his own,  
His Brother's dying day was ever known.  
Entombed that day o'th' weak, in's chamber he  
Solemnly kept his brother's Obsequy:  
There did his own true worth his worth confine  
In meditations sitting a Divine:  
Rare precedents of Honour, chiefly young,  
What would his age have brought, had he lived long?  
But he is g●ne, and with him went our tears,  
For certainly he now needs not our prayers.  
Yet such rare precedents, ought not for to lie  
Entombed, and buried in obscurity.  
His joys are full, and now we may express  
More joy in him then cause of heaviness.  
He dies not that so dies, but lives again  
Immortally, from anguish, grief, or pain.    

On CHARLES STANHOP first brother to the Lord HENERY, and third Son to PHILIP Earl of Chesterfield. KATHERINE his noble Countess.  

NO sooner are my Summer blessings come  
But straight comes Autumn, and rough Hiems on.  
Whose rugged brow proclaim's sad disasters,  
Nights, storms, tempests, day-consuming wasters.  
No sooner did our Sun of comfort shine  
Nor bright Aurora with her silver shrine,  
After tempestuous days, and dim-eide nights,  
By their fresh beams, and rarified lights  
But newly perfected! in comes a storm  
Almost as great as that but newly borne.  
Eclipsing our fresh glories, and in cares  
Makes us a fresh for to begin old tears.  
No sooner was our honoured HENRY gone  
And our late mourning weeds past putting on  
Our memory or backs I straightway does come  
The death of CHARLES that strikes all joys dumb.  
Oh thou most sacred Jewel; golden Time  
Thou precious Gem of Gems, thou all divine,  
Thou fleeting shade, unsubstantial thing  
Thou that art nothing, yet of all the King,  
Whoo'd be lavish of thee? this precedent  
Should make us chary how our Time is spent.  
We may in thee behold, how vain is man  
In all his actions, do the best he can.  
This goodly slower, but yesterday new blown  
By Times untimely sith to day cut down.  
This goodly Garden in whom scarse grew weeds,  
This lovely full-eard corn, that ne'er lent seeds  
Fitting a seedenesse! is ta'en from th' earth  
Before it had maturity or birth.  
This lovely Pinetree when his Apples shone  
With rosy cheeks like Phoebus in the Zone.  
Is hewed, and fall'n just in his Prime, and growth,  
Even in the early spring time of his youth.  
But Death and Time are Twins, if one cries on,  
Thought is not swifter than the act is done.  
Death thou art merciless, and thy rigour such  
As makes us rail (though it avail not much)  
Me thinks those pair of noblest brothers gone  
Those that of Virtue had Dominon;  
Might have suffizd thy wrath! or if not those  
Their Virtue's might, which did all worth enclose.  
All worths, I say, that might be thought or found  
In two so young there could not more abound.  
Of if not those, their Mother's showers of tears,  
Which fell like rain sent from the weeping Spheres  
Who wept in pity too, or if not these,  
The new changed Virgins prayers might appease.  
No sooner were they tied in wedlocks bands  
But thy inveteracies untwines their hands,  
No sooner were those lovely Turtles pairde,  
Scarce of those rites, and ordinations shared  
Which God for man decreed I straight way thy Ire  
Sweeps all before thee, like Promethean fire.  
Virgin's will curse thee ever, and forbear  
The sacred Jugal wedding Ring to wear.  
And so empoverish nature of her wealth  
Because thou rak'st up all her joys by stealth.  
But these could not suffice thee; he alone  
Was the Idea 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 thou doatedst on.  
His brothers like the two great Lamps of light  
That guild the heavenly Orbs by day, and night,  
So graced thy Trophies, won thee such renown,  
Without this third thou couldst not win the Crown.  
But thou dealtst poorly to insinuate  
Enseebleing him I nay with the selfsame fate,  
And cause of sickness, which our Barons killed,  
Killed him? high providence must be fullfilld,  
No struggling against the stream, no stopping tide,  
Births of this nature mortals cannot hide.  
The end of our creation was to die  
Death being the fine of all mortality.  
Then cease to wail his loss, his soul's a Je●  
Fixde in the Sun-rai●s like a Diadem.  
Thrice honoured Lady, count not that a loss  
Which even the Angels cover to engross.  
With David's sorrow mourn him while alive,  
But dead, do not against your knowledge strive.  
The loss of friends, more sorrows do not get  
If rightly understood, than benefit.  
We sorrow for them, when we think of Earth,  
But when of Heaven, and that most sacred birth  
We do rejoice? and their joys emulate  
Till we in happiness possess like state.  
You have more sons, and many more may have  
Leave mourning these then (Earth is mankind's Grave.)    

On ROBERT POWTRELL of Westhallam Esquire.  

IF love to knowledge, or good parts  
The Muse's friend, and true deserts,  
A man enshrind in all men's hearts  
Liberal, and Authentic Artes.  
If love to music does deserve  
A thankfulness from every nerve.  
Chiefly the Organ of the ear  
Whose attribute is all to hear.  
If charity deserve to be  
A virtue for necessity,  
Since he that gives unto the poor  
Hourly increaseth his large store,  
He wisely does his Talon lend  
And may it doubly so expend,  
If love to subject, Prince, and state  
Free from envious pride or hate.  
One that ne'er used for to oppress  
Without thoughts of covetousness.  
One that his whole life so d●d sway  
As merely caring for to day.  
If one in whom these worths did dwell  
Deserved to be the non Pareill  
Of goodness: surely such a one  
Deserved from us a parting groan.  
Nay a Rich Trophy o'er his hearse  
Adorned round with his own Verse,  
If such a one was worthy praise  
Than he deserved the sprig, and Bayss.  
For he had these from nature's store  
And a thousand virtues more.  
Which able are to tell his story,  
Fraught with honour, fame, and glory.  
Which are able for to depaint  
His life a man's, his death a Saint.    

On William Willoughby of Mascam Esquire, who died at Celson.  

SOme say Death does brave things, I think it true  
●nd yet it stands ambiguously too.  
Some say thou slew 〈◊〉 w●th a sling  
(A trick to scare Beds with) a pretty thing.  
And bravely thou knockest Sisera ith'head  
(A manly part to Nail a man stark dead.)  
Wolves facilely do prey upon the sheep,  
When as the careless Shepherd lies asleep.  
Amongst multitudes of Pagans Samson fallen,  
Bragge of that Trophy, there thou quit'st thee well.  
Yet boast not much of that poor sacrifice,  
He would have killed thee (had he had his eyes)  
Great Alexander of an Ague died,  
And Tailour-like thou bodkindste Caesar's side.  
And Troy's great Hector fell too, not alone  
Thou killed'st him cowardly (hundreds to one)  
But here thou killed'st perfection, in this man  
Rivulets, nay Seas of sacred virtue ran.  
For this sweet man of men, this Willoughby  
The Graces mourned, and cruel Destiny,  
That never yet did good, for him did moan,  
'Cause he from earth so suddenly was gone:  
Just in the Summer of his growing age  
Began thy malice to break forth in rage.  
And like a trembling thief thou didst steal in  
And murder'dst him (that scarce knew how to sin)  
Well, thou hast done thy worst, the best is ours:  
He lives in spite of thee amongst sacred Powers,  
Time will not court thee as she used to do  
Because thou killed'st his Son (not twenty two)  
Thrice happy he that lives well, and so dies  
Growing a Primrose in God's Paradise.  
Reader behold that Phoenix here he lies,  
Until another from his ashes rise.    

On HENRY WORRALL of wysoll Esquire.  

Who lies there think von! Read, and see,  
'Tis not the Map of misery,  
Nor he which does this world control  
Whose money is his life, and soul.  
His feeling, sense, his eyes, and ears,  
he's dumb, he's deaf, he nothing hears  
Without it: beyond these 'tis his god  
For that absented he lives odd.  
Ten i'th' hundred, hundreds to one  
His god, and he will keep one room.  
Thou art deceived, he's not here  
Then read not, lest thou shed a tear,  
This sacred place affords not room  
For such a one to rear a tomb.  
No Tempe ever had a birth  
Of so much goodness, love, and worth.  
Who though in honour he's not great,  
In goodness he is all complete.  
Wilt have me speak a verity  
Here lies the Map of charity,  
One that did daily at his Door  
With his own hands relieve the poor.  
One that did never lend on use  
And yet to lend did ne'er refuse.  
One that did never once engross  
Yet sold to all (and lived by loss.)  
One of those men, loved not to make  
Acts for Law, but conscience sake.  
He amongst the wisest was held one  
Most fit to write on his own stone.  
For which high heavens have enrolled  
Him in a Throne of purest gold.  
From hence he was translated, there  
To be a Star fixde in the sphere,  
For us to wonder, and admire,  
A man composed of heavenly fire.  
He never did the poor oppress,  
But in their wants did give redress.  
His country's grief he left behind  
They can no more such fathers find.  
worral though dead we have thee still  
In thought, in word, in deed in will.  
Thy memory cannot decay  
Till all dissolves, and turns to clay.  
Wouldst thou have truths Epitome  
Know Virtue died (and then died he.)    

On the Worshipful Mrs GREASLEY Mother of the Lady BURDEAUT of Formarke.  

LEt it suflize that all I speak of thee  
Will come far short of thy great memory,  
But as small briefs great Volumes do contain:  
So those few lines may at thy goodness aim,  
In part though not in whole 〈◊〉 and therefore I  
Offer up these to thy posterity.  
Thy Birth was noble, thy education such  
As had from Virtue Virtues sacred touch.  
In truth, and true religion thou didst stand  
Full many years, as Sea-marks to the land,  
Guiding the Mariners that in dangers were  
Unto their wished Ports, and havens clear.  
And unto those that did the truth approve  
Thou wert a lamp of faith, burning in love  
With Christ, and with his spouse, the Bride and Groom,  
What greater Pillars can support thy tomb?  
She needs not many beauties t'adorn her  
That has the Bridegroom for her chief mourner.  
She was in Children happy, in parents blessed  
Of her chief happiness she's now possessed.  
In patience calm as sleep, her Love, Zeal,  
True emblems of a pious common weal,  
To Anger flow, the winds did not contract  
More swift motion, than she to a good act.  
Then Madam 'tis your comfort that she is 
To the Lady Bur 〈…〉 ut.   
Emparadiced in perfectness of bliss,  
No soothing after Tombs, and ashes! she  
Is absolute in true felicity.  
For which in stead of Cypress, Olive, Bayss  
May best be worn by you that live her praise.    

On the Renowned JOHN Lord DARCY of the North.  

GReat buildings by their own contexture stand,  
So do thy honours propped up by no hand.  
True glory was thy aim, mark, and renown,  
And thou in heaven hast a glorious Crown.  
Great vessels of their own weights never sink  
'Tis overpoising, or that which they drink  
Which makes them sand; thy well trimmed Boat,  
Did on this World's Sea a long time float.  
Ballansed with honour! without wrack or leak,  
No storms nor tempests could her strong keel break.  
Till heaven emparadiced her in the haven  
Of bless eternal making all joys even.  
What was her fraught? Religion, Piety,  
Repentance, servant Zeal, Anxiety:  
Goodness, Grace, and Honour Pilots were  
Guiding the ste●ne unto the Starry Sphere.  
Where Angel brightness yields reflection  
Ambassadour-like to greet this paragon.  
The cardinal Virtues follow Humility  
That sacred sister of Nobility:  
True love in whom all noble honour staith  
Sweet Charity the first borne child of Faith.  
Patience, Diligence, Liberality,  
That yields a hand to due necessity:  
Rich Temperance that does all ills control,  
And Chastity the Beauty of man's soul.  
A happy guard, but thrice more happy he  
That thus is guarded to Eternity.  
He had three Wives of blessed memory,  
Who certain are in heavens rich treasury.  
By two he issue had, by th'old one none,  
They, and their of-sp'ring all to bliss are gone.  
In peace they lived, in love, and peace they died  
Enjoying honse-roome with the lamb, and bride.  
Dame Fretchvill, Bowes, and Bellis were their names  
Whose good deeds do perpetuate their fames.  
A fourth survives, whose goodness amongst the rest  
From all the four winds styles herself by West.  
She ranked in honour's file does claim due share  
From the ennobled house of Dela-ware.  
Death's Image sleep hath stolen his soul away  
His body till the last Trump rests in clay.    

On Sir GILBERT KNIVETON Knight, and Baronnet.  

When first thy active person made resort  
Both to the English, and the Danish Court.  
No favourite then lived in more regard  
Then noble Kniveton! Or freer gave reward  
Upon desert, and merit! The stately Court  
Where men of all degrees, of garb, and port,  
Extant to practise! some for compliment  
Yet run at random from the Element,  
Some to make faces, Curtifies, and Congees,  
As if they were disjointed in their knees.  
Some merely study fashions, some paint  
At pleasure making of a devil a Saint.  
And some more sacred wits, purer, and fine  
That studied nothing but what was divine.  
For there's of all trades, like a Mart or Faite,  
And thither all so●tes of people make repair.  
Retired from thence thy pleasures ta'en away  
Thou practice▪ d gratitude a nearer way.  
Zeal to thy God which evermore shall prove  
A living Monument of lasting Love.  
A hand like harvest, always free, and open.  
Affable in looks, courteously spoken.  
In thy Converse the poorest swain might be  
Allowed all language, open, firm, and free.  
An eye, and brow, that never frowned! but when  
Gross appetites predominated men.  
A tongue that wisely could with cares dispense  
Toth' people love, allegiance to his Prince.  
Not covetous of Honour, Pomp, or State,  
As free from enmity, as love from hate.  
Wise in thy countries' cause, yet now, and then  
Subject to errors like to other men.  
Yet those that knew how fair a treasury  
Of goodness in thy noble breast did lie,  
What all refined sweetness? well might swear  
Thy rareness thee proclamd they Muse's heir.  
Thy noble offspring still does droop, and groan  
Like crazy buildings thou there pillar gone.  
Bradley laments thy loss, for there thy name  
Long time hath lived in King and countries' fame.  
But vain are stately fabrics, narrow rooms  
Will serve to bear us, and our rotten tombs.    

On the Lady Greffith Wife to Henry Greffith Baronnet, and daughter of Henry Willoughby Baronnet.  

'tIs not a sin thus to expostulate,  
And ask the causes, why untimely fate  
Crops the bladed corn, before ' its eared.  
Kills fruit i'th' blossom, and Lilies new appeared.  
But 'tis great pity that these goodly creatures  
The braveries, and rarities of natures  
Should be untimely by Times sith cut down  
Before their perfectness, and worths are known  
Unto the world, and thereby to deprive  
The earth, and Nature of what worths they give.  
If this be sin, and pity, then pale Death,  
I'll dare thee to a combat, which whiles breath  
Retains this mansion, till thy fatal dart  
Those old companions soul, and body part,  
Shall ne'er be finished: and I know till then  
Thy hatred cannot cease to mortal men.  
Yet I defy thee, knowing that here tody  
Is but a preface to eternity.  
Here has thy malice showed itself, to steal  
That sacred lamp of love, and perfect zeal.  
Honour's perfection, pattern of Piety  
Light unto Grace, Goodness, Nobility  
Was there one riches, which this world did fold  
That in her little world she did not hold?  
Yet rave'nous Tiger thou didst her annoy  
Before she tasted of an earthly joy.  
Just in the early Springtime of her age  
Thou sentest her on her short lived pilgrimage.  
Hence questionless she did on Cherubs fly  
To the great Palace of eternity.  
Where amongst the Hierarchies she sings in parts,  
Joys inexpessible by men, or arts.  
But that's no thanks to death; for the best will  
Thou hast in doing well, is doing ill.  
And how can that be good; since there's a text.  
Divinely contradicts it, and has annexed  
Curses unto it! but I waste my breath  
The law has limits (none must kill save Death.)  
Thy sting oh Death, thy cruel sting I say,  
Destroyed this goodly paragon of May:  
This lovely Juni'an Rose that did display  
Those Cretan spices sweeter nor the day,  
Those sacred leaves of honour, lamps of love,  
Which made pale Envies self herself reprove.  
Earth held no richeses, which she could not find,  
For she had cabined goodness in her mind,  
Yet lent it out still I not on usury  
But for th'increase of goodness treasury!  
Unsated Cannibal I'll rail on still  
Although I know thouart limited to kill.  
Could not the Earth suffice thee, there to roam  
But that thy meager paunch must build a tomb  
Robbing a consecrated Temple, thereby  
To steal true goodness sacrilegiously?  
Nay to subvert posterities, that's a bane  
That will perpetually on thee remain.  
She the fair prop of four fair goodly towers  
Is undermined and fall'n: but Godlike powers  
Have left one goodly branch, which spite of thee  
May propagate, and make posterity  
Vn-numberlesse. so shall Willoughby  
In Willoughby beget new heraldraie:  
And Knowles shall tell thy malice, and I pray  
The G 〈…〉 ffin may of thee beget the day.  
As questionless th'All-seer has assigned it,  
And t●y posterity shall surely find it.  
Then shall the Bird of Pallas change her note  
And clutch the Hare out of the greyhounds throat,  
And the gold Griffin which is foe to none  
Still shall innovate this noble union.  
The Elephant with his vast trunk shall turn  
Those eyes to laughter that in sorrows mourn.  
All shall consign in one, and with this Ave  
Caution each other (adsum cave)  
Thus great destroyer, know that silly I  
Less fear thy malice, than did fear to die  
This noble Lady! all have from nature breath,  
And all are sure, nought's certainer than death.    

On WILLIAM FARRINGTON of Salterstord Esquire March the, 14. 1633.  
WILLIAM FARRINGTON  
Anagramma  
Farwell I am gone.  
Which Anagramizde by conversion even, (Farewell. I am gone) from Earth to Heaven.  

What Epithet more shall I give  
Then for to say thou still dost live?  
The Reader saith how may that be?  
Does that man live? noe man can see.  
I answer thus, all die to live,  
Therefore that Epithet i'll give.  
I need not praise thee, goodness known  
Needs no Laudares. But her own.  
I must lament thee 'cause the Earth  
Grows barren, and yields no such birth.  
Known griefs are dumb, and such are mine  
Thy joys abundantly do shine.  
I add but coal to flaming fuel,  
Death has stolen away my jewel.  
I dare not wrestle against harsh fate,  
Yet needs must wail thee (though to late.)  
Thou wert no wrangling contester  
No covetous, poore-molester.  
No plodding politician.  
But plainly a right honest man.  
Say more that list, more will not I,  
Truths Epitome here doth lie.    

On that worthy woman CASSANDRA POWTRELL of Westhallam.  

THough she be gone, her goodness, fame, and birth  
Left not a second paragon on Earth.  
'tis said the Phoenix into ashes flies,  
And from her flames another Bird doth rise,  
If our Arabian England can afford  
From all her borroughes such another Bird  
we'll banish foreign groves, ours their shall shame  
Of thy great worth, Religion, breeding fame.  
Where are the Muses? are they all asleep?  
Do they their father's high holiday keep?  
Have they forgot their nursing mother's go  
Which kept a house as free as Helicon?  
Where every thirsty soul might drink his fill,  
And make him apt for the Castalian quill.  
True knowledge base ingratitude doth shun  
When learning grows ingrate, the World is done.  
Others their fame, and glories gain by chance,  
But she did never her great birth advance  
From others names: that worth is profitless  
That comes by chance, not by virtuousness  
Hers was inherent, given her from above  
Filled with sanctity, piety, and love.  
Yet I dare boast, and will not be denied  
She could say that, few women can beside,  
Great Aunt, and Mother to so many Sons,  
Earls, Lords, and Knights, Virtue's companions.  
Honoured Countesses, Ladies of great worth,  
Our Herraldries cannot the like bring forth.  
Greater her honour, could so closely hide  
Her noble birthright, free from thought of pride.  
Yet was contented in a pious life  
With one sole husband, thou his only wife.  
Thy patience as a Land mark still doth stand  
To be a precedent to this whole Land.  
Blessed with so many children; yet to see  
That they should all claim aprecedencie  
Of place before thee! but 'tis nature's will  
Death both the young, and ●uld alike doth kill.  
Our persons he respects not, nature's pay  
Is what she lent us (life) at our just day.  
Her coat like virtues was un-alterable.  
A die that never stained un-coulourable.  
No mortal saw her change, even such her life,  
Even such a Maid, a Widow, and a Wife.  
Her garments, and her faith both were one,  
Unchangeable in love, life Religion.  
Her charity like to the Queen of heaven  
To needy beggars every hour was given  
They knew their martes, and where thy well might buy  
Sustenance for their mere necessity.  
‛ I was not extended barely at the door  
Where they that asked receiv'de, but to the poor  
Her neighbours, who sick in bed oft lay  
Through hunger starved, almost cast away  
For lack of succour! thither still went she  
While she could go, and ease their misery.  
Happy Cassandra, Happy thrice I say,  
Thy Almse deeds never can be ta'en away.  
One part thou hast, th' other still we have  
Blessed in thy Birth, thy Cradle, Life, Death, and Grave  
She had her servants hearts, her tenant's praise,  
And never raised a rent in all her days,  
Remarkable sign of goodness, this age wants such,  
th'other way they multiply too much.  
My Muse wants not rare matter, but a pen  
To crown her with a Glorious Diadem,  
But that she needs not, for her sacred parts  
Have stellifide her 'bove the reach of arts,  
Nay I dare boldly to the world proclaim  
Her likewill scarce be found on earth again.  
Her brain a Chronicle, her mind a volume  
Her Virtues a pillar her goodness a column  
For great ones for to build on! if goodness rest  
In any of thy sex, 'twas in thy breast.  
She did not hoard it there but freely gave  
To any one that asked wha● they would have.  
True pattern of the blessed, so did she  
(Who's ever thirsty was might there drink free)  
Cassandra mourned to see Troy's misery,  
Thy Troy, Cassandra, now does mourn for thee.  
And yet those honoured Branches left behind  
Will ever imitate thy nobler mind.    

On Mrs. ELIZABETH WOODWARD Wife of THOMAS WOODWARD Esquire.  

THy Country's loss, and grief of mind,  
The ●ame man's hands, eyes of the blind,  
The widow's joys, and cure for grief,  
The Tenant's hearts-ease, and relief.  
Thou Grown of women, and good days,  
The fatherless, and orphans praise,  
Thou that inspite of death didst live  
To praise his name, that long did give  
Thee being! thinkst thou that thy name  
Though dead is gone? no 'tis the same  
It was, and ne 〈…〉 shall waste away  
Till all dissolves, and Time decay.  
Thou map of women and good name,  
Sleep on with Time; rest still with fame,  
Thou which most Scriptures had●st by hart  
Now hast it for thy better part.  
Marble empounded converts to dust  
Thy memory can never rust.  
Who 'ere thou be that views this hearse,  
And with a sad eye reads this hearse,  
Know underneath this clod doth lie  
Eliza of blessed memory,  
Zealous in life, happy in days,  
Worth all men's loves, and Angel's praise.    

On Sir HENRY SHIRLEY of STAUNTON Baronnet buried at Breedon in Leicester shire.  

Why who would think it, say the passers by,  
That underneath this Marbled stone should lie  
So rich a treasury? can so small Earth  
Contain a spirit of so great a birth?  
Can such a slender hill keep in command  
Him that could tread o'er leagues of his own Land?  
Can honour, and worship thus be undertrod  
And thrown as relics, under a poor clod.  
Weak is the greatest Prince, and cannot stand  
The angry darts, of deaths, commanding hand.  
For he that treads o'er Kingdoms of his own,  
In some few feet of Earth must be trod down.  
And therefore Shirley, 'twas in vain for thee  
T'oppose the master of a monarchy.  
Let it suffice thy goodness shall outlive  
All those inveteracies, the world can give,  
Thy love thy learning, goodness, merit, fame,  
Shall as preservatives, live in the name  
Of thy posterity! and may they shine  
In Saintlike goodness, far transcending thine.  
That to their father's name they may gain praise  
And centuple their honoured mothers dares.  
Thus passenger when thou reflects thine eyes  
Upon this hill, know that here under lies  
Thrice noble Harrie, but all tears are vain.  
he's seated higher than we yet can gain.  
Wail thou his loss, but still say Death is just  
For Shirley is (what all the World once must:)    

On that much lamented gentleman Sir HENRY LEIGH of Egginton.  

Why droop you Muses; have you solely cause  
To blame the destinies, whose fatal laws.  
Have wrought privation, from us ta'en away  
Virtue's Map! like the Meridian day  
In upright goodness? I must confess  
Great are your griefs, mine greater, and not less.  
Rivers lose course, when trilling springs grow dry  
Life must decay, when all our vitals die.  
Yet though our bodies fall, and spirits pass  
Our virtues live transparent in the glass  
Of our lives steerage; though our loss be great  
Lend me your aides solemnly to entreat  
Of your dear loss, and mine! mine is as much  
And has like Marble a true N●obes touch.  
Three things there are indivisibly placed  
Which still in order stand; first, midst, and last,  
These he was all; his parentage goodness bred  
A midst he was nobly educated,  
Lastly, he was most zealous to his God,  
With lamblike patience, he did bear his rod.  
Attributing Time tardy, 'cause that he  
No sooner went to heavens felicity.  
I heard him sighing say, good God that I  
Should languish in this veil of misery  
Seeing so many able, lusty, and strong,  
Some powerful in estates, great yet young.  
Some tympani'de with honours, potentates,  
Grand Seigneiores, governor's of states  
That Midas-like with an Elixir touch  
Turned all to gold they handled (quoth he that such)  
As these can die, and leave this veil of cares,  
And I that loath it, languish still in tears  
Because I cannot leave it. love to my God  
Hath made my soul, and body fall at odd?  
And from my dying breath I this impart,  
Wishing those old companions now depart.  
Base fortunes goods, which to their heart's men bind  
He estimated not! Virtues of the mind  
Were his endowments! his purchased store  
Gave sustenance, and still relieved the poor.  
With open hand, and hart just like a ashowre  
Sent in dry April, so did he freely pour  
His bounteons alms! like as the free Sun  
Gives to all earthly things Vegetation  
Life, and full growth, shining alike on all  
From the lowest brambles to the Cedars tall.  
So did his Charitable hand to all express,  
Where just necessity was, due cheerfulness.  
His garments were for warmth, not wantonness,  
By which he did humility express,  
Implying virtue needed no gold lace  
To gild his russet coat with; sacred grace  
Was his best suit! there did he contemplate,  
And in goodness his soul ingratiate,  
Loathing all vanities beneath the Moon,  
Which are like shadows after Sun set down.  
Night, stormy tempests, dangerous heats that fall,  
Labour, greise, misery, death the fine of all,  
Him he most hated, 'cause he dared not venture  
And with his pale dart, nail him to the centre.  
Bringing him to those Moon eclipsed lights.  
Where day light ever shines excluding nights.  
Where peace, and joy perpetually remain  
Where death nor age, nor any thing is vain,  
virtue's a castle which hardly can be won,  
Till Death gives the retreat, and cries be gone.  
Or those Erispelas, statuous tumors  
By long consumptions bred, purged ill humours  
Subjecting natures strong enforced mean,  
Yet then in three things he ed to be clean,  
Clean in th'exterior part, clean in mind  
His soul assuredly he clean did find.  
See what divinity pale weakness brings.  
(Clean souls delight not in corruptible things.)  
But faithless World who shin's most in thy grace  
Must expiate, ('tis God and nature's race.)  
Life like an Autumn leaf shaking flies  
Now on the Tree it grows, now falls, now dies.  
One minute brings us life that minute pain,  
One minute brings us death, that life again.    

On the right Honourable H●N●Y P●I●POINT Father to the right Honourable ROBERT Earl of Kingston.  

What siere thou be, that haps to cast an eye  
Upon this monument, Know here doth lie  
Virtues unparallelled piece! goodness, grace  
Were hand maids to attend him! in his face  
In never dying carracts thou mightst read  
How meekness and humility were displayed.  
His charity I need not here proclaim,  
The needy handed by truth speak the same.  
In courage Mars, in patience Zephyrs wind  
Bottled not so much sweetness, calm, and kind.  
Judgements sole ground, his tongue did solely speak  
And since he's gone, best judgements are grown weak.  
Smooth Plato's stile, and Cicere's Eloquence  
Surviude by him, in him they did commence.  
For from his lip's such honnyde stile did come  
As would make Tully mute, strike Rhetoric dumb,  
Not Ae●chilus such wanton lays did sing  
As he did heavenly sacred ravishing.  
This makes the Muses mourn, 'cause he is fled  
And not their tongues alone, but phrase is dead.  
Plato held swarms of Bees! so did not he,  
Yet he from Plato gained the mastery  
In his familiar speech! now lived those Swans  
That of him sung heavenly Io Paeans.  
Our latter age for Style, Sound, Case, and Tense  
Of former times would gain preeminence.  
Bounty, Goodness, Hospitality  
The poors friend, Foe to prodigality.  
Patience, neighbourlike Love, and all Arts  
The Cardinal virtues of the inward parts.  
Sweet consolations of all holy minds  
Which like to chains man to heaven binds.  
All mental Virtue's sovereigns of the soul  
He had in hart, and did in mind enroll  
What goodness man could boast, merit, or raise,  
In him th' Epitome was well worthy praise,  
And yet he bragged not: ostentation  
And his free thoughts were at disunion  
Farewell thrice happy Harry, happy he  
That leaves behind him, such a memory  
Then reader, when thou readest, and this name hears  
On this thou canst not look without some tears.    

On the worthy Gentleman Sir HENRY A●ARD of Fauston, 1635  

AS the poor Bird when Summers' height resigns  
Her high Meridian to the ●cy signs  
Which scornfully dart through the watery Clouds,  
To see Earth's braveries in withered shrouds.  
The silly Lark then to salute the day  
Gets upon wing! as though she would assay.  
Some cheerful notes to sing! then beholding  
Fair Summer spent, after the cheerful spring  
down falls her notes, a cherripping she keeps  
Yet knows not well whether she sings or weeps.  
She sings in thought of Summer, but she cries  
To think of Winter's tragic miseries.  
In this extreme, all mourn for thy depart  
That living knew thee (though now dead thou art.)  
Muse thou hast had much work, but now thy Pen  
Hath found a subject worth a Diadem.  
Two noble Heuries worths thou late didst sing  
This third deserves thy best of sonnetting.  
Sad fate it proves to us, when as your eyes  
From comic strains sing tragic Elegies.  
Yet though we cannot contradict the Fates  
In spite of them, we can bewail our states.  
Methinks I hear the neighbour habiting groves  
Where with shrill bugles he did chant their loves,  
In piteous order say! who now shall guide  
Or man our harmless herds from being destroyed?  
The brawny Oak, grown Ash, the Elm, and Yew.  
In this sad season quite have lost their hue.  
Their mountant arms like huntsmen always seen  
Apparelled in Summer's livery green,  
Look not like July, but Septembers wane,  
When every flower from Tellus breasts are ta'en?  
Thus every sign contrariously does go  
Prefiguring calamity, and woe.  
Whence grows the cause, why nature had assigned  
Thy loss dear Agard, by them thus divined,  
Yet thouart not lost, thy one part lives on Earth  
Thy other in Elysium has new birth  
For thy unparallelled goodness needs must stand  
As a remarkable mirror to this Land.  
Let gentiles view their faces there, they'll find  
An unfaind purity, an upright mind,  
A conscience never went without a feast,  
A happy burden for a troubled breast.  
A brow that never frowned upon the poor  
But where necessity was, there went his store.  
His fleece was apt for clothing, and his purse  
Was ever open to the Orphans nurse.  
And since we are dissecting, let his ease  
Stand for a pattern of humility.  
Where he himself annua'ly did read  
Those principals that now last, though he's dead.  
His hands bore justice scales, his country's cause  
Ev'nly he manadged by her just laws.  
Not sparing greatness feareing power, or might.  
But scorning favour did to all men right.  
The scales of justice here he carride even,  
And questionless he finds them now in heaven.  
For upright justice is the path that brings  
Man to the presence of the King of Kings.  
He ●uilyes Motto every morn did scan,  
(None feeds on justice, but the upright man)  
He served our Sovereign James, our laurel, King  
●●ke him that did our Israell● glories sing.  
He Knighthood gave him for his Zeal, Love, Truth.  
And dignified him in his prime of youth.  
Honour's do seldom come without desert  
For time makes vice, or Virtue most apert.  
Truth like a Column does the one support,  
Time Lawier-like does the other court.  
His Love, Zeal, Goodness, Truth, Piety,  
Strong creditors with Sovereignty.  
So pleased our glorious King, Charles of same  
For to investe on him, a servants name.  
In his new fabric! in which mystery  
He ended life in great Tranquillity.  
Which ●●●bury the house of Lan●aster,  
And john of Gauntes! shall evermore ever●  
Not coveting honour for the Agardes names,  
But it perpetuating to their fames.  
Muse thou art in a Lab'riuth ' an Maze  
His Virtue's questionless thy spirits daze.  
For thou hast lost thy supine major part.  
Th'unbounded, boundless goodness of his heart.  
There Virtue kept her seat! Apollo's line  
In his contention was not half so fine.  
So true refined, and so full of grace,  
The Carde'nall Virtues there strove for a place.  
Thrice happy he that living loving dyes,  
When Virtue strives for due preeminencies.  
This Maxim to his age even from his youth  
He did prefer, (friendship goes still with truth)  
Regardless of a t●●e friends small offence,  
True friendship aims at perfect eminence,  
Those Centryes where thou liv'dst do blazon forth  
Thou living hadst their hearts, now dead thy worth  
Lives still with them! that time cannot decay  
Till all dissolves, and time sweeps all away.  
Thou liv'dst in peace, and so died; and like thee  
May all men go to true Eternity.    

On the same.  

IF Marble monuments tell to future day's  
Th'●habiters good deeds, glories, honour, praise,  
Why should not thine say something since in thee  
Goodness rests to perpe 〈…〉 e?  
Thou hadst a scholar's knowledge, and best parts  
And liv'dst sole M●. of the liberal Arts  
Thy goodness needs ho testate, for thy deeds  
Like a true Gardener, rooted 〈◊〉 ill weeds,  
Leaving the supple plants; Herbs, and Flowers,  
Befiting coronets of virtues bowers.  
No tribulations ever shook thy breast  
Patience did evermore support thy crest.  
Resolved on that old S●crates did sing  
(Meekness ' is the greatest. Trophy of a King)  
Where power wants, there E●●y son'st is known,  
But where thine lay thy mercy was most shown.  
Thy love, charity, liberality,  
Were all expressed in true humility.  
The just man's merits by his deudes are sound  
The bad man's are like waters cast on ground.  
Thy life unspotted was, thy end as clear  
As Jupiter's in his ascendant sphere.  
The Romans when their famous Consuls died  
Petitioned their Oracles to divide  
Their goodness amongst their kindred! so may thine,  
By that means they will all be made divine.  
Wert not a sin to wish, we should desire  
Aectias' Bottles, again for to inspire  
Fresh life? 'tis said that they are stuffed with breath.  
But there's no conqueror comes after death.  
Old Faussons joy farewell, for there thy name  
Shall last as long as honour, time, or fame.  
To thy dead Hearse thy honoured friend this gives,  
That love is firmest after death still lives.    

On the pattern of modesty ELIZA: TEVERY daughter of GERVASE TEVERY of Staplefoord Esquire.  

Why did the Lily, pance, and Violet weep  
The Marigold ere Sunset in did creep  
At whose refiexion she used for to rise  
And at his way-gate to close up her eyes.  
Why were the beaten ways with flowers strowne  
And set with needy Lazars, hanging down  
Their mournful heads? why did the Pulpit mourn  
At if prepared for some Funeral urn,  
And yet the Temple was with garlands hung  
Of swee● smelling Flowers, which might belong  
Unto some bridal! not! heaven knows the cause  
'Twas otherwise decreed in Nature's Laws.  
Those smelling sweets with which our sense was fed  
Were for the burial of a maidenhead.  
Which made an Autumn just in the mid-spring,  
And all things contrary their births to bring,  
Herbs, Plants, and Flowers, contrariously grew  
Because they now received not natures due,  
The needy beggars hung their heads for thee  
Thou matchless Map of maiden modesty.  
From whose fair hands they had an almners pay  
As often as they met thee every day.  
The sacred Temple, where thy holy fires  
Of incense was poured on, in chaste desires,  
Was thus prepared, and deeked, on every side  
To welcome thee, as her sole sovereign Bride.  
Whose goodness was inimitable, whose virtues shone,  
Like to the Sun in his bright Horizon.  
The maiden vestals, that with watery eyes  
Bore thee toth' Church for Vesta's sacrifice.  
Were all in white! carracts of innocence,  
Prefiguring thy greater eminence.  
So great their loss that with watery eiene  
They offer tears still to thy Virgin shrine,  
And if that tears; sighs, or praises could save thee  
What would not they express now to have thee?  
Sacred divinity allows of no such wish.  
Therefore emparadieed soul rest thou in bliss.  
Thy neighbours-●●d a share in thy great fall,  
But most thy parents in thy funeral.  
Unparalleled piece farewell! there's no Grace  
But was transparent in thy maiden face.  
And when thy Virgin blushes did appear  
They showed like Phoebus in our hemisphere.  
Or like the ●ofie blushes of the morn  
When he th' enamelled Zodiac does adorn.  
Her tender years were free from hateful pride.  
Nor were her looks with red-looked anger died.  
She had with Martha a most zealous hart  
But did with Mary choose the better part.  
Her loss was piteous, yet less to be wailed  
Since she on Cherubins high heaven scaled.  
Where amongst the Hierarohies she sits, and sings  
Sweet Hymeneals with the King of Kings.    

On old JOHN CVRS'EN of KEDLESTON Esquire.  
JOHN CURSON.  
Anagramma.  
So I run on.  
JOHN CURSONE.  
Anagramma.  
Honour is sure.  

Which Anagrammi●de thus, 'tis clear, and pure,  
So he ran on. His honour now is sure.    

On the same.  

THy children's loss, and country's praise  
Thou Crown of age, life, and long days,  
In thee a happiness still appears  
That couldst tell o'er so many years,  
Achilles in thy prime of youth  
U●sses in thy sager growth.  
Liberall, yet fiugall, foe to none  
Virtues choice companion,  
Enriched with all her sacred parts  
The Muse's friend, and nurse of Artes.  
Earth use him gently for his fate  
Never lived at underrate  
The Worm, scarce so much goodness joyed  
Since the great deluge earth annoyed.  
Gone is the hospitable cloak  
And where fire was there's now no smoke.  
Then that in ●ll things didst excel  
I wish me with thee, so farewell.    

On that renowned, and Hospitable Gentleman JOHN PALMER of Kegworth Esquire.  

SMall briefs contain large matters; and  
By some parts the, whole we understand.  
Rich Diamonds, though set In lead  
Are not for worth less valued.  
Their sparkleing beauties most are seen  
When night would hide them with a Screen.  
Though earth hath hid thee in her womb●  
Yet thy great worth lives in thy tomb.  
Thy goodness was unparallelled  
Thy charity by no●e excelld.  
Thy bounty learning, love, and name  
Are Trophies of thy countries same.  
They have more records of thee two  
For thou didst that none else did do.  
The poor man welcome had from thee  
Before the rich man's bravery.  
He on thy bounteous Table fed  
And was with all things cherished.  
Nay Palmer-like thou didst assay  
To fetch them in from the high way.  
And with thine own sleece made, and spun  
Cover the lame, the blind, and dumb.  
The Lazar might not starveingly  
Thou coverdst his necessity.  
The rich might not the poor oppress  
The just man's cause thou didst redress.  
Thy house was made an hospital  
And plenty cried, ' youare welcome all.  
The stranger might not thirsty pass  
For there was Tempors full brimmed glass,  
Prefiguring his thirsty soul  
Might be refreshed, but not made fowl.  
As Zephyrs bottles, such was his mind  
Sweet, calm, and free, loving, and kind.  
Great, pity Death did in a rage  
Send Palmer on a pilgrimage,  
Near to return for in his loss  
He Kegworthes sorrow did engross.  
And yet he left a merry one  
Whose worth's inferior to none  
A Patriot of true deserts.  
A nursing father to all arts.  
All men are Palmers, Pilgrim meek  
He compassed earth high Heaven to seek,  
The Saints received him into bliss;  
The earth her Palmer still doth miss   
FINIS.   

Imprimatur Exaedib. Londin. Sa. Baker.  
Apr. 22. 1636.