FUNERAL ELEGIES, UPON THE MOST UNTIMELY DEATH OF the Honourable and most hopeful, Mr. JOHN STANHOPE, Son and Heir to the Right Honourable PHILIP Lord STANHOPE, Baron of Shelford: WHO DECEASED IN at OXFORD, the 18. of july, 1623. London printed for Ralph Mab. MDCXXIV. Ad Lectorem. OFficiosus Amor lachrimas effudit ab urna Quam raptìm ingestas Musa latere velit, Melpomenen moerore suo ne crede superbam; Fastum ô quid nescit, si modo luctus habet? Tu solum expendas, quanta est huic causa dolori, Cum sapiat, quasi nunc prompta, Querela vetus. IN AMICISSIMUM MEUM. GEmma domus nostrae, Musarum dulers ocelle Flos Parnasstaci, deliciaeque chori, Defunctum sequor obsequijs, complector & vinbram, Heu quot corporibus dignior umbra tua est? Non est fictus amor, non est umbratilis ardor, Vmbra places, videar corporis umbra tui. Henricus Percy, Comitis Northumbriae Filius. ANd hast thou left us then (Dear Soul?) must we Comfort our eyes, no more beholding thee? ●●uldst thou be so much a proficient here, 〈…〉 die so soon in thy first year? 〈◊〉 ●●ill thou be thus a Graduate, to shine 〈…〉 already, and there turn Divine? 〈◊〉 ●●gree, whose lustre quite defaces 〈◊〉 ●●●e Hoods, and Academic graces. 〈◊〉 ●●●h mistook thee; measuring thee a man By thy Souls Elle, not by thy bodies Span. Hadst thou been duller, thou perchance mightst have Gone but a slow and footpace to thy grave: Th●●●ch of Fate had not been stirred: the Skies Would not so greedy snatch so mean a prize: Thy quickness killed thee, ripeness was thy death, Running to goodness, thou ranst out of breath. How didst thou pitch beyond thy years! how sage, How wise, how stayed, how elder than thy age! W●●t manly gravity was known to house, 〈◊〉 in thy smooth than others wrinkled brows? 〈◊〉 different from the common Nobler sort, 〈◊〉 here for fashion only come and sport, 〈◊〉 wear a gaudy Gown! and then with ease 〈◊〉 the Streets, and learn the Colleges, ●ape some few ends of jests, wherewith hereafter: To branch discourse, and entertain a laughter! That ne'er reach further than the mystical Science of Tennis, and (their Sphere) the Ball; Or else to wield some Fencers wooden tool, Or sweat a Nightcap in the Dancing-school. To crack a Lutestring, and such worthy Arts, In others, Compliments, in great men, parts. Thy Studies were more serious as thy looks, While others Bandied thou wast tossing Books, Busied in Paper, and collecting there, Gems to stick in thy mind, not in thine ear. Me thinks I see thee yet close by thyself, Reaching some choice Book from thy furnished shelf, Lose the silk strings, and with a willing pain, To read, and think, and write, and read again. Thus didst thou spend thy life's short day, till night, Death's night o'ertook thee, and put out thy light. This sable Curtain was too soon o'erspread, Thy day-taske done, to bring thee to thy bed. Yet happy soul, whose first night did begin In Death, undarkned with the night of sin. E. R. VT nova subsiliunt acciso germinae trunco, Et reficit pennae damna cadentis olor; Sic ubi Matris honor cecidit Stanhopia proles, Sarcina mox orbam non sinit esse nova. Primitias uteri, quae coelo debita sors est, Soluisti Mater, quid potes inde queri? At Calum excambit foetum, similemque reponit, Num potes hoc damnum dicere? munus erat. Qui sic interijt, non interijsse videtur Natalem fato, sed reparasse suo. jer. Thorp. Art Mag. ex Aede Christi. A Funeral Elegy. AS for a tedious famine, or a siege Threatening us all, our country & our Liege: So do we grieve for thee, each neighbour Weeps to the endangering of an eye; As if the loss were his, or he had sold by His Patrimony, and had spent the gold. Spanish Currantoes, Brunswick, and the fate And Massacres of the Palatinate, In this spring tide, and flood of grief are lost, As rain drops in a stream, that in the vast Ocean, this hath so filled our hearts, eyes, ears, That we want sense of other cares then these. If in a drought this accident had been, Thou hadst not, Fate, committed such a sin. he people's tribute had repaired the loss Of the mad dog-starres fury, and this cross; For with their tears the parched earth had been, As after plent'ous rain, fruitful and green. By should heavens drops now longer mix with ours, But these united conduits, doubled showers, Trent would unruly grow, and his proud waves Would make our habitations then our graves. As the sun snow: so grief melts us, and you, Wherese're we go, may tract us by our dew. The State-men of this loss such notice take, They'll not do business, till wept for's sake. With these Inferiors join, from th' Colliers eye You may take ink to write an Elegy, And in their fields of hay the Countrymen Do weep, as if they'd have it grow again. Our sin hath bred this cross: so Adam's vice Did disinherit him of Paradise. His death of ours, nay unborn Babes will miss, And feel his absence. who had brought a bliss To them, to all of them. For as we see A goodly, spreading, large, and well-limbd tree Doth guard the underwood, and doth immure The houses near, which by it are secure; So from all tempest, from all rage of wind He would have fenced his neighbours, and have shined Like Lights in Watch-towres, which are set to save Passengers from Rocks, and fury of the Wave. This may conjectured be, from what we saw, His youth did bear, and promise. For if by The foot of Hercules with Geometry His true proportion was collected, may Not we on the same grounds proceed, and say On sight of the foundation, this had been As fair an edifice as e'er was seen, If't had gone on? it is profane to say, The Builder wanted skill, and stuff to lay A perfect roof on what he had began, And could not end this Masterpiece of Man, And therefore dashed it out, We all do know We were unworthy of so great a flow, And stream of goodness, that his innocence Long since deserved to be removed hence: Wherefore true justice placed Him near the Throne In heaven of one in three, of three in one. His life was spotless: as his sickness grew, So did his zeal and calmness: all is true In him, which Poets by hyperbole Give their choice friends to make their memory. Immortal. Like a thankful stream he ran To pay his debt unto the Ocean. His Monuments of Learning were bestowed Where he had his. He paid what ere he owed; Obedience to his Parents, Love to all, Repentance, death for's sins in general. Vere lugentis Pietas. QVae Fata quondam cecinit Henricì, tibi Modò Musa, magne lwenis, exequias parat. Documenta mors maiora nunquam virium Dedit suarum, simile non potest malum, Ruina similis, Carolo superstite Saluoque rege, & integro cultu Dei, Accidere nobis: lector istorum benè est Si convalescat: deficit mihi spiritus. G. I. REdde ô Depositum Patri petenti, Redde ô Depositum diserta sedes; Tanti non emo Literas, nec Antrum, Et Phoebi Tripodas, Deumque totum. Illum sub dubij tepore sensus, Et fuscâ bivij trementis horâ Luctantem, toties Lare in Paterno Emersisse, semel nec inde nostro? Illum tendiculas manumque Fati Prensantis toties cavere posse, damni mora foeneraret ingens Huic aurae scelus, invidumque nomen Seruaret miseris ruina Musis? Nunc iras veteres palam fatentur, Musis ah nimis asperae sorores, Musis, irrita quòd Sepulchra reddunt, Et fallunt tenebras silentis Vrnae. I am fato cecidit Triumphus ingens, Non vulgare epulum rogum saginat, Sed Praenobile, quodque delicato Reddat iam proceres sapore vermes. Cymbam nunc inopem rosis & alga Nauclerus Stygiae paludis ornat, Ornat sollicitus; magisque sudat, Quam si nunc reduci foros pararet Aeneae, Dominaeque naviganti. Illo quot Veneres, Facetiasque Vernantes licuìt videre vultu? Quot pexo mulierculas in Ore, Et quantos animo viros adulto? Vno non potuit iacere telo Virtus tam numerosa; sed tenello Centum pectore condidit sagittas Fati certa lues: Character irae Dum vestigia vulnerum fatetur (Seu morbus fuerat, Pudoruè Morbi,) Crebris morsibus hinc & hinc rubescit. Absumptum est iaculis repentè pectus, Et posses pharetram vocare metam; Non sic foemina spinulis refertum Puluillum iugulat, veneficaeque Humanas fodiunt acu figuras: Non tot vulnera, tot per omne corpus Caesar sustinuit, quot ille solo Sensit corde puer, Puerque sprevit Ingens pectore, iamque vulnerato: Qui quamuis puer, ausus est minantes Non pallere Deas, ferociamque Ostentare viri, tuamque Caesar, Dum stratis operit pudicus ora Obnubitque sinum! ferox, & acer! Quem vinci puduit iubente Fato! Gulielmus Strode Art. Bac. Sleep, sweetest youth, in thy still grave, Whom birth nor virtue could not save, Nor loveliness nor youth could free, From this doom of mortality. Can we with tears thy life redeem, Our eyes should be a living stream: Or else what would we not contrive To give, so heaven would thee reprieve To older years, and would thee save Till old, thou mightst become a grave? Thou mightst departed then without wonder, When soul and body fall asunder. But thou wast lovely, young, and wise, The comfort of our hopes and eyes; Can Death discern thy parts, or see; He had enamoured been on thee: Thy beauty would force him forbear His churlish dart, and shed a tear; To see so fair an object stand, That love and pity could command; And force compassion in each one, That had or sense, or passion. But thou wast ripe for heaven, and we Are left behind, to grieve for thee: Nor are we angry with that doom. Can we weep Amber, and entomb Those lovely Relics, which might bless Our sorrow in thy happiness; That so our tears might thee embrace, And shrine thee in a lovely place, So they unto eternity Might both embalm, and bury thee: Can we thus bless our grief, and thee, We should weep a glad Elegy. Had we such comfort in our tears, We'd weep the remnant of our years, To half redeem thee, could we save Thy ashes in so rich a grave. Though this is but a wished gift, Yet grief can make a loving shift, And know our love can make a room, As everlasting as this Tomb. In spite of death, we will thee save, Both from the fate of death, and grave: Thy love shall find, though life's thus spent, In each man's heart a Monument. Thus we'll preserve thee, and contrive, Though dead, thou still shalt be alive. INuidia Fati, prima surrepta iwenta, Hic iacet Oxonij gloria, delitiae. Hunc populo indignum Musae rapuere benigno Amplexu, & gremio deposuere suo. Formam tota cohors Musarum deperit, ambit: Aeternumque aiunt, Hoc requiesce sinu. Annorum spondent faciles per saecula lapsus Dum rapit audaci mors inopina manu. Inuidiam hanc rident Musae, tumuloque reponunt Carmineo, invita & vivere morte iubent. Sic quem mortalem Parcae invidere Cmamaenis Aeternum in nostro carmine tutus erit. Gulielmus Pickering, Art. Bac. De morbo quo fratres utrique laborabant. Corpora tam similes vestesque habuere colores, Corpora nescires, an tunicata vides. Tam similes utrique dedit morbusque figuras, Fratres vel morbo noveris esse duos. Sic morbi obseruant habitus; conformia Fata Si fuerant, fratres vivere utrosque velint. joh. Euans Gen. Art. Bac. QVam fueras fratris morbo praeposterus haeres, vivat titulis posthumus ille tuis? jam nimius fueras Haeres, natura Parensis Haeredem, fratris te tua Fata volunt, Credibile est mortem tum lascivisse pharetra, Dum sic alternas vibrat utrisque minas. Non errare potest dubiae manus impia mortis, Dum pro fratre mori gestit uterque prior. Dum sic Bacchatur, Fatum est crudelius, alter Fratri morbus erat te perijsse suo. Petr. Aspley in Art. Bac. Equitis Aur. & Turris Londini praefect. primogenitus. 'tIs indeed, 'tis Stanhopes heir, Whose corpse lie muffled on this Beer: (Which a pure love, before it went, Ennobled more than his descent) But count his virtues, not his years, Or guess him by his Father's tears, And then no Son or Heir's desired, But th' whole Name and Race expired. Nor doth his death cause this our woe, (Death's our nature, not our foe) But that his life so soon being gone, Made him a guest, and not a son; That he snatched in's minority Did rather lose his life, then die. And now, his years being understood To be so short, and yet so good, We may divide our passions so, That we may grieve, yet wonder too. His wit so ripe in youth so green, Made him ancient at fifteen; And now you see his face no more, You would date him at threescore. But if you would memorials keep Of this fair body lies asleep, That, looking on the toys you wear, Though he be gone, you'd think him here: First know, you do this soul no grace, To catch his Ribbons, or his Lace, Or (as the jews did heretofore) To keep his Earrings to adore: If for his memory you care, Wear his manners, not his hair. Think on him in his latest rest, When death had spawnd upon his breast, And hurled those deadly Atoms on, Enamelled with corruption, How still that harmless soul remained Among so many spots, unstained. O why was Fate so soon severe, T'enchase those ugly Rubies there? Nor will we mitigate the name, And call them Measles; for the same Were on the brother's body tried, Nor yet complain we that he died; Or how could Pin-dust, cast on's skin, 'Cause his death to enter in? Nor would then his Physician's skill Suffer such Fleabites for to kill. No, this was fatal, 'twas his lot That from every little spot, Should be drawn a line athwart To the Centre of his heart. Or else God from some higher place, Seeded Manna on his face; And sure 'tis so, or else he'd ne'er Have put him in this Omer here. Then let's now no more lament The dead, (whose life so well was spent, That now for land, he heaven doth share, By his death a greater Heir) But ourselves: for sure 'tis worse, To be the Mourner than the Coarse. Thomas Lockey, Art. Bac. ERgone non avidos Musarum expalluit haustus Ille puer, salso strenuus ore loqui? Ergone non imas puduit redolere lucernas, damno afficeret mox graviore Patrem? Siccine selegit mors illum ex omnibus unum? Illum, delitiae qui modo Patris erat? Dissimulare Patêr iam discas, vaetibi, Fata Inuida si norînt, quis tibi charus erit. Look on his body checkered o'er with spots, Look on his soul untainted with such blots. His purer part is frighted at each sore, Two Twins were never so unlike before. What wonder if a sudden parting be, Where thus the soul and body disagree? Edwardus Croke, Art. Bac. ANd is our grief so large? can't be confined To Place, to Time, but shown to all mankind? Must we remove his Corpse, and so convey Our Thames to Trent, and wear another way With tears? to dally with our grief, & bear About our loss, as if we played with fear? Where doth this journey after life's journey tend, This travail after death, this endless end? Resting he moves, and dead he still doth roll, As if his body went to seek his soul: 'Twas not because we partners seek of grief, The greatest sorrows seldom crave relief. Let's then divide our woes, and let each care Enjoy that want, and in such sorrow share. 'tis fit (though here he died) that countries' womb That gave him life, should likewise be his Tomb: To die, and to be buried in one place, Beseems common mortality, his race Merits no captive rites, then let our loss Be as diffusive as his goodness was. What though he trace mortality, and dye? Death's a Refiner of Nobility: And in a fresher mould, and purer fire, Blazons him in a fairer Character. This were an honest comfort, if being dead, Our grief could have their object buried: If we only with our memory did bear, And with those eyes alone to think him here. But lo, here's part of him, which doth extend His life beyond his life, nor doth death end Himself, though half himself, for now in this We both do view, although one whole we miss. Nor do we here retain a Light so clear, As when two Suns paced in one Hemisphere, Nor do Tyndarides divided shine So bright, as when they both their Lights combine: When two are linked and parted, than we may An obscure twilight call it, and no day. Memorials of the good, and Pictures do Restore our grief, and make us love our woe. So when we see his Brother's shape, these lips, These eyes of his, these cheeks, that face, it strips Us of our sense, and forthwith makes us frame, That 'tis no Brother, Picture, but the same: And writes his Name afresh, lest grief should dye: Each limb of his speaks his mortality. This is our joy, our grief, that we request Almost of that love to be dispossessed. His years I need not computate, since Fate His riper virtues, not his years doth date, Which who so dares to number, must confess He slanders, by commending happiness. But's richer soul we must admire, not praise That groser Heraldry despairs to blaze. Adored Saint, or more, if more there be Of thy blessed Relics only known to thee; We do confess thou'rt gone, and yet our loss If told, is underualued, so gross, So young are our complaints, that we lament In petty Notions, sorrow's rudiment: Our infant tears yet knows not all our woe, Because we known not all that was to grow In him, a graft all hope, but riper years Shall teach us how to parallel our tears, And so improve we may, (as he did grow In virtue) daily thriving in our woe. Can then that River which by thee doth slide, Be so unmindful, not to be full Tide, And not o'erflow his bounds? O be so good To save a wonder, lest we force a flood; Swell thou (Meander streams) let flow thy tears, Better proportioned to our fruitful fears; Or let that Dogstar cause thee to be spent, As t did his life, our eyes shall weep a Trent, And make his Tomb an Island, thou shalt be (Shelford) more famous for mortality. And thou the Wellspring, which with Arts didst flow, (Bereft Oxford) be a well of woe. Let Future times this first note learn of thee. Here died a Stanhope. Thus thou learned may be. We do not here examine why His Tutor suffered him to die, As if his watchfulness had slept: For sure he was by Argos kept, And had he not a Stanhope been, He might his Nature's Tutor seem: But we question that which forced God and man to be divorced. That first Question, that Where, that Why, That sentenced first our souls to dye. If fruit now have that power of death, As in the childhood of the earth, Which Fruit to cloak we Leaves put on, Clothed with our own transgression. No, know his soul so pure, so good, And how corruption it withstood; That needed almost had his skin Rather to be baptised then sin. Though Cherries sown in such a place, That what he ate, he wore in's face, Yet every twinkling spot did lie Like Stars, but in a fairer Sky; Such beauty might the Moon remove, Sooner than Endymion's love. And from his kiss her light to come, Rather than from that common Sun. If then Measles spangled thus, Embroidered his face no worse; If his disease so modest be, And blush at its own cruelty; Then what may his beauty claim, Whom his sickness thus became; And in the twilight of his days, Chequ'red his countenance with Rays, Presaging like a rubyed night, The Sun awaked to shine more bright? If then our grief be not at height, Behold his Father's sorrows weight, Whose heavy journey winged with fears, Caused his body sweat with tears, And each officious limb turned eye, Claiming their duty for to cry: And well I think all eye was he, That in a double night did see, Nor will I ever that approve, When thus it sees that blind is love: For fatherly affection may, Though it be night, create a day. Now with an honest heresy, I could renounce Philosophy, That seeing thus their passions knit, His Father did his soul beget, And if it were not so, then why Did's Father's Fate teach him to dye, And by his Prophetic death, Make him's Heir in's loss of breath: So that alone, which had the might To part them, did them counite? Nor doth goodness cease with breath, See liberality after death, Gild each Parish as they fall, (For each place claims his Funeral) Where he raines a silver shower, Making each Town like Danae's Tower. Or as a snail which never more Returns the way sh'ath gone before, Crystals the path where she doth pass, To signify there her way was. Nor any other Tomb she'll have But her shell, her house her grave: So will Stanhope no where lie, But where he had's nativity. Though Egypt claims he died in her, Yet Canaan must his bones inter. Richardus Chaworth, Art. Bac. IS Stanhope dead? and are our eyes yet dry? Can we outface our grief so constantly? Doth not hardhearted Athens yet lament, That is deprived of such an Ornament, A Son and a Maecenas? Can she find One that deserved so well that's left behind? Mourn then sad Athens, and in memory Of such ahopefull Son, weep out an eye: Do something, that posterity may know, So great a loss cannot be smothered so. And you sad Brothers, whose yet weeping eyes Threaten a flood of tears, whose memories Are yet fresh-gauld with sorrow, whose hearts weep Channels of blood for tears, whose checks yet keep The furrowed gutters where their sorrow flows, Whose foreheads are the ensigns of their woes, Make him a verse or two, let him not dye, And perish quite from the world's memory; Hurl something into feet, and let it run Madding abroad, to tell what Death hath done. Had he this entertainment when he came To honour Athens? might not Stanhopes Name Have privileged him from death? could Shelford give Him to himself? and send him here to live? And must we give him death? must Athens prove A Stepmother, and quite forget to love? Yet thus much let us honour him, though dead, Let him be honourably buried; Yet that's not all; we must not leave him thus, Our sorrow must be more ingenious. One that deserved to live so long as he, Must not be hastened to his destiny. Thus fare his death hath brought him: let us strive To reinfomre him, that he may revive, And thus much cross the Fates, that thus much durst To make him live, when they have done their worst. Let us record his virtues, which deserved To be engraven in gold, or be reserved In trusty Cedar, which when we are dead, Among our children's children may be read; Where some may joy to hear them told, and some May lisp them out as they were taught at home. They need not fear mis-reckoning, he had all, And all he thought a number too too small. He was an heaven on earth, in whom combined His virtues like a Constellation shined: In which each star pricked with a jealous fear, Did strive to be the glory of his Sphere: His Noble birth shined like a Ruby set To be the grace of a rich Cabinet; His education shadowing it o'er, So well becomed it, that it shined the more. His pretty and ingenuous face did look Like the good Title of an honest Book: His comely shape, which did become him best, Looked like the Sanctuary of the rest: As if the pattern were some Deity, Which Nature copied his perfections by. Virtues amazed with a fond delight, Gazing and doting at so sweet a sight: At length with full embraces did oppress This Microcosm, or world of happiness. Where with an emulating industry, Each showing an obsequious Piety, Laboured to better Nature, and go on With that rare work which nature had begun. His affable and willing Courtesy Claimed upper hand of his Nobility, He was right Noble, borne of Stanhopes blood, But was thrice Noble, being borne so good. His courteous salutings seemed to be Notable Emblems of humility: His heart was like his eyes, which towered so high, They stooped not to the lure of vanity. Do ye not wonder yet? then stay and see His learning balanced with his infancy; Mark but how young he was, how ripe in wit, His learning him, and he had honoured it: He needs not Arms to show his Ancestry, That was so Noble by's own Heraldry: Neither need Logic prove he was a man, When he could prove as much as logic can. Can he be idle, that with easy pains Summoned each Coast, & called them by their names? Wanted he knowledge, whose Minority Durst be acquainted with Philosophy? Speak, art thou yet so stupid, to deny That he was too good for Mortality? He was grown old in goodness, and could see The way to heaven, even in his Infancy. Henricus Humberston, Art. Bac. Upon the custom to pay to every Parish, through which the dead Corpse is carried. WHy is't you stop our rites, as though a Dearth Of Pence had made new ferry-men on earth? And is't such charges for to dye, that we By Water and by Land too pay a Fee? Why with such strictness, do you ask your pay, As though you bargained for the King's Highway? I thought at least our Carcase might have been Quiet in Death, in that our latest Inn. Or that nailed Coffins, or unwrapped Lead, From all vexation safe had kept the dead. Let him in peace walk to his silent Cave, To the long solemn progress of his grave: Trouble not his Procession: for ye Him this way wand'ring never more shall see. He comes not to possess your grounds or lands, Or ●n your Tenements to seize his hands; He is no Court-messenger, to take in Lodgings or houseroom for the State or King: he's but's own Harbinger to provide room, E'en for a little earth, six foot of Tomb: Then let him pass, untroubled with those fears, And we will follow after with our tears. O let's wrap one tear up, to show his Hearse, He cannot be so soon forgot: a Verse, Well spent, Embalmes him richer than the cost Of precious ointment on his body lost: Which only for the Worms perfumes his flesh, And makes it but more handsome rottenness: But this doth quicken Fame, and this doth raise A volume of sorrow for after-days, That men, ten Ages hence, may weep to see Such hopeful Plants, such thriving grafts as he, So young, and yet so full of age, so good, To feel untimely blasting in the bud. As though 'twere Nature's pride to deal with us, As Mothers with their froward Infants use, Who bribe them quiet with a costly gem, But being still, do stealed away again. The world was peevish, froward, till to light Was brought this rich, this high-prized Margarite; Which being seen, gazed on, and wondered at, Was reconuaied to Heaven, its proper seat, Where Angels beware it, any blessed powers it set In their own truely-glorious Cabinet. No sooner had we seen this gem, but see The want thereof, such happiness have we, So blessed are we; O what greater ill, To have had good, and not to have it still? How we renew our grief? how prone we be To shed new tears, as often as we see Thy Fellow-Brother sadly walk alone, Without a like-clad Brother, too well known? What pity 'tis to part the Turtle Dove From his Mater to part two Twins? for in love None elder was, one soul the store-house was Of both affections, and though they pass For two, yet trust me, I did then descry As the same soul in a severed body. He that survives, takes vantage by thy fall, To show his last love to thy Funeral; To thy memory his best grief to give, And to thy Shrine a Votary to live, To offer sighs and sobs, complaints and feaers, And sweetly weep forth Elegiac tears, To blame thy Physic, & to vex their skill, Which is profoundly mystical to kill. And then with passion to excuse their part, And say the Cherries killed thee, not their Art: And truly wish that guilty cursed fruit, May with the Apples curse, and figtrees suit. That their Sodom increase black ashes be Which more become a coffin, than a tree: That they ne'er come to ripeness, but be snatched Away as green, as thou from him art catcht. Thus his divided soul, with grief and love Strives still for new, his first thoughts to remove: So to thy fortunes although he be Heir, His heart and blacks alike sad Emblems are. But mourn no more, his soul was due long since, And now vnbodyed for the Angel's Prince: The first borne Gods Heir is, rejoice he's gone, For 'twas his justice to make him his own. T. Triplet, Art. Bac. WE that empty on thy Hearse, Our passions in tears or verse, Will not blame thy hasty Fate, Nor say thou didst not fill thy date Of a just age, lest we deny Thy virtue, her nativity: And so by the untimely Lays, Not Fate, but we abridge thy days. If we search thy life's account, 'Tis not to what thy years amount; Nor calculated by thy youth, But by thy virtues riper growth; We judge a Circles excellence, Not by the large Circumference, But as the compass it doth grace, With an undistorted pace. No less of thy short race we say, It's drawn home the nearer way, Passing until it met thy Fate With an unperuerted gate. For carried with thy gravity, What error could it drive awry? No wonder 'tis, that oft we know, A new preposterous childhood grow In such, as under that age shake, Which their selues a burden make: Let us wonder now we see In Childhood, age's constancy: And think he not untimely died, In whom we saw this wonder tried; we'll spare our passions, & our tears: This hath made up thy failing years. VT possit cineri tanto par urna parari, Et mole inducta nobilis urna premi, Hic Dirces opus est, feretro succumbat alumnus, Cuius non semel est sylua secuta chelyni. Cantilletque melos, ad saxa cienda, canorum Vnde tibi sterni forma supina potest. Nullus populeo, lachrymata cortice, myrrha. Subtili coelo marmora ficta linnet, Vrceolis nostris lachrymas fundemus, & inde Coementum accipiet flebilis urna suum. Thomas Fowler, Art. Bac. MAiori succumbit Atlas iam pondere coeli, Et queritur sensisse nimis, miserique lacerti Ceu tonitrus crepitant, illos dum turba tuarum Virtutum concreta premit, dum ment Gygantem Sustentant, & naturae compendia nostrae; Hic habuit solus, quicquid possedimus omnes. En quantum Eloquium frontis, ridentis ocelli Blanditiae quantae, toto via lactea vultu Spiravit. Non est è vino lacte papillae, Linea coelestis, candore notabilis ipso, His radijs facta est. Quam prodigiosa tumentis Luxuria ingenij, stupefactos efficit omnes, Incestatque fidem. Studio fallente laborem Furtiuè fruitur, semper tantum artis honesta Arsit avaritia, & quaerenti haec defuit illi. Divinos artus macula dum fata profanant, Ecce Medusaeo festinat praepete tristis Sollicitusque Pater. Numen tibi nocte diurna Indulget, dictatque vias. Quas vertis in undas, Diluuiem meditans, jove iam nolente, secundam. Contendit pro morte Pater, sibi vendicat aevo: O quàm magnus amor, si haec sit discordia sola Discordes habuisse metus: hic illius, ille Huius Fata timet: Quaedam est victoria Patris, Saepeque praemoritur: quaesi sollicitare petebat Christum etiam in coelis, ut saluum redderet illum Prodigio, sic sic istum valuisse deceret. Io. Dawson, Art. Bac. De variolis, quibus infestus obijt, & in morbum relapsu. CVm Puer, hosce lues premeret vibicibus Artus, Placatisque fores Stellio numinibus, Non tulit illa suae natura pericula sortis, Et repulit morbi versicoloris opus. Conatus libuit modicos contemnere, donec Constitit, heu, nimios delituisse dolos. Parthica fraus morbi (nimis heu tibi Barbarus hostis) Tela retro misit, plus nocuitque fuga. Sic vitae strategema tuae tua Fata pararant: (Te visae est Fatis vita parasse tuis) Foelices animae, quarum consortia coelum Ambit, ut haud pigeat composuisse dolos. Conticet Ideaum iam tandem fabula raptum, Repperit Achetypum cum Ganymedis amor. Geo. Griffith, in Art. Bac. I Cannot weep for grief, in men we prove Tears to be Emblems but of children's love: Nor is't but bastard sorrow which we show, When we on Funerals Cakes and Wine bestow More thoughts, than on the buried, then alone, When we not plump for tears, we truly moon. So truly moan I thee, who, ere thou died, At once wert Natures, and thy Father's pride. Kings, Queens, and Princes of their Comets have As Tragical forerunners of their grave: The Sun itself, as in the West it stood Ushering thy face, looked like a globe of blood, Not two hours ere thou died'st; and they say, His frighted Orb would fain have run away, Were't not hedged in with Planets, three and three, On either side, for fear't should be too free: O that thy soul, like th' Sun in his own Sphere, Had still remained; then friends, without a tear, Might both have seen, and hug'd thee, then yet might Oxford and Shelford have enjoyed their light. But Fate prevents my wishes, and now see Ioues Royal Bird, the souls first resedy, Not naturally to heaven ascending, But by Arts feigned miracle, pretending A better flight: think how the other three, Allied in Name and Consanguinity, All Heirs deceased, do gratulate this one, In making there a Constellation, Like to Deltoton, which before might be Th'unhappy Dogstar, 'cause there was but three. But as from Phoenix ashes springs another, So out of thine an Heir, a younger Brother. But what's the comfort, when each Chair & Board, Like breathing Ghosts, cry out their former Lord? If that for freer Air, he chance to walk Amongst the curled wood, trees seem to stalk. Each thing renews his brother's memory, Or seems his brother: If the streams thereby Whisper, he thinks they call him, straightway fears And strives to make a greater flood with tears: Perhaps the harmless flowers do kiss his feet, He thinks they mock him, goes to th' open street, Where as he walks, believes each tongue and eye To speak and look his Brother's destiny. A Lethargie's on me, nor can I write What's Poet-like, while I conceive this spite Of unjust Fortune, yet I cease to brawl: A Satire ill becomes a Funeral. If ever it did thine, the Poet's brain Can ne'er invent such a malignant strain As fortune acts on thee, while thou prevent The Dog-days Physic in death's punishment: Thy face may rebeget in th' Mother's Womb, A Monster framed of grief, whose living Tomb Shall be the hearts of all that do lament To see this Coffin, this Heirs Tenement. I dare not cease, lest judged by my own fears, To be as thrifty of my lines as tears; Yet who respects them, stones do sweat and weep Other men's sorrows, but when those that sleep, Awake and know neglect of friends, they then Will gratify more Marble stones than men. But fear not thou, he that shall ever see Thy Brother's shadow, sure will think it thee: Thou livest in him though dead, and as thou died, Thou seemest to dye in jest, so sweetly lied Each colour in his own place, feared to part Thinking thou imitatest a Players Art. But now they're vanished, yet thou art not fare, A Planet here, above a fixed Star. Thou, though an Heir, wert but an earthly clod, Yet Death hath made thee more; an Heir with God. Thomas Motershead, Art. Bac. TErra, & sepulchrum, funus, & lachrymaebreues, Et complementum quodque plebeiae necis Procul recedant; fortis et doctus dolor Emanet oculis, spiret & musam nisi Totus virilis, plenus & dignus Deo. Aeternitati, noster, atque umbraepiae, Litet Poeta, carminis vires sui Hinc mutuetur hinc, quibus vitam dedit Ipsum cadaver (melius ah daret sibi) Sumus argumento docti, at & nobis tamen Hoc istud aufers; victor at quare procul Frater recedit? Mors in hunc vires suas Experta, victa est, igitur in fratrem ruens Pudore rubuit, & verecundo dolo Intus recedens, occupat cordis sinum, Et se fateri metuit; hinc audax foras Egressus ipse est, addit & morbo suo Cerasi ruborem, (cuius insidias ADAM Non ipse fugeret) mortis & miro modo Rubore nimto pallet ah tandem nimis. Et ipse palles, spiritus tanquam duos Animaret unus, incipis primùm mori, Docesque natum, qui patrizavit nimis, Nimiumque monstrat indolem promptam suam, Leto vel ipso, gaudet & discens mori. Campana magna sonuit & nato, & tibi, Ambosque gemuit ipsa secretò tamen, Horamque Nonam facta iam fallax boat, Mortemque pariter, timuit hanc palam loqui. Dormite tandem, non Magistratus opus Autoritate est, ambulat tantum dolor; Turgensque factus quisque iam lachrymis suis Inebriatur, gemitus Epicuros facit. Solare iam te, fortiter tandem gemas, Solare coniugem, ecce qui vicit necem; Spes germinantes, & reuiuentes duos Vno videbis, corpore & mentem gerens Geminatam in uno, fiet Henricus tibi Fraterque & ipse, cerasa tam fratri mala Labris in ipsis gestat, atque eius potest Imago mortis esse, qui vitae volet. Epitaphium. HOc situs in tumulo est, pro quo lapis insitus illo Marmoris in lachrymas quisque solutus erit. Canus doctrinâ est, annis quam paruus! at istos Quos natura negat tradidit ipse sibi. Nobilitans stirpem virtutum soenore, & haeres Patris opum merito, qui pietatis erat, Occidit Oxonij, iacet hìc; terrae ista gemiscit Ereptum, quem sic haec habuisse dolet. Debuit at luctus tam publicus esse, iacere Vno non poterat tanta querela loco. Posuit officij ergò Geor Aglionby, Art. Bac. Upon the untimely death of the Right Noble Gentleman, Master john Stanhope, Son and Heir to the Right Honourable Philip Lord Stanhope, Baron of Shelford. SO great, so good, and yet so soon to dye? Sure, there was Godhead in's mortality, Of which the greedy heavens, envying the earth, Snatched to themselves, leaving to us a dearth Of goodness, of virtue a mere penury; Blasting the hope of an unstained family: Unstained, and free from such grand villainies Which poison Honour, he knew none of these Hereditary evils, and crimes which some As 'twere essential bring, even from their womb: But like to Demigods, all his Progeny Were good, and honest, innocent as he: He, whose refined soul goodness alone Engrossed, claiming each virtue as his own: Who with his other-selfe did still appear, Like to the Twins in heaven, and shone as clear; No cloudy vice did eclipse their light, They shone by day as th' other do by night; And as they were, so did they Brothers prove, But not so much by Nature, as by Love.. Whose sharpest anger ne'er did move their blood; The strife was only which should be most good: Thus curious Nature striven to show her Art In these, giving two bodies, but one heart. And such an heart which each would sacrifice, To dry the tears flowing from either's eyes. Me thinks I see when one diseased lay, The others love steal the disease away; And when his sickness broke forth of the skin, With what resolved love he strooke it in, To free his Brother, and to be sure at last Rather than fail, he'd perish by the taste Of fruit enuy'ng his cheeks, seeming to be Th' unhappy fruit of a forbidden tree. By which perceiving death to hasten on, He breathed out prayers with such devotion, That his religious Father doubtful stood, If he should live, or die, he died so good. Whose blessed departure proved him thus to be, Full ripe for heaven in his infancy. Row. Crosbey, Art. Bac. TO tell our loss, so well to each man known, Were to lament ourselves, not him that's gone: That were to cry out help to those that lie By the same grief dead to eternity. Alas! that men may fully understand Whom 'tis they lose, requires thy brain, thy hand. But since th' art gone, and we cannot relate Thy worth so lively, yet let's imitate Thy life, by one that's left us, for no other So perfect is, as thou art in thy Brother. For what thing was it, thou enioyd'st alive, That thou didst not impart or wholly give Unto thy Brother, he again as true Thought himself then most blest, when most like you. And of this love there ever was such show, As it was thought they would have both died too. Perchance he ate the Cherries, for to make Himself red-coloured for his brother's sake. But O unhappy trial! they did prove Too crafty fare, for his wellmeaning love. Did we not lose enough when Adam fell By thee, cursed Fruit? but thou must longer still Produce our miseries, and when weare best, By tempting one must murder all the rest. Was he too good for Earth, & did heaven call To have him there, so that he needs must fall? If so, 'tis well; for it was equity, Mankind and he by the same Fate should dye. But though th' art dead, thy memory survives, And thy good deeds shall outlast others lives. Guliel. Buckner, Art. Bac. DEpositum (Stanhope) tuum (memorande) supremum, Ipse pater patriâ concumulavit humo. Nec licuit feretro nobis suspendere Carmen, Nec Trentae lachrymas annumerare tuo. Nostra tamen similes lacrymarum Nympha lacunas Hauriet, & Trentâ non minor Isis erit. Weep, weep, your sorrows are well paid, 'Tis a Stanhope here is laid, You that see this Monument, And cannot at this sight lament, The conscious Marble will you show, How to discharge your comely woe. Either you may th' occasion sit, By melting into tears like it: Or if you punish nor your eye, By weeping, cause it fatally Behold his Tomb, then may you moon, By standing stupid, like the stone. Yet both these sorrows are well paid, 'Tis a Stanhope here is laid. Guli. Treshans', Equitis Aurat. Filius. IMmitis properare necem Libitina, potir● Dum tanto exoptat coniuge, fata iubet. Spiritus, ingenium, genius, decor oris, & ortûs Stemmata quem celebrant, aemula fatae prema ●●. Indole maturum flos indolis abstulit, illum, Dum numeraet laudes, quis negat esse senem? Non aevi brevitate fuit fraudata tropaeis Gloria, cum fuerit copia nulla novis. Laude viget, cuius fraterna videtur imago Accipere & parili reddere fata vice. In Canem coelestem: eò quòd circa initium dierum Canicularium mortuus sit. LEge nimis durâ funebria iusta referre Icarij cogis feruida stella canis. Icaria peiora precor tibi fata ruina, Dùm tua sic lachrymas sorbet anhela sitis. Betrus Tryon, Armig. Fil. nat. max. In Variolarum luem qua interijt. HOc Iwemem placido decus immortale Sepulchro Aspice, qui vivens immaculatus erat. Dixissem si non fera Mors, morbique perosi Polluerant, moriens immaculatus erat. Ah Laethi crudele genus, cum tetrica vultus Abstulit, & tenero saevit in ore lues! Dulcia deformes ederunt oscula morbi, Nec data sunt avido pura labella rogo. Tam celeri si saeva gradu ventura fuissent, Nun alia poterant fata venire via? Sed Mors saeva decus properavit perdere vultus, Ne posset duras flectere forma Deas. 'TIs not Nobility that is of force, To stop the Progress of this Tyrant's course; Nor mortal can unto himself assume A spark of time, when Fate hath passed her doom. So frail are all Earth's momentary things; That Death a Tribute claims of greatest Kings: But Death hath had her pay, and he his Crown, Where neither Death can strike, nor Fate can frown. Gul. Pennyman Armig. filius natu max. Ex Aede Christi. WErt not that daily spectacles deny A difference between Nobility And other Pigmy Mortals, good and bad, The old and young, we just occasion had, Of admiration, when we do behold Thee so good, young, and noble, under mould. But when the Graves and Sepulchers we view, We turn our admiration from you, Not wondering that a life so short you led, But that ourselves have spun so large a thread Of our Mortality, when all places see Some dye continually; so that we Need draw our never-discontinued tears Unto the Period of our latest years. Here one falls sick, and dies, & there another; Grief for whose death, killeth, perhaps, his Brother, Father, or Mother: so it fared with thee: For not thou only, but a Family Did seem in thee to die, for lo, thy Father, Secure of any worse mishap, had rather Suffer himself some peril, than that death Before his coming, should close up thy breath. He comes, and journeying thrice with humble knee Falls to the Earth, yet being utterly Insensible of this, through the great fire, Kindled by Love, obtaineth his desire. Thy Mother, fearing that thy hour was come, Strives to bring forth another in thy room; And so with motherly compassion, loath To lose the one, endangereth you both. Thy Brother of thy Fortune emulous, Strives to prevent thee, whose ingenuous Love and goodwill to thee did then appear, When thy last hour did show he held thee dear. He fain to heaven would thy forerunner be, And there provide place for himself and thee. Wherefore he often offers willingly, Ransom to pay for thy delivery; And on condition thou mayst here remain, Dies often, but denied, revives again To his great grief; at last, when nought would do, Cries out, and says, Shall we be parted too? 'tis true, you must a while, yet weep no more, Since all your tears will not his life restore: Then since your weeping can't recall him gone, Wail not his death, seek to prevent your own. Ad defuncti fratrem. DEfunctus foret ipse sibi tantae indolis haeres. Si possent iustae flectere fata preces. Sed Natura negat: cui munera tanta relinquet, Cùm nuda Elysios umbra pererret agros? Deuouet haec fratri: hunc haeredem ex asse reliquit, Quem socium tantae Nobilitatis habet. Viue tibi & fratri, duplicem sortitus honorem Sisque haeres illi moribus ingenio. Thomas Ballowe, Alumnus. AN Heir, and dead? must some erected Tomb Close in the bowels of an earthly womb, Stanhopes great Heir? must it a Trophy be Of his decease? boast we in misery? Are these the Lands that he was borne unto? To lie dead in some Ephrons' Field of woe? O tell me, Death, why is he turned to dust? Wilt thou plead Fates decree, and cry, He must? Is thy best reason a necessity, Or grounded Maxim in Philosophy? He was not old, for age he did not dye, Nor was the only cause Mortality: This was the chiefest reason he deceased, Thy hunger was ingenuous, and to feast Was thy desire, thou'lt not pick the bone Of some Anatomy or Skeleton: As for a Carcase hanging in the Air, Half eaten up by Time, thou dost not care. The Worms are Epicures, whose envious strife, Devours that Carcase that had given them life; Nor can I blame them that they so do eat, Though he's a Course, yet is he dainty meat. Eduard. Price, Alumnus. I Think it is a policy in Death, To take the young, and spare the aged breath. Nature's the bane of old men; Times decree Sends them a packing; Death, they need not Thee; Thou only servest to crop our tender years, To draw from Parent's eyes abortive tears; Thou lettest them live, their children tak'st away, Knowing that sorrow will be their decay; But Death, pale, envious Death! how couldst thou find Out the sweet picture of so pure a mind? Me thinks, although thy bloody Dart were steeled With thy sad purpose; yet it must needs yield, To see the Father melting into tears, His sad acquaintance, and his Brother's fears; Who sent as many sighs unto the Pole, As might have made, or else excused a soul. The Room mourned where he lay, the weeping stones Joined with his friends in their relenting moans. Death might have well mistaken, being sent For one, to see so many that ways bend; The Father three times offered to have paid Himself for his Son's ransom; had Death stayed His hasty hand, he had found many more That had been fit to have paid this score. Alas, he was but in the blossom yet Of tender years, though aged for his wit: He had some insight into every Art, That to Nobility might add a part: His Parents reaped as much joy from his spring, As many children's Harvest home doth bring. But he is fled away to pass the time He owed to us, in a fare better Clime: There shall his Summer and his Harvest be, Where he shall never any Winter see. Then, Parents, grieve no more; for he's in joy; Doubt not; wipe yours; his tears are wiped away. Death tells me, he was old enough to die, And young enough to live eternally. Gervase Warmstrey, Alumnus. WHat fatal book is this, which doth declare, That Noble Stanhop's house has lost her heir? A Sermon preached at Shelford! ah, tisso, Stanhope is laid in Earth, these lines of woe, Demonstrate he is dead: yet stay, were't he, Oxford would put on sorrow's livery, Each College mourn in ashes, every Hall Look like the Emblem of a Funeral. would sink in ruin, were he gone, On whom she built her hopes foundation. Dullness has seized upon me: can I read That virtue's slain, yet judge not Stanhope dead? Between which two there was such league, that o● Can not subsist, the other being gone. In Churches why should Death triumph, and be Hanging up Banners of her victory? What siege of Honour has she won? Is't all, That she has paid to Fate one Funeral? And that of feeble youth? young Stanhope dies, 'Cause else she knows not where to tyrannize. It had been justice, if some hoary head Had felt this deadly dart and perished. To be unjust, is Death's just attribute: For she did murder him, not execute. But why should we her murders thus relate? Death's but the Executioner of Fate. Fate was to blame, whose too too greedy hand Did break his thread of life, as loath to stand The leisure for to cut it with her shears, And so at once robbed him of many years. This is not all: his thefts fare greater yet, In robbing him, Fate robbed us all of wit. For Stanhope might have lived a work to raise, Which might from Sydney's Temples pluck the Bays, At least have equalled him: such hopes his brain Did promise to the world to bring again. But we have lost him: strangers which but hear How good he was, are forced to shed a tear; Well may his Father say, he is undone, He only knew the worth of such a Son: Let others think it strange that grief should be, As bold as death to work a Tragedy; Thrice did his Father sound, as if his Ghost Would take a Farewell of his son that's lost; Yet where's your wonder here? at such a sight I would not think it strange to die outright. So would he, but one Death cannot suffice T' express his grief, therefore he after dies, And could his sorrow quit his son from Death, he'd never leave to grieve, whilst he had breath. Will. Hemmings, Alumnus. TRiste onus Hexaphori, moestaeque Epicedi● turbae, Inuitant lachrymas ore madente pias; Occidit alma Hebe, patris spes, gloria fratrum, Qui partu primus, funere primus erat: Vendicat hanc Natura, hanc moesta Academia prolem, Arsque suam petit hanc, Nobilitasque suam, Laurea cum moesca certat numerosa Cupresso, Charta istos cineres, et levis urna petunt: Sed de virgineo ne sit discordia vultu, Mors citiùs praedam vendicat atra suam: Igne crepent gemmae, Domini noctescit ocellus, Huic gemmae nusquam gemma superstes erit Pingues, quos tantùm capiti modò sparsit, odores jam caput, et plantas, corpus, et omne linant, Sed tamen vnguento meliori funera lavit, Dum soluit nimijs imbribus ora parens, At toti lachrymae non suffecêre dolori; Pars erat in vultu; plus tamen intùs erat, Quid miserande Pater langues, animoque liquescis? Cur fugit exanimis, membra supina cruor? Siste Pater gemitus, et vitae parce ruenti, Vitam non satis est huic tribuisse semel? Pace tuâ valeant manes, permitte quietem, Et praeter famam, murmura nulla sonent; Manibus Augustis non pandit Cerberus aulam, jam canis aethereus regnat, & astra parat. In Eundem. HIc & splendidius decus Parentum, Orta & stemmate nobili propago, Funestum posuit citò cadaver, Et compagine spiritus soluta, Languentis malè corporis favillae Extincta est. Lachrymas movent sorores Et moestae Tragico sonant boatu, Dum Parcea indociles favore flecti Primae stamina dissecant iwentae: Quis non exequijs liquescat istis Et fati scelus improbet severi? Sed fundant Tetricae minas sorores, Non condet Libitina saeva Famam; Vita perfruitur beatiori, Extentoque diu superstes aevo, Vitam artis trahit, & sepulchra ridet. O pectus iwenis Vale quietum: Solennes feretri rogos superbi, Dum plaudit famulante musa cantu, Et coetus iwenûm modestiorum. O sit terra tibi levis. (Precamur) Terrae tam levis antè, qui fuisti. Franciscus Minne, Alumnus. ANne ego te Iwenem (Stanhope) putabo Senemue? Cuius verna dies, gloria cana fuit! Cuius & in decimâ vix quintâ aestate senectus Imperat, & puerum non puerum esse sinit? Sic non iustus eras, non fortis, doctus ad Annos: Sed potuit virtus praecipitare dies; Non data longa tibi est, facta est longissima vita: Nec vivendo brevis, sed moriendo fuit. johannes Donne, Alumnus. NObilis atque sagax, properae virtutis alumnus; Et patris, & patriae gloria prima suae, Occidit impubis; raptus trieteride quinta; Eheu, quàm Parcas iam rapuisse pudet! Vidêre ut multa canum virtute sorores, Crediderant, viridis qui fuit, esse senem. DEATH; alas, could none but he Suffice thy greedy Tyranny? Well thou know'st that thousands more Long have run upon thy score; And with all humility, Yield themselves as due a fee. Thy subtle cruelty is spied, Whilst in one a thousand died: Hadst thou ta'en Achilles' Dart, Struck, and then released that smart; Thou hadst done well: Once or twice It was thy sport to let him rise Out of his Bed: Now he strayed Too fare with thee, now he stayed. So Apollo slew his friend Hyacinthe against his mind, Whilst the Quoit that he had thrown, Smote his gentle Play-mate down. Grieve not then for him that's gone, See; Death's sorry for what's done: Let no cries oppress your ears, Dry, O dry distilling tears; What though honour, virtue, grace, Though Nobilty of race, By the fatal Dart doth lie Subject to Mortality? Let it not torment your mind See the Picture's left behind: His Brother, modest, mild, as he, Doth in virtue most agree. Ask not for them both together, This alone may pass for either. Martinus Tynley, Alumnus. Here, though his spotless span-long life be spent, Are silent steps to show where goodness went. Nature did in such rare completeness make him, To show her Art, and so away did take him. For he was only to us wretches lent For a short time, to be our Precedent. Goods we inherit daily, and Possession, O that in goodness were the same succession. For then before his soul to Heaven he breathed, He had to each of us a part bequeathed Of his true wealth: and closing thus his eyes, Would have enriched his Sex with legacies. Sebastian Smith, Alumnus. ANd is he dead? Immortal creature! thou Whom the proud heaven's sport to immantle now! Was Death ambitious? must he seize on thee In th' Alphabet of thy mortality? Did he o'ertake thy life? and wast thou got In ripeness to be man, when thou wast not? A steadfast conscience well might shake to see Virtue at such a pitch, as'twas in thee, Untimely cropped. Thy predecessors lie In marble, not to teach thee Heraldry: Virtue gave thee thy name, and made thee be Unto thine own self, thine own pedigree. When thou didst live, thou well didst purify The dross of sin with pious Alchemy; And in thy time, no Latinist was he, That declined Virtue by the name of Shee. Sorrow and tears now fit a blubbered eye, 'Twas grief, to think that thou shouldst ever die. Eclipse thyself, O thou Diaphanous Light, Let sable darkness canopied in Night, Baptise thee throughly: draw and suck up here Such Sublunary moisture to thy Sphere, That, with a pious prodigy, thy beams May transubstantiate themselves to streams, And bear a part in Sorrow: shouldst thou shine, We should have an Eclipse, although not thine: Until his Constellation appears, And dries the fertile moisture of our tears: 'Tis this we thirst for: thirst still ravish us, We will not grieve to be Hydropique thus. Vitam relinquis, frueris antequam plenâ: An ideò tantum veneras, ut exires? Thomas Browne, Com. HVnc quòd surripuit mortis lex saeva, Deosne Creditis iratos? fuit hoc sapientia, amorque; Numen tam sacrum superi invidere nefandis, Tantus inest animis coelestibus ardor amoris. te mors perdat (numen mortale) rogavit Matris opem, tantum haud potuit devincere sola: En ipsam mortem inualidam, viresque petentem Alterius, mortis non sufficit una potestas. Sed victus tandem es, dudùm statione peractâ, Excepit gaudente polo te regia coelì. Viue illic igitur, subiectaque sydera calca, Dulce onus Atlanti, tam grato pondere presso Inuidisse iwat, luctus haec una voluptas. Non satìs in paruas tibi mors saevire tabernas? Nobilium turres ambitiosa petis? Improba, coniunctosne iwat sèiungere fratres, Quos solùm possis corpore, ment nequis. Te nimìs angustam nostrae sensere querelae, Tu sola in nostram non satis invidiam. Heu quid iam superest? fatis nolentibus ipsis, Nitemur nomen deripuisse rogis: In chartis ipsis accrescet gloria, quodque Dij nollent, ipsi carmina nostra dabunt. Nil opus est tumulo, hunc erexit propria virtus, Illi cuiusuis pectus erit tumulus. Eduardus Cluues, Commensalis. OVtinàm possent imitari carmina luctus Fraternos, feretro ut sint ea digna tuo: Non illo meliùs quisquam lugere, tuòue Quis poterat fato nobiliore frui. Inuidiosa alijs haec gloria mortis, eritque Talis abhinc luctûs ambitiosus honor. Euan. Seys, Commensalis. Is't the reward of virtue to become, The subject of untimely Martyrdom? No sooner can we put on honesty, But grim death darts at our mortality. Did not death lately act this tragic part, In butchering the innocentest heart, That he ere hit? who being truly good, Thought virtue made him nobler than his blood. T' was but the wit of death to kill him now In's infancy, when like a tender bough, He might him this or that way bend at pleasure; Had he prorogued his end, and lent him leisure, To nurse his freeborn virtues, sturdy death Had not with ease sucked out his vital breath. Though young in years he was, yet old in good, To show, that goodness not in old age stood: His age and body told us he was young, His courage, proved him old, and witty tongue. T' was not one combat with our enemy, (Which like grass mows down our mortality) That could subdue his courage, he had two, To show, that more than mortals he could do. When 'twas supposed from us he was departed, He straight revived (and so seemed double hearted) And strongly set on death: but after sent His forward soul to th' heavenly regiment. Yet his Ghost walks, his heir of what was good, His living Sepulchre, by whose hot blood Our tears dry up: in this rejoice we may, That partial death took not them both away. Et moritur virtus? hoc vivida Musa negavit. Hìc iacet ille suis qui vidit saecula cunis, Grandewsque puer: quem sat vixisse Sorores Senserunt, cum vix tentasset vivere; tantis Noster abundavit virtutibus alter Apollo. Sacratos cuius cineres licet haec brevis urna Contineat, vix terra animam, caelive tenerent. Non rabidae mortis tormentum hebetaret amorem, Qui castam effundens animam, sic voce locutus, Vive tuo, frater, nostro quoque tempore vive. Henry Pastilew, Alumnus. Upon the Measles. WHy did our Ancestors in former time, Account it for a grand detected crime, To feed on Swines-flesh? What great work might be The cause of that so strange Antipathy? Can that commanding Miracle you know Amongst the Gadarens, amaze them so? Would that same stiffnecked race, for such a sight, Torture their stomach and their Appetite? 'Twas not the Beast they loathed, her dirty hair Can not pollute her flesh, nor did they care Where she did wallow last, but surely these Abhorred them first for that corrupt disease They still inherit; and this cause alone, May well excuse their superstition. Sure, were thy sickness and disease but known, And how thou diedst of their infection, They would be cursed even now, and wished the fate That those two thousand had; nay men would hate Their very name; And this unhappy news It were enough to make us all turn jews. JOHN STANHOPE Anagrama. NO HOPE IN HAST. Haste spoileth hope whilst after hope he flies, Haste gives the fall, and here on ground he lies. Will. Kitchen, Come. De tempore Comitiorum OXONIENSIUM in quibus mortuus est. FAllax vita hominis, nimisque fallax; Quidni fabula? quae brevis, minuta est, Quae toto tenet, occupatque cursu Actus quinque sed OPTIMIS negatos. Quaenam istud nova crimen execrandum Parcis addita Parca perpetravit? Aut quo? quo properas Amor Parentum Phoebo pulchrior & sorore Phoebi? Eheu! fabula, quae brevis, minuta, Festinata tibi est: tibi merenti Cornìcis vetulae quater senectam; Interrupta tibi est; & in * secundo Actu (non rediturus) exijstì. Hen. Elsing, Armig. Fil. natu max. Commensalis. STanopum primâ rapuit mors atra iuventâ, Delicias vestri (turba novena) chorjs. Si quem fortè mori vetuerunt carmina Musae, Nùnc venam & vires Castalis unda probet. Qui desunt vitae numerentur laudibus anni Sic fiet manes, & sine morte cimis. Dic quibus in terris coelum capit urna? Stanopi Hac quâ parte iacet mersa favilla. sapis. Quid parios lapides & marmora sacra paratis? Quem nemo deflet, Pyramid ista decet, Stillant Heliades, stillant Electra Camaenae, tegat exanimem succina gemma cutem. Sic decuit clarum tumnlo lucere Stanopum Qui vixit nostrae Sydus honosque togae. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Io. Wall, Sa. The. Dr. ex Aed. Ch. Of the transportation of his Corpse from Oxford to Shelford in a Coach. HEre Charon Coachman, gently waft from Thames To Trent, this Body: jog him not; he dreams Now of Eliah's Chariot, and a Pair Of Angels drawing him along the Air, In stead of Horse. Innocence may not feel The justice of a Purgatory wheel. I prithee use him gently: I resign Into ●hy hands a thing, that whilst 'twas mine, Deserved the curtsy, if thou'dst paved the way 〈…〉 boughs or rushes; as the jews, the day 〈…〉 he Passion, did entertain 〈…〉 ●erusalem, for him home again. 〈…〉 n, go before, let us divide 〈…〉 ranks, and I will ride 〈…〉 rd; now or ne'er we go Unto ou● 〈…〉 Pilgrimage of woe: For we do 〈…〉 all: He that shall ask Me who is dea●, do●h put me to a Task I cannot answer well; yet, if we know Effect by Cause, and demonstration show A necessary Consequence; I guess, The King, not's Father, had the loss, no less, (If the Nativity be cast of's breeding) Honour can follow so direct Proceeding. Were I not tongue-tied, or some reference Muzzled my Pen from telling of the sense Of this young Mystery, I could read who Remembered God in's youth, and never knew How to run out in Oxford, nor th' expense Of Sin or Money, ' les 'twere to dispense Unto the Poor. You that dispute the Case Of Man's Salvation, thinking it a grace To use a neat distinction, learn to do Of him, that learned the Theory of you. Hark, the Bells ring, away, peace doleful sound, Let us enjoy our woes, do not confound Still Passions with loud Music: yet ring on, Help to make up solemn Procession, Now is Rogation week. Here Oxford ends: And here Northamptonshire: Leicester extends Itself unto this Bridge, and then we be Riding along in Nottingham: A Tree, Though young, yet withered, did distinguish one; Another was distinguished by a Stone, Fit for an Epitaph. Here I sowed a Tear, Which I will reap again when I come there. Thus every thing's an Enblem that we see, To represent to us our misery. The poor o'th' Parishes accompany Us in our Progress, and as loud do cry Unto, as for the dead: and some in love Drown their Religion, calling God above, (As if the dead their Prayers did avail) To bless the Burden that we go withal. Thus we found pity, though we found no ease; And Travelling will seldom bring release. For Care will be a Horseman. Now I grieved Threescore and ten, to Shelford, and have lived The date of Man in Miles; the surplusage, Like David's, is a trouble, not an Age. I. Hodsdon. FINIS.