THE MUSES MOURNING: OR, FUNERAL SONNETS ON THE DEATH OF JOHN MORAY ESQUIRE  
BY JOHN TAYLOR.    

To the whole and Entire number of the Noble and Ancient name of Morayes; john Taylor dedicates these sad Funeral sonnets.  

Sonnet. 1.  
WHen King Corbredus wore the Scottish Crown  
The romans did the Britain land afflict:  
But Corbred joined confederate with the Pict,  
By whom Queen woada's foes were overthrown.  
The Morayes then, to have their valour known,  
Did first the Roman forces contradict:  
And made them render up their lives so strict,  
That horse and foot, and all were beaten down.  
Lo thus began the Morayes honoured Race,  
Of memorable Ancient worthy fame:  
And since the five and fiftieth year of Grace,  
In Scotland hath survived that noble name.  
To whom alive, and to my dead friends hearse,  
In duty here I consecreate this verse.  He that is ever obliged to your noble name: JOHN TAYLOR.  

Sonnet. 2.  
Weep everlastingly you Nymphs divine,  
Your very Quintessence is waste and spent:  
Sigh, groan and weep, with woeful languishment,  
Dead is the life that made your Glories shine.  
The heavenly numbers of your Sacred nine▪  
He tuned as an aetherial Instrument,  
So sweet, as if the Gods did all consent  
In him their Consort wholly to combine.  
Weep Muses, everlastingly lament,  
Eclipsed is your Sire Apollo's shrine:  
Grim Death, the life hath from your Champion rend,  
And therefore sigh, groan, weep, lament and pine:  
And let the Laurel rot, consume and wither,  
Dye Muses, and be Tombd with him together.   

Sonnets. 3.  
FRom two strong jails thy corpse, & soul's acquite●  
The one compact of flesh, and blood and bone:  
The other unrelenting senseless stone,  
By God to one, by man to one committed.  
I ever did expect a happy time  
When thou shouldst shake thy bondage from thy ba●●●  
I ever hoped that thy unwilling crime  
Would be forgot, and thou securde from wrack.  
For this I wished, and prayed both day and night:  
I only aimed to have thy body freed,  
But Heaven, (beyond my Reason) had decreed,  
Soul, body, both at once to free thee quite.  
Thou in thy life hast passed a world of trouble,  
But Death from double jails hath freed thee dou●●●   

Sonnet. 4.  
COrruption, Incorruption hath put on,  
Immortal, weak mortality is made:  
Earth's woe, hath gained A happy heavenly throne,  
By death, life dies, by life death's force doth fade▪  
Though death kill life, yet life doth conquer death,  
Death but putts off our Rags of shame and sin:  
When for a moment's an eternal breath,  
Life (passing through the door of death) doth win.  
This thou well knewest (my much beloved friend)  
And therefore thou didst dare death to his worst,  
But he (much busied) could not thee attend,  
Or durst not, till thy cares thy heart had burst.  
And then the slave came stealing like a thief,  
And 'gainst his will, did give thy woes relief.   

Sonnet. 5.  
THou Fortune's football, whom she used to toss,  
From wrong to wrong, from woe to woe again:  
From grief rebounding back to pinching pain,  
As't pleased the blindfold Dame to bless or cross.  
But thou, unmoved with either gain or loss,  
Nor joy, or care, could vex thy constant brain:  
Thou smild'st at all her buffets with disdain,  
And all her favours thou esteem'dst as dross:  
Her and her Favourites thou still didst deem  
Just as they are, not as they seem to be:  
Her Minions all as fools thou didst esteem,  
And that's the cause she would not favour thee:  
Then since such reckoning she of fools doth make:  
Would thou hadst been one, for her favours sake.   

Sonnet. 6.  
'TIs written in the everliving word,  
(the Rule and Square that men should live thereby)  
Afflictions are the tuchstones of the Lord,  
By which he only doth his servants try.  
Then Noble Moray, thou hadst many a tuch,  
And still thy patience good and currant proved,  
Thy manly carriage in thy griefs were such,  
Which made thee (more than much) admired and loved.  
What year, what month, week, day or fading hour  
Wherein some mischief did thee not befall?  
Yet had Afflicton over thee no power  
To conquer thee, but thou didst conquer all,  
Unnumbered times thou wast both touched and tried,  
And in thy maker's fear and favour died.   

Sonnet. 7.  
WE●pe heart, weep eyes, weep my unable pen  
In tears of blood of water, and of Ink:  
With bread of sorrow, and afflictions drink  
I live, for I have lost a man of men.  
Yet heart, eyes, pen, dry up your tears again,  
He is not lost, he's rather newly found:  
Enfranchised from a doleful thievish den,  
And with a rich Immortal Crown is crowned.  
Then heart, eyes, pen, no more with tears be drowned▪  
Weep not for him that doth rejoice for ever:  
Yet this again my comfort doth confound,  
he's lost to me, and I shall find him never.  
Then weep Muse, heart, eyes, pen, lament and weep  
My joys are buried in eternal sleep.   

Sonnet. 8.  
Sleep gentle Spirit in Eternal rest,  
Free from all heart tormenting sorrow sleep:  
Whilst I do vent from my care crazed breast,  
Hart-wondring sighs that there their mansion keep.  
And let my Groans from out that cavern deep,  
With lamentations and cloud cracking thunder  
And let mine eyes an Innundation weep,  
Let sighs, groans, tears, make all the world to wonder  
I mean my little Microcosmo world,  
sigh storms, groan thunder, weep a flood of tears:  
Through every part of me, let grief be hurled.  
That whosoever my lamenting hears:  
May moan (with me) the cause of this my Ditty,  
Or if not moan with me, vouchsafe to pity.   

Sonnet. 9  
SInce cursed fates have fatally decreed,  
To toss and tumble harmless Innocence:  
And all the crew of Hell's Abhortive breed  
Have glutted envies maw, by laws defence.  
Yet God whose knowledge knows the least offence,  
Who all things sees with his all-searching eye:  
Doth with his glorious great omnipotence,  
Right wronged wrongs, and hears his servants cry.  
His mercy's not immured within the sky,  
But freely he doth power it down on earth:  
He with afflictions scourge his sons doth try,  
And when he pleases turns their moan to mirth.  
And though man lives in care, and dies in sorrow,  
A heavy evening brings a joyful morrow.   

Sonnet 10.  
WEll hast thou Run in this thy weary race,  
Well hast thou fought with Satan hand to hand:  
thoust won the Goal, and gained the blessed Land,  
That's neither limited with time or place.  
There thou attendest on the throne of Grace,  
There Angels, and archangels sweetly sing:  
Eternal praises to th'eternal King.  
And see the Glorious brightness of his face.  
All this (I doubt not) but thou well hast done,  
Not of thyself (with shameful sin polluted)  
But thy Redeemer hath the conquest won,  
And unto thee the victoris Imputed.  
He paid the score, and canceled all thy bands,  
And gave thee to his blessed Father's hands.   

Sonnet 11.  
NOw may you thieving Poets filch and steal,  
Without controlment breaking Priscian's pate:  
For he that whilom could your theft reveal,  
Your Critic, and your H●ppercritick● late.  
Now may you cog and lie, and swear and prate,  
And make your idle verses lame and halt:  
For by the power of eviternal fate,  
He's gone that could and would correct each fault,  
But you have greatest cause to moan his want,  
You sacred heavenly Sisters (three times thrice)  
He from your Gardens, could all weeds supplant.  
And replant fruits and flowers of peerless price;  
He kept (unbroake) your Numbers, types and Trop●●  
But now he's dead, dead are your only hopes.   

Sonnet. 12.  
AS Solon, to rich hapless Croesus said,  
No man, is happy till his life doth end:  
The proof in thee so plainly is displayed,  
As if he thy Nativity had kend.  
What mortal miseries, could mischief send,  
But thou therein hast had a treble share:  
As if Calamities their powers should bend,  
To make thy Corpse a treasure house of care.  
Yet fell Adversity thou didst outdare,  
And valiantly 'gainst storms of woe resisted;  
Love of the world thy mind could not ensnare,  
Thou knewst wherein the best of best consisted.  
And as old Solon said, so I agree,  
Death makes men happy, as it hath done thee.   

Sonnet. 13.  
NO Monumental Trophy, virtue needs,  
And good Report a marble Tomb outweares:  
Fame plays the Harrold and proclaims men's deeds,  
Her● Trump's shrill sound the spacious world hears.  
And such a universal Tomb hast thou,  
Borne on the tops of thousand thousand tong●:  
Thy living merit doth thy name allow,  
A Monument for ever, which belongs  
To none but such as whilom was thyself,  
Who used the world as if they used it not:  
And did acknowledge misbegotten pelf,  
Must (like the getters of it) Rust and rot.  
And such a living Tomb thy Corpse inherit,  
A good Report, according to thy merit.   

Sonnet. 14.  
HAd I the skill of Homer, Maro, Naso,  
Or had I that Admired ornated style:  
Of petrarch, or the brave Italian Tasso  
I could not overmuch thy praise compile.  
But as I am (Alas and woe the while)  
A poor unlearned silly simple swain:  
At whose attempt the world with scorn will smile,  
And flout 〈◊〉 th'unshapen issue of my brain.  
But duty bids me launch into this Main,  
Though my performance be but weak of store,  
Yet worthy minds this goodness doth retain,  
Not to despise the service of the poor.  
I loved him living, and my love to show,  
My least and last poor love I here bestow.