The Lamentation of Melpomene, for the death of BELPHAEBE our late Queen.  
With a joy to England for our blessed KING.  
By T. W. Gentleman.   printer's device of William White (1577?-1617) of a chariot drawn by dragons, the driver presumably being Triptolemus or Demeter 
Imprinted at London by W. W. for C. K. at the sign of the Holy Lamb in S. Paul's Churchyard. 1603.   

HE that to please a multitude, his studies would employ,  
A Faggot even as well may bring, to burn bright burning Troy.  
The ancient Poet Persius, most wisely said, I trow:  
Velle fuum cuique est, nec voto vinitur uno.  
So divers is the minds of men; some will have this, some that:  
Some verse, some prose: & some again, would have they know not what  
Therefore I care not who find fault, let who list laugh and scoff:  
Let him that likes it, read the same: he that disliks, look off.   

The Lamentation of MELPOMENE, for the death of BELPHAEBE, our late Queen.  
O In what uncouth place or gloomy Cell,  
Shall sad Melpomenes tragic spirit dwell?  
The cheerful day torments my cheerless heart,  
And every splendent star wounds like a dart.  
If ever Muse had cause to mourn in deed,  
Now fits the time: and now the heart should bleed:  
Now should each member join itself in one,  
And make a symphacie of grief, and moan.  
Let coloured Silks be died to sable black:  
A Mourning habit fits each Mourners back.  
Day change thyself to everlasting Night,  
Sun, Moon, and Stars, forego your glittering light,  
Dissolve you Mountains, and you durate Rocks,  
Lament you Shepherds, and your tender Flocks:  
Let Tears distill in such a bundant wise,  
That like the Ocean billows they may rise.  
Chaos, not Cosmos let the World be cleped,  
Let woe on woe, and care on care be heaped:  
For lo; the Lamp that whilom burnt so clear,  
Is quite extinct, and darkness doth appear.  
A glorious Lamp; a goodly Light it was,  
Which whilst it burned, all other did surpass.  
No place so far remote but day, and night  
It was illuminated with this Light.  
Whilom it was the chiefest light alone  
Of England, France, Ireland, and Calydone.  
Few Lamps like this (yea few) or none at all  
Are worthy of the like memorial.  
The chaste Belphaebe is of life deprived,  
Merrour of Chastity, when she suruiu'de:  
She like a Rose 'mongst many weeds was placed,  
They graced by her, and she by them disgraced.  
Therefore the Fates supposed the earth too base  
To secure one of such immortal race:  
And for a plague to men sent meager Death,  
To take away her sweet Ambrosian breath.  
What heart so hardy? (if it mortal been)  
But will lament the death of such a Queen,  
Which like a Goddess, not an earthly creature,  
Appeared both in haviour, and in feature.  
Prudence, and Constancy possessed her mind;  
A rare memorial for all womenkind:  
No virtuous lore, ne well beseeming graces,  
But lived in her, each in their several places.  
The Fates had chosen her Earth's Sovereign,  
And by the Fates, Earth hath her lost again.  
After long darkness on the earth, came light,  
And now again ensues eternal night:  
Diana's sister Lady of the day,  
From earth to heaven hath ta'en herspeedy way;  
Second to none in Wisdom sure was she,  
The Queen she was of true feminity.  
Well could I wish if Destinies thought good,  
Her habitation on Parnassus stood:  
And that from Ioues great Court she were accited,  
And with my sisters in pure zeal united.  
Never till now did grief my heart surpresse,  
And now 'tis cloyed with too much heaviness:  
I must resign my place: I cannot choose,  
And bear no more the name of Tragic Muse;  
For I am Metamorphised with grief;  
Grief without end, and endless to relief.  
If Heaven, or Hell, do harbour any soul  
Whose heart is made of such a senseless mole,  
That Death and Hell; that God, or cruel Fate,  
Cannot with true compassion animate,  
Let him possess my place upon the Hill:  
For I'll resign it with a right goodwill.  
I'll traverse through the world in Pilgrimage,  
And undertake Belphaebes Patronage;  
I'll massecar myself, lament, and moan,  
Whilst there remains no day to tell but one,  
In the remotest place from any wight,  
Where neither Sun nor Moon do lend their light:  
There will I make a close-light shadowing Cell,  
And till Time's date be out, I there will dwell,  
Dreaming on horrors, ghastly sights, and fears:  
Sad thoughts and I will live espoused Spheres.  
I'll teach the Screech-owl, and the hissing Snake,  
To bear a burden to the moan I make:  
I'll learn the Syluaine Birds to hand their wings,  
When once my melancholy Organt singes  
Sad Canticles, of her immortal praise,  
Who living, blessed the world with golden days.  
Both Peace and justice flourished in her age:  
Such was her foresight, such her counsel sage,  
If Virtue, Learning, Manners, Beauty, Wit,  
Immortal fame to mortal creatures gitte.  
Thrice happy she, for these in her remained,  
As in her course of life was well explainde:  
Morata should her surname be by right,  
For she with manners was most richly dight.  
Her body was a Temple, where did reign  
The true types of a virtuous Sovereign.  
She utterly detested Roman Laws,  
The Popish Relics, and the old priests Saws:  
The Truth she honoured with untaunted mind,  
And with truths girdle did her Loins combined.  
Worthy she was to live Sibylla's days,  
Her worth did equalize Sibylla's praise.  
Had the three Sisters which the life doth guide,  
Not man's felicity so much enui'de:  
Yea, and against the God's appointment toe,  
Attempt the thing they wished them not to do:  
Lo, such pre-eminence hath Destinies,  
To do what so they list (though jove denies.)  
See how the labouring Ant gins to droop,  
See how the lofty headed Stag doth stoop,  
The Grass doth whither and the Fields wax bare,  
The Birds leave singing, and Detest the air  
And to the rocky clystes with speed do fly,  
And fraught with anguish do despair, and die.  
Salt tears distill from all good subjects faces,  
Which on their cheeks make goodly milk-white traces  
Sables is common, and in estimation:  
He that wants Sables is not in the fashion.  
Why these are sights well fitting my sad spirit:  
Now shall my heart his long wished ease inherit,  
When every creature doth conjoin in one,  
Belphaebes parture from the world to moon.  
She is departed, dead, and gone long since,  
And hath in Heaven a place of recidence:  
From Earth she came, and thither's gone again;  
In Heaven she is, and there shall still remain.  
O Virgin chaste, O Phoenix of thy kind,  
Which being gone, leaves not thy like behind.  
O Lamp of light, O Star celestial,  
Thy matchless beauty was Angelical,  
With thee did die the worlds felicity:  
With thee decayed all antic dignity.  
She is captived in an endless Chain,  
No hope of future comfort doth remain.  
In her lay all men's hope and love: she dead,  
All hope and favour is for ever fled:  
She was men's joy, in her they only joyed,  
By her departure, they are much anoy'd:  
Thus hope, and favour, joy, (yea every bliss)  
Since her miscarriage, ever fair'd amiss.  
Let men and women break their hearts with groans,  
Let Babes and Children spend the time in moans:  
Let sorrows sops mixed with a bitter gall,  
Suffice the hunger of both great and small.  
Let tears distill, and strain their tender parts,  
Let grief be Nectar to rejoice their hearts.  
No man survive that hath no tears to spend,  
He that doth weep until his tears have end,  
Unto the lowest earth let him take way,  
And borrow tears of woeful Hecuba:  
Which many Pools hath caused to flow with tears,  
Since her last date of twice three hundred years.  
Awake you Fiends, whose nature is to sleep:  
Awake I say, and strain yourselves to weep:  
Somnus arise, death's messenger awake,  
And to some mournful task yourselves betake,  
The time commands, and time must be respected:  
Time cannot be recalled that is neglected.  
You that have all this while slept in a trance,  
Enwrapped in a cloud of ignorance,  
Haply may think that causeless I lament,  
And every tear I shed is vainly spent:  
But know the cause: Eearthes' sovereign Queen is dead.  
Dead sure she is, embalmed, and wrapped in Lead:  
For this cause sorrow, and lament with me;  
Fellow you after, I'll chief mourner be:  
My heart's condolement shall excel you all,  
For it is made of liver, more than Gall.  
Why, now you are compassionate I see,  
I weep before, you after second me,  
And now you sight, your colours come and go:  
A certain figure of your inward woe.  
Now poaste again to Pluto's regiment,  
Unfold to him this sudden accident,  
Go Messenger of death, and Somnus Go,  
Be you the messengers of pale faced woe:  
Let tears hereafter be your choicest drink,  
With tears fill all your Rivers to the brink.  
Let Heaven and Hell for ever mourn I say,  
Night be there ever, never be there day.  
Continue thus until the Fates relent,  
And she from whence she came alive be sent.  
Mount winged Fame, and furrow through the air,  
Make Heaven resound with echoes of despair:  
Proclaim sad tidings of this luckless chance,  
And with thy Trump awake dull ignorance.  
Sound loud, for he is deaf, and nothing knows,  
He never grieves nor pines at any's woes,  
He sets, and neither stirs, nor speaks whole days.  
He answers none, nor minds what any says.  
Not far from Lethe this aged Sire doth dwell,  
This Lethe a spacious River is in Hell,  
Whose nature is to dull the Memory  
Of those that drink thereof; or dwelleth buy.  
Fame spread thy wings in Heaven, in Earth, in Hell,  
To every mister wit, her downfall tell.  
Come Sorrow come, and help me to lament,  
My fainting spirits now are almost spent:  
My speech gins to fail, my limbs wax faint,  
Ere I ascend the top of my complaint.  
Then here I'll stay, in this dark vale I'll rest,  
And in dum shows my grief shall be expressed.  
Die heart with sorrow and eternal pain,  
Unless Belphaebe do revive again.  
Now whilst Melpomene lay in a sound,  
Dewing with tears melancholy ground,  
His absence was deplored on Parnass hill,  
Tears did from every Muse's eyes distill.  
Some in a fury rend their golden locks,  
Some hanged the head, some stamped, the breast sun knocks,  
Some inly sigh, and others wrong their hands,  
To show their state wherein their sorrow stands,  
At length in secret Synod they decreed,  
To send Terpsichore abroad with speed,  
To search remote, and melancholy nooks:  
Which his sad humour with contentment brooks,  
Much ground he traversed over hill, and daile:  
'twas long ear aught his travail did avail.  
Still as he went, upon his Harp he played,  
By which Melpomene was much dismayed,  
When as the sound did to his hearing fly,  
For grieved minds do Music quite defy.  
At last directed by the powers Divine,  
He saw whereas the wandering Muse did pine:  
Goodly he louted, and soon him bespoke,  
That to Parnassus he would journey make.  
To take possession of his long void place,  
And live amongst the rest of heavenly race.  
Melpomene to him made no reply,  
But like a senseless stone upon the ground did lie,  
Terpsichore with speed flew back again,  
And told the Muses of their brother's pain,  
Which he left speechless on the frigorous ground,  
Either quite dead, or in a deadly sound.  
With that the Muses much amazed flies  
Unto the dwelling of the Destinies,  
To know their brother's sudden cause of grief,  
And whether they would send his woes relief.  
The Fates recomforted their grieved hearts,  
And bade them never dread Death's sharp point darts:  
Told them at large, the cause of his lament,  
And how to give his grief a sudden vent:  
Soon they took leave, and to the place did fly,  
Where the sad Muse lay wrapped in misery:  
They rubd his temples, lifted up his head,  
In his pale face, pale death was figured,  
At length some sparks of life in him appeared,  
Which all their late dead hearts reviv'd and cheered.  
With cheerful words they cheered him, and him prayed  
No more to grieve, no more to be dismayed.  
The Fates (quoth they) in private so decreed,  
That she for whom thou weep'st, by death should bleed,  
And they which by deaths cruel hand are slain,  
Nor sigthes, norsingulfes can reduce again:  
And know, the Fates have seated in her place,  
Though not a Woman, yet of heavenly race,  
A goodly KING, to be earths Sovereign:  
Which justice, Peace, and Virtue, will maintain.  
Then joy a new, recall thy wont rest:  
The Fates were kind, that thee from death hath blest.  
These words, his woe did somewhat mitigate,  
And he assumed again his former state:  
With wings of joy they furrowed through the sky,  
And soon arrived at Parnassus hie:  
Where now each Muse enjoys his hearts content,  
Spending the time in wanton merriment:  
Thanks be to those auspicious powers above,  
That hath established this concordant love.  
FINIS.  Mors septra ligonibus equat.