A MONUMENTAL COLUMN, Erected to the living Memory of the ever-glorious HENRY, late Prince of Wales.  Virgil. Ostendent terris hunc tantum fata 
By JOHN WEBSTER.  
LONDON, Printed by N. O. for William Welby, dwelling in Paul's Churchyard at the sign of the Swan▪ 1613.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT CAR VISCOUNT Rochester, Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter, and one of his majesties most Honourable Privy Council.  
MY Right Noble Lord: I present to your voidest leisure of Survey, these few sparks, found out, in our most glorious Prince his ashes: I could not have thought this worthy your view, but that it aims at the preservation of His fame; than which, I know not any thing, (but the sacred lives of both their Majesties, and their sweet Issue) that can be dearer unto you. Were my whole life turned into leisure, and that leisure acccompanied with all the Muses, it were not able to draw a Map large enough of him: for his praise is an high-going sea, that wants both shore and bottom. Neither do I (my Noble Lord) present you with this night-piece, to make his deathbed still float, in those compassionate rivers of your eyes: you have already, (with much lead upon your heart) sounded Both the sorrow Royal, and your Own: O that care should ever attain to so ambitious a Title! Only here (though I dare not say) you shall find him live: (for that assurance were worth many kingdoms,) yet you shall perceive him draw a little breath, such as gives us comfort, His Critical day is past, and the glory of a new life risen, neither subject to Physic. nor Fortune. For my defects in this undertaking, my wish presents itself with that of Marshals. 
O utinam mores animumque effingere possem!  
Pulcrior in terris nulla tabella foret.  Howsoever: your protection is able to give it noble lustre, and bind me by that honour able courtesy to be ever  Your Honours truly devoted servant, JOHN WEBSTER.  

A FUNERAL ELEGY.  
THe greatest of the Kingly Race is gone,  
Yet with so great a reputation,  
Laid in the earth, we cannot say he's dead,  
But as a perfect Diamond set in lead,  
(Scorning our foil) his glories do break forth,  
Worn by his Maker, who best knew his worth:  
Yet to our fleshly eyes, there does belong  
That which we think helps grief, a passionate tongue.  
Me thinks I see men's hearts pant in their lips,  
" We should not grieve at the bright suns Eclipse  
" But that we love his light. So travelers stray  
Wanting both guide, and conduct of the day:  
Nor let us strive to make this sorrow old,  
" For wounds smart most, when that the blood grows cold.  
If Princes think that Ceremony meet  
To have their corpse embalmed to keep them sweet:  
Much more they ought to have their Fame expressed  
In Homer, though it want Darius' Chest  
To adorn which, in her deserved Throne,  
I bring those colours, which Truth calls her own.  
Nor gain, nor praise, by my weak lines are sought,  
" Love that's borne free, cannot be hired nor bought.  
Some great inquisitors in nature say,  
Royal and Generous forms, sweetly display  
Much of the heavenly virtue, as proceeding  
From a pure essence, and elected breeding.  
How ere, truth for him thus much doth importune,  
His form, and virtue, both deserved his fortune:  
For 'tis a question, not decided yet,  
Whether his Mind, or Fortune were more great.  
Me thought I saw him in his right hand wield  
A Caduceus; in th'other Pallas shield:  
His mind quite void of ostentation,  
His high erected thoughts looked down upon  
The smiling valley of his fruitful heart.  
Honour and Courtesy in every part  
Proclaimed him, and grew lovely in each limb,  
He well became those virtues which graced him.  
He spread his bounty with a provident hand;  
And not like those that sow th'ingrateful sand.  
His rewards followed reason, near were placed  
For ostentation, and to make them last,  
He was not like the mad and thriftless Vine,  
That spendeth all her blushes at one time: 
Simile.   
But, like the Orange tree, his fruits he bore;  
Some gathered, he had green▪ and blossoms store.  
We hoped much of him, till death made hope err,  
We stood as in some spacious Theatre  
Musing what would become of him; his flight,  
Reached fuch a noble pitch above our sight.  
Whilst he discretely wise, this rule had won,  
Not to let fame know his intents, till done.  
Men came to his Court as to bright Academies  
Of virtue and of valour, all the eyes  
That feasted at his Princely exercise:  
Thought that by day Mars held his lance, by night  
Minerva bore a torch to give him light.  
As once one Rhodes Pindar reports of old,  
Soldiers expected 'twould have reigned down gold:  
Old husbandmen 1'th Country 'gan to plant  
Laurel in steed of Elm, and made their vaunt  
Their sons and daughters should such Trophies wear  
When as the Prince returned a Conqueror  
From Foreign Nations: 
The Character of Edward the black Prince.  For men thought his star  
Had marked him for a just and glorious war.  
And sure his thoughts were ours, he could not read  
Edward the black Prince's life, but it must breed  
A virtuous emulation to have his name  
So lag behind him both in Time and Fame.  
He that like lightning did his force advance,  
And shook to th' Centre the whole Realm of France▪  
That of warm blood opened so many sluices,  
To gather and bring thence six Flower de Luce's.  
Who ne'er saw fear but in his enemy's flight,  
Who found weak numbers conquer armed with right,  
Who knew his humble shadow spread no more  
After a victory than it did before.  
Who had his breast instated with the choice  
Of virtues, though they made no ambitious noise:  
Whose resolution was so fiery still,  
It seemed he knew better to die then kill:  
And yet drew Fortune, as the Adamant, Steel,  
Seeming t'have fixed a stay upon Her wheel.  
Who jestingly, would say it was his trade  
To fashion deathbeds, and hath often made  
Horror look lovely, when i'th' fields there lay  
Arms and legs, so distracted, one would say  
That the dead bodies had no bodies left:  
He that of working pulse sick France bereft,  
Who knew that battles, not the gaudy show  
Of ceremonies, do on Kings bestow  
Best theatres, t'whom nought so tedious as Court port  
That thought all fauns and ventoys of the Court  
Ridiculous and loathsome to the shade  
Which (in a March) his waving Ensign made.  
Him did He strive to imitate, and was sorry  
He did not live before him, that his glory  
Might have been his example; to these ends,  
Those men that followed him were not by-friends:  
Or letters preferred to him: he made choice  
In action, not in complemental voice.  
And as Marcellus did two Temples rear  
To Honour and to Virtue, placed so near  
They kissed; yet none to Honours got access,  
But they that passed through Virtues: So to express  
His Worthiness, none got his Countenance  
But those whom actual merit did advance.  
Yet, alas! all his goodness lies full low.  
O Greatness! what shall we compare thee to?  
To Giants beasts, or Towers framed out of Snow,  
Or like wax-guilded Tapers, more for show  
Then durance? Thy foundation doth betray  
Thy frailty, being builded on such clay.  
This shows the al-controuling power of Fate,  
That all our Sceptres and our Chairs of State;  
Are but glasse-mettall that wear full of spots,  
And that like new writ Copies, t'avoid blots,  
Dust must be thrown upon us: for in him  
Our comfort sunk and drowned learning to swim.  
And though he died so late, he's no more near  
To us, than they that died three thousand year  
Before him; only memory doth keep  
Their Fame as fresh as his from death or sleep.  
Why should the Stag or Raven live so long?  
And that their age rather should not belong,  
Unto a righteous Prince? whose lengthened years,  
Might assist men's necessities and fears.  
Let beasts live long, and wild, and still in fear,  
The Turtle Dove never outlives nine year.  
" Both life and death have equally expressed  
" Of all, the shortest madness is the best.  
We ought not think that his great triumphs need,  
Our withered taunts, Can our weak praise feed  
His memory, which worthily contemns,  
Marble and Gold and Oriental Gems.  
His merits pass our dull invention,  
And now methinks I see him smile upon  
Our fruitless tears, bids us disperse these showers,  
And says his thoughts are far refined from ours.  
As Rome of her beloved Titus said,  
That from the body the bright soul was fled.  
For his own good and their affliction,  
On such a broken Column we lean on.  
And for ourselves, not him, let us lament,  
Whose happiness is grown our punishment.  
But surely God gave this, as an allay,  
To the blessed union of that nuptial day  
We hoped, for fear of surfeit, thought it meet  
To mitigate, since we swell with what is sweet.  
And for sad tales, suit grief, 'tis not amiss  
To keep us waking, I remember this.  
jupiter one some business once sent down  
Pleasure unto the world, that she might crown  
Mortals with her bright beams, but (her long stay  
Exceeding far the limit of her day.  
Such feasts and gifts were numbered to present her,  
That she forgot heaven and the God that sent her,)  
He calls her thence in thunder, at whose lure,  
She spreads her wings and to return more pure:  
Leaves her eye-seeded robe wherein she's suited,  
Fearing that Mortal breath had it polluted.  
Sorrow that long had lived in banishment,  
Tugged at the oar in Galleys, and had spent  
Both money and herself in Court delays:  
And sadly numbered many of her days,  
By a prison Calendar, though (once she bragged  
She had been in great men's bosoms:) now all raged  
Crawled with a Tortoise pace or somewhat slower,  
Nor found she any that desired to know her:  
Till by good chance, (ill hap for us) she found,  
Where Pleasure laid her garment from the ground:  
She takes it, done's it, and to add a grace,  
To the deformity of her wrinkled face.  
An old Court Lady, out of mere compassion,  
Now paints it o'er or puts it into fashion,  
When strait from Country, City, and from Court,  
Both without wit or number there resort,  
Many to this impostor, all adore  
Her haggish falsehood, Usurers from their store  
Supply her and are cozened, Citizens buy  
Her forged titles, riot and ruin fly,  
Spreading their poison universally.  
Nor are the bosoms of great Statesmen free  
From her intelligence, who let's them see  
Themselves and fortunes in false perspectives,  
Some landed Heirs consort her with there wives,  
Who being a bawd corrupts their all spent oaths  
They have entertained the devil in Pleasure's clothes.  
And since this cursed mask, which to our cost  
Lasts day and night, we have entirely lost  
Pleasure, who from heaven wills us be advised,  
That our false Pleasure is but Care disguised.  
Thus is our hope made frustrate, o sad ruth!  
Death lay in ambush for His glorious Youth.  
And finding him prepared was sternly bend,  
To change his love into fell ravishment.  
O cruel Tyrant, how canst thou repair  
This ruin? though hereafter thou shouldst spare  
All mankind; break thy Dart & Ebon Spade,  
Thou canst not cure, this wound, which thou hast made.  
Now view his deathbed; and from thence let's meet  
In his example our own winding sheet.  
There his humility, setting apart  
All titles did retire into his heart.  
O blessed solitariness that brings,  
The best content, to mean men and to Kings.  
Manna their fates, from heaven the Dove there flies  
With Olive to the Ark (a sacrifice  
Of God's appeasement) Ravens in their beaks  
Bring food from heaven, God's preservation speaks  
Comfort to Daniel in the lions den,  
Where contemplation leads us, happy men  
To see God face to face: and such sweet peace  
Did he enjoy, amongst the various press,  
Of weeping visitants, it seemed he lay  
As Kings at Revels sit; wished the crowd away,  
The tedious sports done, and himself a sleep,  
And in such joy did all his senses steep:  
As great Accountants (troubled much in mind)  
When they hear news of their Quietus signed.  
Never found prayers, since they conversed with death  
A sweeter air to fly in then his breath.  
They left in's eyes nothing but glory shining,  
And though that sickness with her overpining  
Look ghastly, yet in him it did not so,  
He knew the place to which he was to go.  
Had larger titles, more triumphant wreaths,  
To instate him with; and forth his soul he breathes  
Without a sigh; fixing his constant eye,  
Upon his triumph, immortality.  
He was reigned down to us out of heaven, & drew  
Life to the spring, yet like a little dew  
Quickly drawn thence; so many times miscarries  
A Crystal glass whilst that the workman varies,  
The shape i'th' furnace (fixed too much upon  
The curiousness of the proporrion)  
Yet breaks it ere't be finished, and yet then  
Moulds it anew, and blows it up again,  
Exceeds his workmanship and sends it thence,  
To kiss the hand and lip of some great Prince.  
Or like a dial broke in wheel or screw,  
That's ta'en in pieces to be made go true.  
So to eternity he now shall stand,  
New formed and gloried by the All-working hand.  
Slander which hath a large and spacious tongue,  
far bigger than her mouth to publish wrong.  
And yet doth uttered with so illagrace  
Whilst she's a speaking no man sees her face.  
That like dogs lick foul ulcers not to draw  
Infection from them, but to keep them raw.  
Though she oft scrape up earth from good mens graus  
And waste it in the standishes of slaves,  
To throw upon their ink, shall never dare  
To approach his Tomb, be she confined as far  
From his sweet relics as is heaven from hell.  
Not witchcraft shall instruct her how to spell  
That barbarous language which shall sound him ill,  
Fame's lips shall bleed, yet near her trumpet fill  
With breath enough, but not in such sick air,  
As make waste Elegies to his Tomb repair,  
With scraps of commendation more base  
Than are the rags they are writ on, o disgrace:  
To nobler Poesy. This brings to light,  
Not that they can, but that they cannot write,  
Better, they had, near troubled his sweet trance,  
So, silence should have hid their ignorance:  
For he's a reverend subject to be penned  
Only by his sweet Homer and my friend.  
Most savage Nations should his death deplore;  
Wishing he had set his foot upon their shore,  
Only to have made them civil. This black night  
Hath fallen upon's be Nature's oversight:  
Or while the fatal sister sought to twine  
His thread, and keep it even, she drew it so fine,  
It burst. O all composed of excellent parts,  
Young, grave means of the noble Arts,  
Whose beams shall break forth from thy hollow Tomb,  
Stain the time past, and light the time to come.  
O thou that in thy own praise still were't mute,  
Resembling trees, the more they are ta'en with fruit,  
The more they strive to bow and kiss the ground.  
Thou that in quest of man, hast truly found,  
That while men rotten vapours, do pursue,  
They could not be thy friends, and flatterers too:  
That despite all injustice wouldst have proved  
So just a Steward for this Land, and loved  
Right for it own sake: now o woe the while,  
Flet'est dead in tears, like to a moving isle.  
Time was when Churches in the land were thought  
Rich jewel-houses, and this Age hath bought  
That time again, think not I feign, go view  
Henry the seventh's Chapel, and you'll find it true,  
The dust of a rich Diamond's there inshrind  
To buy which thence, would beggar the West-Inde.  
What a dark night-piece of tempestuous weather,  
Have the enraged clouds summoned together,  
As if our loftiest Palaces should grow  
To ruin, since such Highness fell so low.  
And angry Neptune makes his Palace groan,  
That the deaf Rocks may Echo the Lands moan.  
Even senseless things seem to have lost their pride,  
And look like that dead month wherein he died,  
To clear which; soon arise that glorious day,  
Which in her sacred Union shall display  
Infinite blessings that we all may see,  
The like to that of Virgil's golden Tree.  
A branch of which being slipped, there freshly grew  
Another that did boast like form and hew.  
And for these worthless lines, let it be said,  
I hasted, till I had, this tribute paid  
Unto his grave, so let the speed excuse,  
The zealous error of my passionate Muse.  
Yet though his praise here bear so short a wing,  
Thames hath more Swans, that will his praises sing  
In sweeter tunes, bee-pluming his sad Hearse,  
And his three feathers, while men live, or verse.  
And by these signs of love let great men know,  
That sweet and generous favour they bestow  
Upon the Muses, never can be lost:  
For they shall live by them, when all the cost  
Of guilded Monuments shall fall to dust,  
" They grave in metle that sustains no rust.  
" Their wood yields honey and industrious Bees,  
" Kills Spiders, and their webs like Irish Trees.  
" A Poet's pen like a bright Sceptre sways,  
" And keeps in awe dead men's dispraise or praise.  
Thus took He acquittance of all worldly strife,  
" The evening shows the day, and death crowns life.  
My Impresa to your Lordship, a Swan flying to a Laurel for shelter; the Mot.  Amor est mihi causa. 
FINIS.