SIR THOMAS WROTH HIS SAD ENCOMION, Upon his Dearest Consort, Dame MARGARET WROTH. Who died of a Fever at Petherton Park, in the County of Somerset, about Midnight of the 14. day of October, 1635. And was Buried in the Parish Church of St. STEPHEN, in Coleman Street, London, the 11. of November, next ensuing.  
Sequitur post gaudia, luctus,  
LONDON, Printed for HENRY SEILE, 1635.   

A SAD ENCOMION.  

CAn any Sorrow be like Mine, whose Loss  
Is more than Tongue may tell, or Heart conceive?  
Am I pick● out, to bear this heavy Cross,  
And in obedience, what is dearest, leave?  
With bleeding Heart, I must avow that no man  
Did ever lose more virtuous, worthy Woman.   

An Angel's Tongue were fitter than my Pen,  
To blaze abroad Her worth, and Virtues rare:  
She daily walked with God, more than with Men;  
Yet Men and Women often had a Share  
Of Her defused Good, from Mouth and Hand;  
And blessed the House was, where She did command.   


☞  A cheerful Spirit, and a patient both,  
Her sweet-composed Body did possess;  
Neatness She highly prized, and hated Sloth,  
As did Her words and actions all express:  
She had no Warrant, often would She say,  
To spend a Minute idle of a day.   


☞  Gracious Her words, but few; small Wrongs She hid them;  
The greatest Injuries that ere were done Her,  
She did remit, and nourished those who did them;  
So merciful She was, good words soon won Her:  
There's not an Heart that is not foul and rotten,  
Which loved not Her, who ne'er shall be forgotten.   

A MARGARITE She was, a jewel rare,  
Fit for His Cabinet, who now hath ta'en Her,  
The World nor I was worthy for to share  
So RICH a Gem; but Heaven is now the gainer:  
To sum up all, this Woman, this my Wife,  
She was the Honour, Comfort of my Life.   

The Bird that warned PETER of his Fall,  
Nor yet the fatal Bellman of the Night,  
Did ever startle Her, or Her appall,  
So circumspect She walked, and so upright;  

☞  Nor Death nor Sickness took Her unaware,  
For every hour for both She did prepare.   

And when they came, no Lamb that goes to slaughter,  
More meek than She, more willing to submit,  
To such a temper love of Heaven had brought Her,  
That for no other Mansion She was fit:  

☞  Come Father, Come, Come quickly, oft She cried,  
Lord jesus quickly come: He came, She died.   

And so She died, as by Her Soul's migration,  
She lives again, in such a blessed estate,  
That I do wish and long for such mutation.  
Her pains in Sickness, who can explicate?  

☞  Th'almighty's Arrows often did She cry,  
Stick fast within me; oh, I die, I die.   

And so do I, sweet Soul, my dearest Deer,  
Because in life I did no more respect thee;  
And now all hopes are lost to have thee here,  
My great neglect most deeply doth affect me:  
And just it is, because I was no wiser,  
That He should have Her, who much more doth prise Her;   

Yet She did freely par'ne my faults and errors,  
As much as in Her lay; would Heaven do so,  
I should be quit of many hideous terrors,  
Which my neglect of Her may bring me to:  
Worth'est of Women, now too late I see,  
Thou wast too good, and I too bad for thee.   

If Prayers incessant, from a bleeding Heart,  
If Sighs, heart-renting Groans, and floods of Tears,  
If Gold and Silver, or Physicians Art,  
If merciful and helpful women's Cares,  
Had been of force (with loss of my dear Life)  
They had redeemed from Death my dearer Wife.   

But who can ransom or redeem his Brother  
From Death's impartial Stroke? if any,  
My part in this hath been beyond all other;  
For by Her Death, my Loss is more than many:  
But since it is decreed, that all must die,  
All must submit to that, and so must 1   

Yet this, great God of Heaven, is my Request,  
(Because I must without this Comfort live)  
Teach Me to live as She did, who is blessed,  
That I may die as She did: lastly, give  
Thy Servant leave to see Her with his Eyes,  
After this Life; then happy when He dies.   

And that which adds more sorrow to my heart,  
Is my enjoined progression with Her Corpse  
From that same place where Life from Her did part,  
Through Towns and Hamlets, Villages, and Dorps,  
Twice fifty miles and ten; and in those Towns,  
Be made a gazing Mark for Fools and Clowns.   

There, some men's Pity will augment my Sadness,  
And Mendicants, perhaps, will shed a Tear  
For Her, who often gave them Cause of Gladness,  
By scattering Her Money here and there:  
Perhaps, Necessity may force me stay  
In that same Inn where we Both living, lay.   

Oh, here's a Trial! help me, gracious Lord,  
To shoulder up the weight of this Affliction:  
Sad Thoughts will meet me here, at Bed and Board:  
Nor Meat nor Drink, nor Sleep, can be refection:  
A sadder March than this, may no man have;  
No better Wife was ever brought to Grave.   

And now, me thinks, the doleful March I make:  
One calls, Led on; Stay, Stand, another cries;  
And all this while, the Suffering part I take,  
With bleeding Heart and overflowing Eyes:  
Each Pace, a Mile; and every Mile, seems double,  
So tedious all things are to minds in trouble.   

Who? what? whence? and, Prithee Coachman tarry;  
And, Whither go you, Passengers demand?  
Others inquire, what doth the Carriage carry  
A Man, or Woman? Then, anon, we stand  
To breathe our Horses, some thing mend amiss;  
All which, a Trial of my Patience is.   

Yet this not all: The nearer I approach  
Unto the Place desired for my rest,  
Friends unexpected meet the leading Croach,  
And unto it, and me, much Grief expressed:  
But to my Loss, their Tears give no Relief;  
They rend my heart, and aggravate my Grief.   

At last, four Days conclude this sad Progression,  
But not my Sorrow; that, like angry Wounds  
Bleeds fresh again, and swells beyond expression,  
As did Her Love to me, which had no Bounds:  
The House I built, Her living to content,  
Now seems Her Grave, which makes me more lament.   

Inevitable Force constrains it so,  
Till Burial Rites may well prepared be;  
That to her Grave She decently may go,  
With Kindred, Friends, and Neighbours of Degree:  
In this I do but what another must  
Perform for me, when Dust is brought to Dust.   

No sooner noised, that I am come to Town,  
But my Religious well-affected Friends  
Come to Condole, and raise my Heart, cast down,  
With sweet advice: some, write; some, servants sends;  
Persuading, not to give my Grief such scope,  
Nor sorrow, as a Man that's void of hope.   

How easy those in Health, the Sick advice;  
When brought themselves unto the like condition,  
Such Counsel is a Cor'sive: oh, my Eyes!  
Where shall they turn, to find Contents fruition?  
I cannot Sleep, Eat, Drink, Stand, Sat, or Walk,  
But still me thinks I see Her, hear Her talk.   

Discourteous Ladies, who do govern Life; 
Clotho, Lachesis, Atrapos, Ladies of Destiny.   
Can Ladies to a Lady be so cruel?  
Ye might have taken me, and spared my Wife;  
In me there is no Worth, She was a jewel.  
But cease a while, mine Eyes, to wail and weep,  
Till She be laid where She shall ever sleep.   

The Day is come, the doleful Funeral Day,  
When nought appears, but what may Sorrow move;  
Sad Visages, sad Hearts, Tears, Black Array;  
Yet I must sorrow most, who most did Love:  
This, this the saddest Day I ere did see;  
Would it had been (Sweetheart) for me, not Thee.   

Yet thou hast finished thy Work, thy Race,  
And well improved the Talents which were lent thee;  
And to a glorious Life, from this, of Grace  
Thy merciful Creator he hath sent thee:  
Less cause I have thy absence to deplore, 
Non amittitur sed praemittit●●   
Since lost thou art not, only gone before;   

And made free Citizen of Heaven: when I,  
Who have not served my Time completely out,  
Am subject to the World's servility,  
The Flesh, and Satan, with his cursed Rout.  
Hark, pensive heart, the Bell toules, friends are come,  
And I must take the chiefest Mourners room.   

On, on afore, the Temple see is nigh,  
Make haste to bring Her to Her Inn of Rest,  
And ease your shoulders of Mortality,  
Which is Immortal now, and ever blessed:  
Though now thy Sheets not Linen are, but Led,  
High time it is (dear Heart) thou wert in Bed.   

I must inter thee, by thine own Desire,  
Where I will lie by Thee, who lay by Me  
For twenty years and one; and there, my Sire,  
And virtuous Mother, also lodged be  
In that same Bed of Rest; and likewise, there  
The Child, which once thy fruitful Womb did bear.   

Rest then, sweet Woman, in that silent Cell,  
Until the Resurrection bring thee forth:  
Mean while, thy Life, these Lines, & Tongues shall tell,  
Thou wert a Woman of a matchless worth;  
A Pattern to all Ladies, who outlive Thee:  
More would I say, if more praise I could give Thee.    

Consilium amantis.  
O Man, who boasts of Strength or Witty Flashes,  
Or ought beside, thou art but Dust and Ashes;  
And sure thou shalt at Christ's Tribunal give  
A strict account, how thou didst die and live:  
Defer no moment, under vain pretences,  
Amend thy Life, repent of thine Offences.  
FINIS.