TEARS ON THE DEATH OF MOELIADES. The third Edition. EDINBURGH Printed by Andro Hart. 1614 To the Author. IN Wanes of Woe thy Sighs my Soul do toss, And do burst up the Conduits of my Tears, Whose rankling Wound no smoothing Baume long bears, But freshly bleeds when Ought upbraids my Loss. Then thou so sweetly Sorrow makes to sing, And troubled Passions dost so well accord, That more Delight Thy Anguish doth afford, Than Others joys can Satisfaction bring. What sacred Wits (when ravished) do affect, To force Affections, Metamorphose Minds, Whilst numbrous Power the Soul in secret binds, Thou hast performed, transforming in Effect. For never Plaints did greater Pity move, The best Applause that can such Notes approve. Sr. W. ALEXANDER. TEARS ON THE DEATH of MOELIADES. O Heavens! then is it true that Thou art gone, And left this woeful I'll her Loss to moon, Moeliades, bright day-star of the West, A Comet blazing Terror to the East: And neither that thy Spirit so heavenly wise Nor Body (though of Earth) more pure than Skies, Nor royal Stem, nor thy sweet tender Age, Of cruel Destinies could quench the Rage? O fading Hopes! O short-while-lasting joy, Of Earthborn man, that one Hour can destroy! Then even of virtues Spoils Death Trophies rears, As if he gloried most in many Tears. Forced by hard Fates, do Heavens neglect our Cries? Are Stars set only to act Tragedies? And let them do their Worst since thou art gone, Raise whom they list to Thrones, enthroned dethrone, Stain Princely Bowers with Blood, and even to Ganges, In Cypress sad, glad Hymen's Torches change. Ah thou hast left to live, and in the Time, When scarce thou blossomed in thy pleasant Prime. So falls by Northern Blast a virgin Rose, At half that doth her bashful Bosom close: So a sweet Flourish languishing decays, That late did blush when kissed by Phoebus' Rays. So Phoebus mounting the Meridian's height, Choked by pale Phoebe, faints unto our Sight, Astonished Nature sullen stands to see, The Life of all this All, so changed to be, In gloomy Gowns the Stars about deplore, The Sea with murmuring Mountains beats the Shore, Black Darkness reels o'er all, in thousand Showers The weeping Air, on Earth her sorrow povres, That in a Palsy, quakes to see so soon Her Lover set, and Night burst forth ere Noon. If Heaven (alas) ordained thee young to die, Why was't not where thou mightst thy Valour try? And to the wondering World at least set forth Some little Spark of thy expected Worth? Moeliades, O that by Ister's Streams, 'Mong sounding Trumpets, fiery twinkling Gleams Of warm vermilion Swords, and Cannons Roar, Balls thick as Rain poured by the Caspian Shore, 'Mong broken Spears, 'mong ringing Helms & Shields, Huge heaps of slaughtered Bodies long the Fields, In Turkish blood made red like Mars' Star, Thou ended had thy Life, and Christian War: Or as brave Bourbon thou had made old Rome, Queen of the World, thy Triumph, and thy Tomb. So Heavens fair Face to Th'unborn World which reeds, A Book had been of thy illustrious Deeds. So to their nephews aged Sires had told The high Exploits performed by thee of old; Towns razed, and raised, victorious, vanquished Bands, Fierce Tyrants flying, foiled, killed by thy Hands. And in dear Arras, Virgins fair had wrought The Bays and Trophies to thy Country brought: While some New Homer imping Wings to Fame, Deaf Nilus' dwellers had made hear thy Name. That thou did not attain these Honour's Spheres, Through want of Worth it was not, but of Years. A Youth more brave, pale Troy with trembling Walls Did never so, nor She whose Name appalls Both Titan's golden Bowers, in bloody Fights, Mustering on Mars' Field, such Marse like Knights. The Heavens had brought thee to the highest height, Of Wit and Courage, showing all their Might When they thee framed. Ay me that what is brave On Earth, they as their own so soon should crave. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore, From Thule, to Hydaspes pearly Shore. When Forth thy Nurse, Forth where thou first did pass Thy tender Days (who smiled oft on her Glass, To see thee gaze) Meandring with her Streams, Herd thou had left this Round, from Phoebus' Beams She sought to sly, but forced to return By Neighbour Brooks, She gave herself to mourn: And as She rushed her Cycladeses among. She seemed to plain, that Heaven had done her wrong. With a hoarse plaint, Cleyd down her steeppie rocks, And Tweid through her green Mountains clad with flocks, Did wound the Ocean murmuring thy death, The Ocean that roared about the Earth, And to the Mauritanian Atlas told, Who shrunk through grief, and down his white hairs rolled Huge Streams of tears, which changed were in Floods Wherewith he drowned the neighbour Plains & Woods. The lesser Brooks as they did bubbling go, Did keep a Consort unto public Woe. The Shepherds left their Flocks with downcast Eyes, Sdaining to look up to the angry Skies: Some broke their Pipes, and some in sweet-sad Lays, Made senseless things amazed at thy Praise. His Reed Alexis hang upon a Tree, And with his Tears made Doven great to be. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore From Thule, to Hydaspes pearelie Shore. chaste Maids which haunt fair Aganippe Well, And you in Tempe's sacred Shade who dwell, Let fall your haps, cease Tunes of joy to sing, Dishevelled make all Parnassus ring With Anthems sad, thy Music Phoebus' turn In doleful plaints, whilst joy itself doth mourn. Dead is thy Darling who decored thy Bays, Who oft was wont to cherish thy sweet Lays, And to a Trumpet raise thy amorous Style, That floating Delos envied might this I'll. You Acidalian Archers break your Bows, Your Brandon's quench, with tears blot Beauties Snows, And bid your weeping Mother yet again A second Adon's death, nay Marses plain. His Eyes once were your Darts, nay even his Name, Where ever heard, did every Heart inflame. Tagus did court his Love, with Golden Streams, Rhein with his Towns, fair Seine with all she claims. But ah (poor lovers) Death them did betray, And not suspected made their Hopes his Prey! Tagus bewails his Loss, with Golden Streams, Rhein with his Towns, fair Scine with all She claims. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore, From Thule, to Hydaspes pearly Shore. Eye-pleasing Meads whose painted Plain forth brings, White, golden, azure Flowers, which once were Kings, In mourning Black, their shining Colours Dye, Bow down their Heads, whiles sighing Zephyrs fly. Queen of the Fields, whose Blush, makes blush the Morn Sweet Rose, a Prince's Death in Purple mourn. O hyacinths for ay, your AI keep still, Nay, with more marks of Woe your Leaves now fill. And you O Flower of Helen's tears that's borne, Into these liquid Pearls again you turn. Your green Locks Forests cut, in weeping Mirres, The deadly Cypress, and Inke-dropping Firres, Your Palms and Myrtles change; from Shadows dark Wing'd Siren's wail, and you sad Echoes mark The lamentable Accents of their Moon, And plain that brave Moeliades is gone. Stay sky thy turning Course, and now become A stately Arch, unto the Earth his Tomb: Over which ay the watery Iris keep, And sad electra's Sisters which still weep, Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore, From Thule, to Hydaspes pearly Shore. Dear Ghost forgive these our untimely Tears, By which our loving Mind, though weak appears Our Loss not Thine (when we complain) we weep, For Thee the glistering Walls of Heaven do keep, Beyond the Planets Wheels, 'bove highest Source Of Spheres, that turns the lower in his Course. Where Sun doth never set, nor ugly Night Ever appears in mourning Garments dight: Where Borcas stormy Trumpet doth not sound, Nor Clouds in Lightnings bursting, Minds astounded. From Cares cold Climates far, and hot Desire, Where Time's exiled, and Ages ne'er expire: 'Mong purest Spirits environed with Beams, Thou thinks all things below, t'have been but Dreams; And joys to look down to the azur'd Bars Of Heaven, powdered with Troops of streaming Stars: And in their turning Temples to behold, In silver rob the Moon, the Sun in Gold, Like young Eye-speaking Lovers in a Dance, With Majesty by Turns retire, advance. Thou wonders Earth to see hang like a Ball, Closed in the ghaistly Cloister of this All: And that poor Men should prove so madly fond, To toss themselves for a small Foot of Ground. Nay, that they even dare brave the Powers above, From this base Stage of Change, that cannot move. All worldly Pomp, and Pride thou seest arise Like Smoke that's scattered in the empty Skies. Other Hills and Forests other sumptuous Towers, Amazed thou finds excelling our poor Bowers, Courts void of Flattery, of Malice Minds, Pleasure which lasts, not such as Reason blinds. More sweeter Songs thou hears and Carrolings, Whilst Heavens do dance, and Choir of Angels sings, Then mouldy Minds could feign, even our Annoy (If it approach that Place) is changed in joy.. Rest blessed Spirit, rest saciat with the Sight Of Him whose Beams (though dazzling) do delight, Life of all lives, cause of each other cause, The Sphere and Centre where the Mind doth pause: Narcyssus of himself, himself the Well, Lover, and Beauty that doth all excel. Rest happy Ghost, and wonder in that Glass, Where seen is all that shall he, is, or was, While shall be, is, or was, do pass away, And nothing be, but an Eternal Day. For ever rest, thy Praise Fame may enroll, In golden Annals, while about the Pole, The slow Boötes turns, or Sun doth rise With scarlet Scarf to cheer the mourning Skies. The Virgins to thy Tomb may Garlands bear Of Flowers, and with each Flower let fall a Tear. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphs deplore From Thule to Hydaspes pearly Shore. FINIS. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. crown OF JET, Or PORPHYRY, Or that white Stone PAROS affords alone, Or these in AZURE dye, Which seem to scorn the SKY; Here Memphis Wonders do not set, Nor ARTEMISIA'S huge Frame, That keeps so long her lovers Name: Make no great marble Atlas tremble with Gold To please a Vulgar EYE that doth behold. The Muses, Phoebus, Love, have raised of their tears A Crystal Tomb to Him wherethrough his worth appears. tomb STay Passenger, see where enclosed lies, The Paragon of Princes, fairest Frame, Time, Nature, Place, could show to mortal Eyes In Worth, Wit, Virtue, Miracle to Fame: At lest that Part the Earth of him could claim, This Marble holds (hard like the Destinies) For as to his brave Spirit, and glorious Name, The One the World, the other fills the Skies. Th'immortal Amaranthus, princely Rose, Sad Violet, and that sweet Flower that bears, In SANGVINE SPOTS the Tenor of our Woes, Spread on this Stone, & wash it with thy Tears, Then go and tell from Gades unto Ind, Thou saw where Earth's Perfections were confined. Sonnet. APassing Glance, a Lightning long the Skies That vsh'ring Thunder dies strait to our Sight, A Spark, of Contraries which doth arise, Then's drowned in the huge Depths of Day and Night: Is this Small-small called Life, held in such Price, Of blinded Wights, who ne'er judge Ought aright. Of Parthian Shaft so swift is not the Flight, As Life, that wastes itself, and living dies. Ah, what is human Greatness, Valour N●●● What fading Beauty, Riches, Honour, 〈◊〉 To what doth serve in golden Thrones to sit Thrall Earth's vast pound triumphal Arches raise? That all's a Dre●ne learn in this PRINCES Fell, In whom save Death, Nought mortal was at all. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. To the Reader. THE Name which in these Verses is given PRINCE HENRY, is that which he Himself in the Challenges of his Martial Sports, and Mascarads, was wont to use, MOELIADES Prince of the Isles: which in Anagramme maketh a Word most worthy of such a Knight, as He was a Knight (if Time had suffered his Actions answer the World's expectation) only worthy of such a Word, MILES A DRO.