FUNERAL OBSEQVIES, TO THE Right Honourable THE LADY ELIZABETH HOPTON.  
By EDWARD WHATMAN.   printer's decorative illustration 
Imprinted at London, 1647.   

FUNERAL OBSEQVIES.  

Stolen to the grave? Then let me sigh, and die,  
And sepulchred in mine own Carcase lie;  
But that were Bliss: Calamity keeps state,  
And comes attended by another Fate:  
So the first fatal fall from Paradise,  
Opened the casements of our Grandsires' eyes,  
And turned their blessing to their scourge. To know  
Us wretched, is far worse than to be so.  
A grief unknown is healed. Thus our loss draws  
That pleasing curtain interposed was,  
And makes the world transparent. Now, we spy  
Our joys are languished to deformity;  
All Creatures (the earth's sucklings) seem to be  
But Hieroglyphics of Mortality:  
Houses are graves, where moving Corpses dwell;  
For who can say he lives, that knows she fell?  
But stay, rash pen, this blasphemy recall,  
The vanquished, not the Conquerors do fall.  
Death, which (with falser Optics) doth appear  
Mighty and dreadful, brought no terrors here.  
It kills the bad, but to the good, it is  
The Gate, the Key, and Porter too, to bliss.  
You Nobler Sons of honour, who pretend  
To live linked revolutions without end,  
Your hopes are empty, for I dare aver  
The Path to glory is to study her.   

Pardon great Saint, if thy low Vassals praise,  
Eclipse the splendour of thy burnished raise:  
We know dull solid Bodies have the fate,  
The bright ones lustre to reverberate:  
So the dim superficies of the Moon  
Darts light and virtue by reflection.  
But as a glass when the foil's piecemeal rend,  
And fretted into Marble doth present  
Defective forms, yet all those parts agree  
In (the world's beauty) exact Symmetry:  
So I deformed with sin; yet know my breast,  
(Cause her I honoured) with some goodness blest,  
Render a lame Effigies. For to do't well,  
I should in Virtue be her parallel.  
Red Modesty now checks my Zeal, and says  
The leaner Tribute of imperfect praise,  
Injur's her holy Dust, and bids retract  
Our forward hand from this prophaner act.  
To raise a house shall I deny a stone,  
Because I bring no Rock? do all? or none?  
All have not Hecatombs to sacrifice:  
'Tis worse to be ungrateful, then unwise.  
And though I have not Muse enough to swell,  
My Verse into a great bulked Chronicle,  
I will so paint, that, by the foot we'll guess  
At the proportion of Hercules.   

Her mind was even, knew no Civil Jar,  
But still maintained a brave defensive War,  
Against sly Vice, and by a noble will,  
All quarrelling extremes did reconcile.  
Nor was she peged to Fortune's Wheel: when chance  
Her streams into an Ocean did advance,  
Majestic Pride could ne'er usurp a Throne  
Upon her brow. 'Twas sweetness Garrison.   

Grim sorrow raised no rough frown there. For he  
That saw her manage infelicity,  
Would court its loveliness, and swear that Fate  
Might give a prouder, but no happier state.  
Nor were these paleated shows: No she  
In real deeds outvied Hypocrisy.  
She courted greatness with no studied grace,  
Nor looked o'er wretches with a quarter-face;  
Nor did she ere extenuate a crime,  
'Cause 'twas exalted on the Front of Time.  
But Oh! I feel an earthquake, through my heart,  
Some struggling spirit would a highway part,  
As when the purest water doth aspire  
To Air, by rarefaction 'tis made fire:  
So would my grief twist into rage, and I  
Should write a Satire, and no Elegy;  
Did I not know, Duty binds us to mourn  
Those whom we honoured, not scourge those we scorn.   

But I am yet too narrow, glory runs  
(Like feathered Time) in nimble motions.  
He's but half good, who only doth arrive  
(Worths lazy vacuum) the negative.  
But here all active Virtues meet in one,  
And made a Heavenly Constellation.  
Filled with more lasting and refulgent Stars,  
Then in the Concave of th' eight Orb appears.  
But a weak ray as easily might spy  
The twinkling sparks convened i'th' Galary  
Observe their names and natures, and hope here  
T'Epitomise them on our paper Sphere:  
As I contemplate them. For Virtues were  
Fluid, and Momentany things in her.  
A Midwife to some one each hour became,  
And made inscriptions in the leaves of Fame;  
For they be letters in Gods great book set,  
And are to every one an Alphabet,  
Spanned to a number: Yet cause they admit  
Of transpositions, become infinite.   

Thus goodness writes her Annals. Thus each man  
Is his own Volume and Historian.  
And here were so composed that we might vote  
God's holy finger a third Table wrote,  
And instituted her Example, Law,  
Whence future Ages should a pattern draw,  
To place their lives by. For she, she alone  
Was Quintessenced to a perfection.  
Virtues (those rags of worth) which sometimes flame,  
Then sleep a pause, Agues of Zeal we name;  
But here enchained, in an entireness flowed,  
And were united to the total, good:  
So when the creeping streams join forces, than  
They lose themselves, and are an Ocean.  
So Silver, Gold, and sprightful Mercury,  
(Deified to Omnipotence) deny  
Their ancient cognizance, and only own,  
The mighty title of Elixir stone.  
Nor was (this world of worth) this great soul sent  
Close Prisoner to a mudwalled Tenement:  
No, no, it had a Temple so divine,  
Doomsday (perhaps) may change, but scarce refine.  
Her smiles (more cheerful than the Suns) on earth,  
Did Antedate almost essential mirth.  
But Heaven is denied us here; the blessed we see  
Are most obnoxious to destiny.  
Long since that Mountainous Prophetic stone,  
Hath the four boundless Monarchys o'erthrown;  
Another (no less terrible) 
* Alluding to her disease.  hath slain  
The fist, the last, and greatest too again:  
For she was world, and Paramount alone;  
All Passions bowed to her Dominion.  
This Empire was too mean, she's flown more high,  
And sits enthroned in Gods own Hierarchy,  
And only leaves her holy Dust in pawn,  
That when the world's like her, she'll come again.   

Sleep honoured Ashes in your peaceful bed  
Sleep, sleep, and never be disquieted.  
We'll feast on your Memorial; and Fame  
Shall be the Page, and Usher to your name.  
Where ere it goes winged sighs shall hover stay,  
And liquid pearls shall pave the coral way.  
And since I raise no Tomb, nor crown thy Hearse  
With fasting Pyramids of weeping Verse.  
Like to some Votary I will confine  
Humble Devotions to thy sacred Shrine;  
And if (as Heaven-indited Rolls declare)  
As Victims, grateful thoughts accepted are,  
Pious perfumes each minute shall arise,  
My Heart the Altar, Priest, and Sacrifice.    
FINIS.