THE ULTIMUM VALE, OR, Last Farewell Of THOMAS Earl of Strafford. Written by himself a little before his death.  

(I.)  
FArewell vain world, farewell my fleeting joys,  
Whole best of music's but an Echo's noise,  
And all the lustre of your painted light  
But as dull dreams and phantoms of the night.  
Empty your pleasures too, nor can they last  
Longer than aire-puft bubbles, or a blast.   

(II.)  
Farewell you fading Honours, which do blind,  
By your false mists the sharpest sighted mind,  
And having raised him to his height of cares,  
Tumble him headlong down the slippery stairs.  
How shall I praise or prize your glorious ills,  
Which are but poison put in golden pills.   

(III.)  
Farewell my blustering titles, ne'er come back,  
You've swelled my sails until my mastings crack,  
And made my vessel reel against the rocks  
Of gaping ruin, whole destructive knocks  
Hath helpless left me, sinking, here to lie:  
The cause? I raised my maintop fails too high.   

(IV.)  
Farewell Ambition (since we needs must part)  
Thou great enchantress of man's greater heart:  
Thy guilded titles that do seem so fair,  
Are but like meteors hanging in the air:  
In whose false splendour, falling thence, is found  
No worth, but water-like shed on the ground.   

(V.)  
Farewell the Glory, from which all the rest  
Derive the Sweets for which men style them blessed,  
That from one root in several branches spring,  
I mean, The favour of my gracious King:  
This too, hath led my wandering soul astray,  
Like Ignis Fatuis, from its righter way.   

(VI.)  
Farewell my Friends, I need not bid you go;  
When Fortune flies, you freely will do so.  
Worship the rising, not the setting Sun.  
The House is falling; Vermin quickly run.  
Bees do from off the withered flowers make haste;  
The reason is, Because the'ave lost their taste.   

(VII.)  
Farewell the treasures of my tempting store,  
Which of all Idols, lest I did adore:  
Haste to some idiots Coffer, and he'll be  
Thy slave, as I have master been to thee.  
Heaven knows, of all the suitors that I had,  
I least prized thee, as counting none so bad.   

(VIII.)  
Last; To my Foes farewell: for such I have,  
Who do in multitudes wait for my grave;  
'mongst which I can't believe but some there be  
That hate my vices only, and not me:  
Let them pass o'er my same without a blot,  
And let the Vulgar scratch they know not what.   

(Ix..)  
Let them besmear me by the chattering notes  
(Poor silly hearts) which echo through their throats;  
I'll pass it o'er, and pray (with patience too)  
Father forgive; they know not what they do.  
Yet O: I could have wooed my treacherous Fate  
T'have let me died without the public hate.    

London printed, 1641.