An Elegy upon his honoured friend Mr. James Herrewyn, unfortunately slain by a fall from his Horse.  
WHo can Epitomise with Curious Eye,  
Man in his Endless travels? and deny,  
That Pleasing madness mortals doth affect?  
Who grasping shadows, substance do neglect:  
Some, only zealous riches to acquest,  
And of a vast Estate to be possessed,  
Consume in care their Precious, Hastening Days,  
Esteeming wealth and gold sufficient Praise,  
And guerdon of their labours: whilst they merit,  
Not what themselves, but others do inherit:  
Others pursue variety of Pleasures,  
As only summa Bona, chiefest Treasures:  
Yet could the proudest Ep cure ne'er find,  
To satiate in these, his restless mind.  
Not few, (yet something nobler) spend their Time,  
Aspiring Honours slippery mount to climb;  
Vulgar applause affecting, courting glory,  
Ambitious to survive in long lived story:  
Thus they applaud themselves, & dote, whilst they,  
Soon (as their frothy Titles) pass away.  
Were Riches; Pleasures, Honour's Blessed Estate,  
Free from the Laws of all-controuling Fate,  
Or were the Proud Possessors so sublime,  
As'bove the Reach of all devouring Time:  
Can we secure ourselves in the fruition  
Of these sub-lunar goods: were our Condition  
Immutable, or we Immortal: then,  
IT should be the task of my unworthy Pen,  
To write encomiums on the state of man:  
But since 'tis no such matter: oh! who can  
Account them wise, or sound in wits, who deem,  
Ought in this wretched world worth our esteem?  
Can store of Gold, or Silver, bribe the Hand  
Of unrelenting Mors, or Countermand  
His fatal stroke? can Oceans of Pleasure,  
Protract our days? or add aught to the measure  
Of our Prefixed Hour? can Blooming age,  
Or smooth-faced youth, entreat, persuade, engage  
The  sisters to prolong their twine?  
Should Temperance with propitious Nature join  
To save one wight, or sue a full Discharge,  
From passing Lethe's lake in Charon's Barge,  
'Twere vain: too sad an instance here we find,  
Our Herrewyn's gone! in Him they all combined:  
Wealth, virtues, youth, what not? nor can our grief  
Revert his fate, or render us Relief.  
A sad Catastrophe— In nature's Course,  
Scarce Halfway run: yet forced to unhorsed.  
Injurious Fates! eclipse this rising light,  
Before his noon, and far from thoughts of night:  
Thrice Happy He: who died though few of years,  
Fuller of virtues, than His friends of Tears.  James Godschalck.  

An Acrostich upon Mr. James Herewyn, Merchant.  
Into this vale of Tears, this World, We have  
An only Passage: to the silent grave,  
More than ten thousand Paths, and differing Ways.  
Examples too too many, these Worst days  
Shower thick upon us: Some like fruits unripe  
Harsh accidents (as Storms) from hence do gripe:  
Excessive numbers gentler, lingering Pain  
Reduceth (whence at first) to Dust again.  
Even the choice Sports, and Pleasures oft do bring,  
What there we least expect, a deadly Sting:  
It is no Paradox: Lo Here! a Wight doth lie  
Now sleeping: Loved Horses, and by Horse did die.  
James Godschalck.   

Upon the Unfortunate Death of Mr. James Herrewyn Merchant, by a fall from a Horse.  
I could lament thee, Merchant; but to grieve  
Would do thy Friends no good, nor thee relieve  
Out of the snares of death; but yet i'll tell  
The World how hard thy fate did with thee deal:  
A Debt thou didst him owe; 'tis very true;  
But now to call for't, though 'twere always due,  
Seems very hard; fifty years hence I should  
Have thought good payment; I am sure, death could  
Have had a little patience, and have stayed,  
Considering what large sums the sword has paid:  
He might have sent him notice by his thin  
Faced Sergeant, sickness, and have warned him in,  
To put in Bail; but for to Hurry him hence  
A Horseback; and basely throw him thence  
Into a silent Prison; all this done,  
In the non-change-time of his age, is th' sum  
Of Cruelty, and could not be passed by,  
With Patience; but that necessity  
Compels. Well! seeing 'tis so, were all as I,  
we'll call them fools, that fear, or love to die.  
John Sweeting.   

We need no Spur, or mettled Horse,  
Nature alone runs full Carreare,  
Why such preposterous haste Dire Mors?  
Too soon weare flying.  
Too soon I say, 'cause Herwin's gone:  
Th' hadst had some Pity left I'd swear  
If Him thou hadst Repreiv'd alone,  
So soon from Dying.  
But since, alas! thou hast bereft us  
Of him, the Non such of His age,  
Since He alas, alas! hath left us,  
Mors we Defy thee:  
thoust but advanced him in His Way,  
Where now He Rests above thy rage:  
With Him t'associate, though to Day,  
Oh who would fly thee?  
Thy deadly spite can hurt no more,  
Then He the wand'ring Wretch that brings,  
T'a Land of Rest from Travels sore.  
Canst thou deny it?  
We're Pilgrims Here, we claim no right,  
To these Terrestrial fading things:  
we'll follow Herrewyn through thy Night,  
T'a Morn of Quiet.  
I.G.   

To Mr. Herrewyns Friends.  
Why do you look so sad? your friend, you say,  
Is gone to Heaven: had H'gone th' other way,  
Or been sequestered 'twere cause of sorrow;  
Besides to die, may be your case to morrow.  
I. S.