For, if such men as he could dye,
What surety of life have thou and I?
How might his dayes end that made weeks? or he
That could make light, here laid in darknesse be?
Yet since his weeks were spent, how could he chuse
But be depriv'd of light, and his trade lose?
Yet dead the Chandler is, and sleeps in peace,
No wonder, long since melted was his greace:
It seems that he did evill, for day-light
He hated, and did rather wish the night:
Yet came his works to light, and were like gold
Prov'd in the fire, but could not tryall hold;
His candle had an end, and deaths black night
Is an extinguisher of all his light.
Farewell stout Iron-side, not all thine Art
Could make a shield against death's envious dart.
Without a fault, no man his life doth passe,
For to his Vice the Smith addicted was.
He oft (as Choler is increast by fire)
Was in a fume, and much inclin'd to ire.
He had so long been us'd to forge, that he
Was with a black-coal markt for forgery:
But he for witnesse needed not to care,
Who but a Black-smith was, though ne'r so fair;
And opportunities he needed not,
That knew to strike then when the ir'n was hot; As the door-Nailes he made, hee's now as dead; He them and death him, hath knockt on the head.
179. On a man drown'd in the Snow.
Within a fleece of silent waters drown'd,
Before my death was known, a grave I found;
The which exil'd my life from her sweet home,
For grief straight froze it self into a tombe.
One element my angry Fate thought meet
To be my death, grave, tomb, and winding sheet;
Phœbus himself, an Epitaph had writ,
But blotting many ere he thought one fit;
He wrote untill my grave, and tomb were gone,
And 'twas an Epitaph that I had none;
For every one that passed by that way,
Without a sculpture read that there I lay.
Here now the second time untomb'd I lye,
And thus much have the best of Destiny:
Corruption, from which onely one was free,
Devour'd my grave, but did not feed on me :
My first grave took me from the race of men,
My last shall give me back to life agen.
180. On Doctor Hacket's wife.
Drop mournfull eyes your pearly trickling tears, Flow streams of sadness down the spangled sphears,
Fall like the tumbling Cataracts of Nile,
Make deaf the world with cryes; let not a smile
Appear, let not an eye be seen to sleep
Nor slumber, onely let them serve to weep
Her dear lamented death, who in her life
Was a Religious, loyall, loving wife,
Of Children tender, to a husband kind,
Th'undoubted symtomes of a vertuous mind :
Which makes her glorious, 'bove the highest pole,
Where Angels sing sweet Requiems to her soule,
She liv'd a none-such, did a none-such dye,
Ne'r none-such here her Corps interred lye.
181. On a beautifull Virgin.
In this Marble buri'd lyes
Beauty may inrich the Skyes,
And adde light to Phabus eyes,
Sweeter then Aurora's aire,
When she paints the Lillies faire,
And gilds Cowslips with her haire.
Chaster then the Virgin spring,
Ere here blossomes she doth bring,
Or cause Philomel to sing.
If such goodnesse live 'mongst men,
Bring me it; I know then
She is come from heaven agen.
But if not, ye standers by
Cherish me, and say that I
Am the next design'd to dy,
182. An ancient Epitaph on Martin Mar-Prelate.
The Welshman is hanged,
Who at our Kirk flanged,
And at her state banged,
And breaded are his Bukes:
And though he be hanged,
Yet he is not wranged,
The Devill has him fanged
In his kruked klukes.
183. Vpon Hodge Pue's Father.
Oh cruell death that stopt the view
Of Thoms Parishioner good man Pue,
Who lived alwaies in good order,
Untill that death stopt his Recorder,
Which was betwixt Easter and Pentecost,
In the year of the great frost :
At New-Market then was the King,
When as the Bells did merrily ring;
The Minister preached the day before
Unto his Highnesse, and no more,
Returning home, said prayers and
Buried the man as I understand.
184. On our prime English Poet Geffery Chaucer, an ancien Epitaph.
My Master Chaucer, with his fresh Comedies
Es dead, alas! chiefe Poet of Brittaine,
That whilome made full piteous Tragedies:
The fault also of Princes did complaine,
As he that was of making Soveraigne;
Whom all this land should of right preferre,
Sith of our Language he was the Load-sterre.
185. On Mr. Edm: Spencer, the famous Poet.
At Delphos shrine, one did a doubt propound, Which by the Oracle must be released, Whether of Poets were the best renown'd, Those that survive, or they that are deceased? The Gods made answer by divine suggestion While Spencer is alive, it is no question.
Well had these words been added to thy herse, What e'r thou spak'st (like Ovid) was a verse.
187. On Michael Drayton buryed in Westminster.
Do pious Marble, let thy Readers know,
What they, and what their children ow
To Draytons sacred name, whose dust
We recommend unto thy trust.
Protect his memory, preserve his story,
And be a lasting Monument of his glory,
And when thy ruines shall disclaime
To be the Treasury of his name:
His name which cannot fade, shall be
An everlasting Monument to thee.
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