UPON THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR PHILIP SIDNEY KNIGHT: LORD GOVERNOR OF FLUSHING. To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death, Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore, And I, that in thy time, and living state, Drawne was thy race aright from princely line, The common mother that all creatures have,) Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine. A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde, That God thee gave, who found it now too deere For this base world, and hath resumde it neere, To sit in skies, and sort with powres divine. Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth; The heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers, nor The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime, [time; Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of truth. Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence, To treat from kings with those more great than kings; Such hope men had to lay the highest things Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call, There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, But past with praise from off this worldly stage. Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought, First thine owne death, and after thy long fame; Tears to the soldiers, the proud Castilians shame, Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught. What hath he lost, that such great grace hath woon? Yoong yeeres for endles yeeres, and hope unsure Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure; Oh! happie race with so great praises run. England doth hold thy lims that bred the same, Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love; Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares, Yoong sighes, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy fall; Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall, That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell, ANOTHER OF THE SAME. SILENCE augmenteth grief, writing encreaseth rage, Stald are my thoughts, which lov'd, and lost, the wonder of our age, [ere now, Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost Enrag'de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how. Hard harted mindes relent, and Rigors teares abound, And Envie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found; [knight; Knowledge her light hath lost, Valor hath slaine her Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the worlds delight. Place pensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride, Time crieth out, my ebbe is come; his life was my spring tide: Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her reports; Ech living wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry sorts. He was (wo worth that word!) to ech well thinking minde A spotlesse friend, a matchles man, whose vertue ever shinde, Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit. He, onely like himselfe, was second unto none, Whose deth (though life) we rue, and wrong, and al in vain do mone; Their losse, not him, waile they, that fill the world with cries; Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies. Now sinke of sorrow I, who live; the more the wrong; Who wishing death, whom deth denies, whose thred is al-to long, Who tied to wretched life, who lookes for no reliefe, Must spend my ever dying daies in never ending griefe. Harts ease and onely I, like parables run on, Whose equall length keep equall bredth, and never meet in one; [cell, Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrowes Shall not run out, though leake they will, for liking him so well. Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking dreames; Farewell sometimes enioyed, ioy; eclipsed are thy beames! Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts, which quietnes brings foorth; And farewell friendships sacred league, uniting minds of woorth. And farewell mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse mindes, [assignes; And all sports, which, for lives restore, varietie Let all, that sweete is, voyde; in me no mirth may dwell, Phillip, the cause of all this woe, my lives content, farewell! Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endles griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes not how to kill, Go, seeke that haples tombe; which if ye hap to finde, Salute the stones, that keep the lims that held so good a minde. H H PROTHALAMION: OR, A SPOUSALL VERSE. IN HONOUR OF THE DOUBLE MARRIAGE OF THE TWO HONORABLE AND VERTUOUS LADIES, THE LADIE ELIZABETH, AND THE 110 So ended she; and all the rest around So forth those ioyous Birdes did passe along And all the foule which in his flood did dwell And their best service lend 115 1 120 From those high towers this noble lord issuing, Above the rost were goodly to bee seene 165 170 175 That like the Twins of Iove they seem'd in sight, Each one did make his Bryde Against their brydale day, which is not long : 179 Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song. Ver. 121. shend] Put to shame, disgrace. TODD. Ver. 174. bauldricke] A girdle or belt. Tonn. AMORETTI, OR SONNETS. TO THE AUTHOR. DARKE is the day, when Phœbus face is shrouded, AH! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine, SONNET I. HAPPY, ye leaves ! when as those lilly hands, SONNET II. UNQUIET thought! whom at the first I bred Which if she graunt, then live, and my love cherish : If not, die soone; and I with thee will perish. SONNET III. THE Soverayne beauty which I doo admyre, So when my toung would speak her praises dew, Yet in my hart I then both speak and write |