Of life, almost by eight houres faile,
Then when fleep breath'd his drowfie gale.
Thus from the Sun my bottom stears
And my dayes compafs downward bears?
Nor labour I to stemme the tide
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.
'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou like the vann first took'st the field, And gotten haft the victory
In thus adventuring to dy
Before me, whofe more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But heark! my pulse like a foft drum
Beats my approach, tells Thee I come;
And flow howere my marches be,
I fhall at last fit down by Thee.
The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my diffolution
With hope and comfort, Dear (forgive
The crime) I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.
deare Sonne, GERVASE BEAUMont.
AN I, who have for others oft compil'd
The fongs of Death, forget my sweetest child,
Which like a flow'r crusht, with a blast is dead,
And ere full time hangs downe his fmiling head,
Expecting with cleare hope to live anew,
Among the Angels fed with heav'nly dew?
We have this figne of joy, that many dayes,
While on the earth his ftruggling spirit stayes,
The name of Jefus in his mouth contains
His onely food, his fleepe, his eafe from paines.
O may that found be rooted in my mind
Of which in him fuch strong effect I find.
Deare Lord, receive my Sonne, whofe winning love
To me was like a friendship, farre above
The course of nature, or his tender age,
Whofe lookes could all my bitter griefes affwage;
Let his pure foule ordain'd fev'n yeeres to be
In that fraile body, which was part of me,
Remaine my pledge in Heav'n, as sent to shew,
How to this port at ev'ry step I goe.
Bofworth Field, with other
Poems, by Sir John Beaumont,
Lond. 1629. Ed.
The Funerals of the Honourable, my best friend
and Kinfman, GEORGE TALBOT Efq;
GOE ftop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight
To their yet unknowne coaft, goe hinder night
From its approach on day, and force day rife
From the faire Eaft of fome bright beauties eyes:
Elfe vaunt not the proud miracle of verfe.
It hath no powre, for mine from his blacke herfe
Redeemes not Talbot, who could as the breath
Of Winter, coffin'd lyes; filent as Death,
Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eare
To breath into his foft expiring prayer.
For had thy life beene by thy virtues fpun
Out to a length, thou hadft out-liv'd the Sunne
And clof'd the world's great eye: or were not all
Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall
Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be
The conqueror o'er Death, infpir'd by me.
But all we poets glory in is vaine
And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine
One poore houre loft, nor refkew a small flye
By a foole's finger deftinate to dye.
Live then in thy true life (great foule) for fet
At liberty by Death thou oweft no debt
T'exacting Nature: live, freed from the sport
Of time and fortune in yond' ftarry court
A glorious potentate, while we below
But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.
We follow campes, and to our hopes propose
Th' infulting victor; not remembring thofe
Difmemberd trunkes who gave him victory
By a loath'd fate: we covetous merchants be
And to our aymes pretend treafure and fway,
Forgetfull of the treafons of the sea,
The fhootings of a wounded confcience
We patiently fuftaine to ferve our fence
With a fhort pleafure; fo we empire gaine
And rule the fate of buifneffe, the fad paine
Of action we contemne, and the affright
Which with pale vifions ftill attends our night.
Our joyes falle apparitions, but our feares
Are certain prophecies, and till our eares
Reach that celestiall mufique, which thine now
So cheerefully receive, we must allow
No comfort to our griefes: from which to be
Exempted, is in death to follow thee.
Caftara. 1640. Lond. Ed. by W. Habington.
On two Children dying of one disease, and buried in one grave.
BROUGHT forth in forrow, and bred up in care,
Two tender Children here entombed are:
One place, one Sire, one Womb their being gave,
They had one mortal Sickness, and one grave,
And though they cannot number many years
In their account, yet with their Parents tears
This comfort mingles; though their dayes were few
They scarcely finne, but never forrow knew :
So that they well might boast, they carry'd hence
What riper ages lofe, their innocence,
You pretty loffes, that revive the fate
Which in your Mother Death did antedate,
O let my high-fwoln grief distill on you
The faddeft drops of a Parentall dew:
You afk no other dower then what my eyes
Lay out on your untimely exequies :
When once I have discharg'd that mournfull skore,
Heav'n hath decreed you ne're shall coft me more,
Since you releafe and quit my borrow'd truft,
By taking this inheritance of duft.
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