And must our brows with Cypresse sad be bound?
Because Calista is with glory crownd,
Immortall splendent bayes, that grow upon
Mount Sion high, not earthly Helicon.
In sable darke must we our bodies dight?
Because our Saint is clad in robes of white.
Shall we on earth sob forth our Elegyes?
While she sings Allelujah in the skyes:
Our sorrowes are prepost'rous, and we erre
In offering patheticke songs to her,
Whose vertues rare require a Lyrists quill,
Or rather Panegyrists learned skill.
Homer, and Virgill caroling her praise,
(Had they liv'd now) might well have wonne the bayes,
Although the Iliads, and the Æneids both,
Had nere been borne: these works were built on froth:
For 'tis a question, not resolved yet,
When Ilium was sack'd, or whether it,
Was ruin'd by the Greekes at all; and why
Should Virgill censur'd be for flattery?
'Cause he deriv'd the great Cesarian name,
From Varlets, that surviv'd their Cities flame,
From one that left his friends, and wife engag'd,
When bloody Mars, and fiery Vulcan ragd:
Doubtlesse a pious Knight, and debonaire,
Who brought his wronged Mistris to despaire,
Then fled from her, whom basely he deceiv'd,
Though nobly shee had him, and his reliev'd.
True Vertue is my subject, and that such,
As seldome did ere Woman owne so much.
Honours great example, beauties bright throne,
The Temple of sincere religion,
An altar of unfaigned piety.
The Golden branch of true nobility,
The Palace of the Graces, and the spheare,
Wherein no cloud, nor meteour did appeare,
The Pyramid of love, Truths pretious shrine,
The helpe, and hope of all the sacred nine,
The Treasury of thoughts pure, and sublime,
The Phoebe, and the Phoenix of her time;
All these was shee: yea more then these was shee:
But what shee was, cleare Angels onely see;
For tongue, or penne of Man, cannot expresse
Such bright unlimited existences.
Shee was: shee is declind: she being gone,
The World that had two Sunnes, hath now but one;
And we envelop'd in a night of sorrow,
In darkenesse mourne, despairing of a morrow;
For who can be so rich of hope, t'expect
That Nature can her Parallel erect,
Since shee on her expended hath such store
Of Gifts, that shees become a bankrupt poore?
As when some wealthy Tradesman doth demise,
The summe of all his richest merchandise,
In a faire vessell to the fickle seas,
Hoping to reape a plentifull encrease,
By this adventure; but the Winds conspire
With froward Neptune, to crosse his desire,
And ruine all his hopes, for in one houre
The greedy Ocean doth his goods devoure:
So our rich Argosie (which fraighted was,
Not with Tobacco, Indico, nor glasse,
But with pearles, gemmes, gold, amber, spiceries,
Arabian gummes, and what the treasuries
Of the two Indies could afford) is lost,
Her faire carine's wrack'd on the shelvy coast
Of fraile mortality: The Grave hath wonne
Natures chief jewell, and the World's undone:
The golden chaine of causes is dissolv'd,
And Chaos (that so long hath beene involv'd
In the unseene abysse) attempts to rise,
And make both Orbes, and Elements his prize.
The Worlds soule's fled; the exit of her breath,
Threatens (I feare) an universall death;
For in her fate all vertues did decline,
All beauties were eclipst, and ceast to shine:
But if true honour shall her end survive,
If reall worth shall in her absence thrive,
Posterity shall her example praise,
For such great benefits, numbring those dayes,
Which shee spent here on earth, with pebbles white:
Princes shall trophyes reare, and Poets write,
Striving to make her name last with her blisse,
And raise her fame as high as now shee is.
As the Pantarba, brightest of all gemmes,
Dost darkest nights enlighten with her beames,
And by a hidden sympathy, attract
Adjacent stones, in heapes together packt;
But Nature, least a jewell so renown'd,
Should lose esteeme, by being often found,
Hath in the bowels of the center, hid
This pretious secret, and decreede beside,
That being found it soone againe is lost,
If not preserv'd, with wondrous care, and cost:
So our bright Goddesse, (whose resplendent worth
That in this night of vice, did rayes send forth
Of sanctity divine, drawing all hearts,
To honour, and adore, so high deserts)
Was soone snatch'd hence, yet not through our neglect,
Or want of due obsequious respect;
But rather 'cause Heaven thought the world unfit,
For such a gemme to be a Cabinet.
The Corall growing in the Ocean blew,
Wants hardnesse, and retaines a pallid hue:
There churlish billowes oft the same doe daunt;
But when aire breathes upon this wat'ry plant,
It instantly becomes a crimson stone,
And many pretious properties puts on;
The Artist then it with pure mettall deckes,
For Infant Kings, to weare about their neckes.
So pious soules, that in the Ocean wide,
Of this tumult'ous universe abide,
No firme existence, nor faire lustre have,
Tost to and fro by every adverse wave,
Of sorrowfull disasters, but when Time
Hath them advanc'd above the starres sublime,
Then consorts they become of Angels bright,
Adorn'd with golden crownes, and vestures white.
Thus change of native soyle brings Soules to blisse
A Wiseman much by travell betterd is.
But ye faire eyes, like diamonds richly set,
On a white, rosie, circuled carkanet,
That late sweld up the streames of cristall
Bure,
With your more cristall teares, and rills more pure,
Forbeare to droppe those pearles, lest your sad mone,
Transforme your selves to starres, and us to stone:
(Thrice honoured Lady) you that lately were
The sweet associate, of your Sister deare,
When ye like those auspicious lights did shine,
Which happy calmes to Mariners presigne.
Like Turtles chast, or silver-brested Swannes
Stroking the thinne ayre with their snowy fannes,
Ye late appear'd: but cruell Death (God wot)
With ruthlesse blade, hath cut the Gordian knot
Of your society, Death onely could divide,
Such blessed bonds, a league so strongly ty'd.
Nor can expence of sorrowes finde redresse,
For this sad accident, or make it lesse:
Griefes are no cures for ill's, and do arise
From humane weaknesse, not from reason wise.
When great Darius, of his consort deare
Deprived was, by Atropos severe,
To griefe he renderd up his royall brest,
No solace would he take, nor any rest.
Then grave Democritus inform'd the King,
That he from death, to life his Queene would bring.
If he would grant him, what he should entreat,
For the effecting of a worke so great:
Darius condescends, and bids him aske,
What meanes he thought convenient for this taske:
Names of three Persons onely he requested,
That never had with sorrow beene molested,
For losses of a kinsman, or a friend.
The King then did strict inquisition send,
Through all his Kingdomes, to search out such men:
But when they could be no where found nor seene
He found his errour, and the fatall law
Of unmov'd destinye, and nature saw;
Hence tooke he comfort, and with bounty high;
The Wiseman for his cure did gratifie.
Griefe is a passion, and all passions must
Confined be, unto a measure just,
Lest they like swelling spring-tides overthrow
The bankes of Reason, and the same oreflow:
Like Nilus they are not, who rising high
Presageth plenty and fertility;
Nor must they alway in their chanels runne
Like him, but suffer intermission:
For sorrow that is never spent or done,
Flowes like th' infernall River Acheron:
And they who with perpetuall grones expresse
Their passions, for a freind gone hence in peace,
Like croaking frogs in muddy styxe become,
While the bewail'd enjoyes Elysium.
Jove (on a time) the Goddesses did call
To an assembly, where among them all
He dignities and honours did impart,
Well corresponding with each ones desart:
Too late Dame-Sorrow to this meeting came,
Whom Jove (for tardinesse) did justly blame
For he bestow'd had all his gifts before,
And had for her no honour left in store;
But shee importun'd him, for to conferre
Some favour, or gratuity on her:
He (having nothing else) unto her lent
The teares, and plaints, which are at fun'rals spent:
Now as each Goddesse loves those persons well,
Whose sweete oblations shee is wont to smell,
So if to sorrw we shall often bring
Sad sighes, and mourning, for an offering,
Shee never will forsake us: But if we
Neglect her humble votaries to be,
Withdrawing those sad dueties shee requires,
Like one despised, shee soone from us retires,
If teares concern'd the good of soules deceast,
Or if they could adde ought unto their rest,
I should turne Heraclitus, and lament,
Untill my eyes had all that moisture spent,
Which from the braine they take (this being done)
They should dissolve themselves, and in teares runne,
Expending in an office so divine,
Both humours aqueous, and christalline:
But since that teares (on such occasions shed)
Nor benefit the living, nor the dead,
Let us them for a better end reserve;
They rightly us'd, for pretious balmes may serve:
Nor do I Stoicall paradoxes hold;
For they deliver, that no Wiseman should
Give way to griefes, I rather thinke it fitter,
That none should drinke too deepe of cups so bitter:
But never did excessive sorrowes merit
Such liberty, and freedome to inherit,
As lately, when shee left our horizon,
Whose presence made our age a golden one:
Honour, Griefe, Joy, shall never cease t'expresse
Her Vertue, Death, and present happinesse:
And if that Reason, shall prohibite all
Immod'rate teares, for such a funerall,
The Nights shall mourne in blackes, and Mornes, shall weepe,
Untill Calista wakes, from her last sleepe.
Because Calista is with glory crownd,
Immortall splendent bayes, that grow upon
Mount Sion high, not earthly Helicon.
In sable darke must we our bodies dight?
Because our Saint is clad in robes of white.
Shall we on earth sob forth our Elegyes?
While she sings Allelujah in the skyes:
Our sorrowes are prepost'rous, and we erre
In offering patheticke songs to her,
Whose vertues rare require a Lyrists quill,
Or rather Panegyrists learned skill.
Homer, and Virgill caroling her praise,
(Had they liv'd now) might well have wonne the bayes,
Although the Iliads, and the Æneids both,
Had nere been borne: these works were built on froth:
For 'tis a question, not resolved yet,
When Ilium was sack'd, or whether it,
Was ruin'd by the Greekes at all; and why
Should Virgill censur'd be for flattery?
'Cause he deriv'd the great Cesarian name,
From Varlets, that surviv'd their Cities flame,
From one that left his friends, and wife engag'd,
When bloody Mars, and fiery Vulcan ragd:
Doubtlesse a pious Knight, and debonaire,
Who brought his wronged Mistris to despaire,
Then fled from her, whom basely he deceiv'd,
Though nobly shee had him, and his reliev'd.
True Vertue is my subject, and that such,
As seldome did ere Woman owne so much.
Honours great example, beauties bright throne,
The Temple of sincere religion,
An altar of unfaigned piety.
The Golden branch of true nobility,
The Palace of the Graces, and the spheare,
Wherein no cloud, nor meteour did appeare,
The Pyramid of love, Truths pretious shrine,
The helpe, and hope of all the sacred nine,
The Treasury of thoughts pure, and sublime,
The Phoebe, and the Phoenix of her time;
All these was shee: yea more then these was shee:
But what shee was, cleare Angels onely see;
For tongue, or penne of Man, cannot expresse
Such bright unlimited existences.
Shee was: shee is declind: she being gone,
The World that had two Sunnes, hath now but one;
And we envelop'd in a night of sorrow,
In darkenesse mourne, despairing of a morrow;
For who can be so rich of hope, t'expect
That Nature can her Parallel erect,
Since shee on her expended hath such store
Of Gifts, that shees become a bankrupt poore?
As when some wealthy Tradesman doth demise,
The summe of all his richest merchandise,
In a faire vessell to the fickle seas,
Hoping to reape a plentifull encrease,
By this adventure; but the Winds conspire
With froward Neptune, to crosse his desire,
And ruine all his hopes, for in one houre
The greedy Ocean doth his goods devoure:
So our rich Argosie (which fraighted was,
Not with Tobacco, Indico, nor glasse,
But with pearles, gemmes, gold, amber, spiceries,
Arabian gummes, and what the treasuries
Of the two Indies could afford) is lost,
Her faire carine's wrack'd on the shelvy coast
Of fraile mortality: The Grave hath wonne
Natures chief jewell, and the World's undone:
The golden chaine of causes is dissolv'd,
And Chaos (that so long hath beene involv'd
In the unseene abysse) attempts to rise,
And make both Orbes, and Elements his prize.
The Worlds soule's fled; the exit of her breath,
Threatens (I feare) an universall death;
For in her fate all vertues did decline,
All beauties were eclipst, and ceast to shine:
But if true honour shall her end survive,
If reall worth shall in her absence thrive,
Posterity shall her example praise,
For such great benefits, numbring those dayes,
Which shee spent here on earth, with pebbles white:
Princes shall trophyes reare, and Poets write,
Striving to make her name last with her blisse,
And raise her fame as high as now shee is.
As the Pantarba, brightest of all gemmes,
Dost darkest nights enlighten with her beames,
And by a hidden sympathy, attract
Adjacent stones, in heapes together packt;
But Nature, least a jewell so renown'd,
Should lose esteeme, by being often found,
Hath in the bowels of the center, hid
This pretious secret, and decreede beside,
That being found it soone againe is lost,
If not preserv'd, with wondrous care, and cost:
So our bright Goddesse, (whose resplendent worth
That in this night of vice, did rayes send forth
Of sanctity divine, drawing all hearts,
To honour, and adore, so high deserts)
Was soone snatch'd hence, yet not through our neglect,
Or want of due obsequious respect;
But rather 'cause Heaven thought the world unfit,
For such a gemme to be a Cabinet.
The Corall growing in the Ocean blew,
Wants hardnesse, and retaines a pallid hue:
There churlish billowes oft the same doe daunt;
But when aire breathes upon this wat'ry plant,
It instantly becomes a crimson stone,
And many pretious properties puts on;
The Artist then it with pure mettall deckes,
For Infant Kings, to weare about their neckes.
So pious soules, that in the Ocean wide,
Of this tumult'ous universe abide,
No firme existence, nor faire lustre have,
Tost to and fro by every adverse wave,
Of sorrowfull disasters, but when Time
Hath them advanc'd above the starres sublime,
Then consorts they become of Angels bright,
Adorn'd with golden crownes, and vestures white.
Thus change of native soyle brings Soules to blisse
A Wiseman much by travell betterd is.
But ye faire eyes, like diamonds richly set,
On a white, rosie, circuled carkanet,
That late sweld up the streames of cristall
Bure,
With your more cristall teares, and rills more pure,
Forbeare to droppe those pearles, lest your sad mone,
Transforme your selves to starres, and us to stone:
(Thrice honoured Lady) you that lately were
The sweet associate, of your Sister deare,
When ye like those auspicious lights did shine,
Which happy calmes to Mariners presigne.
Like Turtles chast, or silver-brested Swannes
Stroking the thinne ayre with their snowy fannes,
Ye late appear'd: but cruell Death (God wot)
With ruthlesse blade, hath cut the Gordian knot
Of your society, Death onely could divide,
Such blessed bonds, a league so strongly ty'd.
Nor can expence of sorrowes finde redresse,
For this sad accident, or make it lesse:
Griefes are no cures for ill's, and do arise
From humane weaknesse, not from reason wise.
When great Darius, of his consort deare
Deprived was, by Atropos severe,
To griefe he renderd up his royall brest,
No solace would he take, nor any rest.
Then grave Democritus inform'd the King,
That he from death, to life his Queene would bring.
If he would grant him, what he should entreat,
For the effecting of a worke so great:
Darius condescends, and bids him aske,
What meanes he thought convenient for this taske:
Names of three Persons onely he requested,
That never had with sorrow beene molested,
For losses of a kinsman, or a friend.
The King then did strict inquisition send,
Through all his Kingdomes, to search out such men:
But when they could be no where found nor seene
He found his errour, and the fatall law
Of unmov'd destinye, and nature saw;
Hence tooke he comfort, and with bounty high;
The Wiseman for his cure did gratifie.
Griefe is a passion, and all passions must
Confined be, unto a measure just,
Lest they like swelling spring-tides overthrow
The bankes of Reason, and the same oreflow:
Like Nilus they are not, who rising high
Presageth plenty and fertility;
Nor must they alway in their chanels runne
Like him, but suffer intermission:
For sorrow that is never spent or done,
Flowes like th' infernall River Acheron:
And they who with perpetuall grones expresse
Their passions, for a freind gone hence in peace,
Like croaking frogs in muddy styxe become,
While the bewail'd enjoyes Elysium.
Jove (on a time) the Goddesses did call
To an assembly, where among them all
He dignities and honours did impart,
Well corresponding with each ones desart:
Too late Dame-Sorrow to this meeting came,
Whom Jove (for tardinesse) did justly blame
For he bestow'd had all his gifts before,
And had for her no honour left in store;
But shee importun'd him, for to conferre
Some favour, or gratuity on her:
He (having nothing else) unto her lent
The teares, and plaints, which are at fun'rals spent:
Now as each Goddesse loves those persons well,
Whose sweete oblations shee is wont to smell,
So if to sorrw we shall often bring
Sad sighes, and mourning, for an offering,
Shee never will forsake us: But if we
Neglect her humble votaries to be,
Withdrawing those sad dueties shee requires,
Like one despised, shee soone from us retires,
If teares concern'd the good of soules deceast,
Or if they could adde ought unto their rest,
I should turne Heraclitus, and lament,
Untill my eyes had all that moisture spent,
Which from the braine they take (this being done)
They should dissolve themselves, and in teares runne,
Expending in an office so divine,
Both humours aqueous, and christalline:
But since that teares (on such occasions shed)
Nor benefit the living, nor the dead,
Let us them for a better end reserve;
They rightly us'd, for pretious balmes may serve:
Nor do I Stoicall paradoxes hold;
For they deliver, that no Wiseman should
Give way to griefes, I rather thinke it fitter,
That none should drinke too deepe of cups so bitter:
But never did excessive sorrowes merit
Such liberty, and freedome to inherit,
As lately, when shee left our horizon,
Whose presence made our age a golden one:
Honour, Griefe, Joy, shall never cease t'expresse
Her Vertue, Death, and present happinesse:
And if that Reason, shall prohibite all
Immod'rate teares, for such a funerall,
The Nights shall mourne in blackes, and Mornes, shall weepe,
Untill Calista wakes, from her last sleepe.
