Two elegies, on the late death of our soueraigne Queene Anne With epitaphes. Written by Patrick Hannay Mr. of Arts. Hannay, Patrick, d. 1629? 1619 Approx. 39 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 20 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2007-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A02619 STC 12749 ESTC S103739 99839484 99839484 3910

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Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A02619) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 3910) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 1206:09) Two elegies, on the late death of our soueraigne Queene Anne With epitaphes. Written by Patrick Hannay Mr. of Arts. Hannay, Patrick, d. 1629? [28] p. Printed by Nicholas Okes, London : 1619. In verse. The title page is a white-line woodcut. Signatures: A-D⁴ (-A1, D4). Reproduction of the original in the Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery.

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eng Anne, -- Queen, consort of James I, King of England, 1574-1619 -- Poetry. 2005-10 Assigned for keying and markup 2005-11 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2006-08 Sampled and proofread 2006-08 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2006-09 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion

TWO ELEGIES, On the late death of our Soueraigne Queene Anne.

With Epitapſies. Written by Patrick Hannay M of Arts.

LONDON, Printed by Nicholas Okes 1619.

To the moſt Noble Prince Charles. DIſdaine not Sir, this offering which I make, Although the incenſe ſmoke doth towre ſo black; Northink my fires faint, cauſe they darkly ſhine, Tapers burne dimme, are ſet before a ſhrine. Some better hap to haue their firſt fruite glad, This Common woe maskes mine in mourning ſhade: Ana's ſtrange, You (ſolely left for our reliefe) For ſalue, doe prooue a cor'ſiue to our griefe: Weigh what it is to adde to thoſe oppreſt, Then by Your woe, ours ſhall not be increaſt: I grant nor Sonne, nor Subiect good, can ſmother Griefe, for ſo great, and good, a Queen & Mother. Yet moderate this ſorrow, as you reſeene to vſe in Joy, ſo vſe in griefe a meane, Ore match thy matchleſſe ſelfe, that all may ſee Her courage, worth and loue, doth liue in Thee. Then may this pen, which with teares drawes my •• aint, In gold Thy glorious actions after paint. Your Highneſſe moſt humble ſeruant, Patrick Hannay.
The firſt Elegie. AS doth a Mother, who before her eyes, Her Ages hope, her onely Sonne eſpies, Butcher'd, & bathing ſtill in bloody ſtrands, Rauiſht with ſudden griefe amazed ſtands Nor weepes, nor ſighes, nor lets one teare diſtill, But (with fixt eye) ſtill gazeth on her ill: But when with time her ſmothred griefe forth vents, She waſtes her eyes in teares, her breath in plaints. So we aſtoniſht could not tell our woe; Who doe grieue moſt, leaſt ſigne of griefe doe ſhow. Yet time to thoſe, in time, a time affords, To weepe and waile, and ſhow their woe in wards Time grant vs now this time, leaſt of her praiſe Our of ſpring hearing, and when her ſwift dayes Had run their courſe, they heare none of our plaints, Doe either thinke ſome Poets pen her paints, Or that they are of the ſame ſtones all ſprung, Which backward Pyrrha and Ducalyon flung. So that will ſeeme no fable, but a ſtory, If we doe leaue no witneſſe that we're ſorry, Each ſenſleſſe thing ſhall vs vpbraide to them, And as leſſe ſenſible (then they) condemne. Since in each obiect offerd to the eye, Signes of ſad ſorrow ſettled there we ſee, The Heauens (though grac't with her) for vs are grieued, And weepe in ſhowers for that we are bereaued Of her: in, and for whom the World was bleſt, In whom her kinds perfection did conſiſt. Aquarius ſeemes to haue a ſolemne feaſt, And that each other ſignes his houſhold gueſt. Not one of them now influence downe powres, But what diſtils in liquid weeping ſhowers. The Skies of Clowds now make them mourning weeds, And generall darkneſſe all the world ore ſpreads: What? hath the Sunne for a new Phaeton Abandoned the Heauens, and beamy throne? Is the cauſe theirs? or doth it touch vs nie? (Since with their ſorrow we ſo ſympathie:) No, its becauſe our Cynthia left this ſpheare, The world wears blacke, becauſe ſhe moues not here, Her influence that made it freſhly flouriſh, Leaues it to fade, and will no more it nouriſh. Leaues it? hath left How can it then ſubſiſt? Can that be ſayd to be, vvhich diſpoſeſt Of ſoule, vvants vigor? this Queene was the ſoule, Whoſe faculties worlds frailties did controule; Corrected the ill humors, and mantain'd In it, a wholeſome concord, vvhile ſhe raign'd: But now (ſhe gone) the world ſeemes out of frame, Subord'nate paſsions now as Princes clame Signorie ore the ſoule, vvhich doe torment The whole with anguiſh; make the heart to faint, Whoſe ſad infection generall's ſo ſpred, Griefes Character on euery brow is read. Our eyes ſo drop (vver't not God frees thoſe fears) The world might dread a new deludge of teares. Dread? (thus diſtreſt) we rather ſhould deſire With the worlds diſſolutions to expire Our lateſt woes, 'twere better haue no beeing, Then liue in woe, ſo as we are ſtill dying. Leaue fooliſh paſsion, dares thou thus repine? Gainſt vvhat's enacted by the powers diuine, Humbly ſubmit, yet paſsion were a word, Vſles, a nothing's name, ſpeech ſhould afford No place for it, if it ſhould not now ſhow Its beeing by our grieuings in this woe: Yet the wo's ſhort, which on each ſoule hath ſeaz'd, It and the cauſe can ne're be equaliz'd. I will not blaze her birth, deſcent or State, Her Princely Progenie, her royall mate: They're knowne beſt, and greateſt, yet theſe are But accidentall honours but this ſtarre With propper beames vvas ſo reſplendent here, Others (though bright) yet when ſhe did appeare, Did loſe their luſter: ſhe honour'd her place, Her place not her: ſhe Queene, was Queen's ſole grace. 'Twas ſhe the Antique Poets ſo admird, When vvith prophetique furie they inſpird, Did faine the heauenly powers, they did ſee, (As in a dreame) that ſuch a one ſhould be: And for each ſeuerall grace, ſhe ſhould containe, One Dietie they did for that ordaine, Not one for all, for that too much had beene, To faine her like, vvhoſe like vvas neuer ſeene. Nor is their number equall to her merits, For ſhe a farre off was ſhew'd to thoſe ſpirits, Now had they liu'd her vertues to haue ſeene; The Goddeſſes ſure numberleſſe had beene, But's vvell they did not, for then ſhe ſhould be (Though giltleſſe) yet cauſe of Idolatrie, For they who honoured her ſhade before, Seeing her ſubſtance needs muſt it adore. The Moralliſts did all of her deuine, When they made euery vertue foeminine; And but they knew that ſuch a one ſhould be, Doubtleſſe with them vertue ſhould haue been HE. Peruſe all ſtories are compil'd by Man, Or Poets fictions ſince the world began: You ſhall not finde (true or imaginarie) Like worth in one, vvhoſe all's in nought doth vary. Nay, take the abiects in theſe bookes reuil'd For baſeſt parts, ſo vicious and defil'd, As they ſeeme Natures monſters, made in ſcorne, As foiles, her other faire workes to adorne, (Contrar's oppos'd doe others beſt ſet forth) They ſerue not all, to parralell her worth. They are deceiu'd, vvho ſay the world decayes, And ſtill growes vvorſe and vvorſe, as old with dayes: For then this Age could neuer that haue ſhowne, Which vvas long ſince to Salomon vnknowne, A woman: but had he liued in our times, He might haue found one, ſo deuoid of crimes, That her owne merits (if merits could ſaue) Might iuſtly (as of due) ſaluation craue. I rather thinke the worlds firſt Infancie, Growing more perfect vvith Antiquitie (As young lings doe) traueld till now at height, Big of perfection, brought this birth to light: This ſecond to that Maiden-Mother-Daughter, She onely vvas before, this onely after: For on this Grace and Nature ſpent ſuch ſtore, As after her we need expect none more, And thoſe who read her praiſe when we are gone, Would thinke we but deſcrib'd a worthy one, Not that there was one ſuch, but that ſhe here Left part of her, which and its ſeed ſhall beare Succeſsiue witneſſe, to all doubtfull ages, Of her rare vertues, which in thoſe deare pledges Still liue: they'le ſay our praiſe came ſhort, we dull With ſpeech defectiue, could not to the full Set forth her worth: vvhich ſhe at death did giue, Others may goods not goodneſſe of ſpring leaue. But ſhe bequeth'd her goodnes, for her merit, Obtain'd her iſſue ſhould that wealth inherit, Which we poſſeſſe in them, vvhile they doe preaſe (As vſurers) that ſtock ſtill to encreaſe: Onely ambitious to augment that ſtore, Robbing the world, which either is but poore: Or ſeemes ſo, ſet by them, beggars may boaſt, But they alone haue all that wealth ingroſt: And though that God the vvorlds gold hath refinde, And tooke the try'd, He left this vaine behinde, Pittying the droſſe the luſter ſhould obſcure, Of her bright ſoule, vvhile fleſh did it immure. Yet did He not vvith it of all bereaue vs, But vvith her of-ſpring, happineſſe did leaue vs. For her preferment, why then ſhould we toſſe Our ſoules vvith torment? or grieue that our loſſe Hath Heauen inricht? or 'cauſe we held her deare, Wiſh we her puniſht, to be liuing here? We rather ſhould reioyce ſhe thus did leaue vs, And nought but Heauen alone of her could reaue vs. O! ſince that Cedar fell ſo right at laſt, Which way it ſtanding lean'd, may well be gheſt. And ſince the End doth crowne the actions ſtill, How liued ſhe, vvho dying, dy'd ſo well! For askt, if ſhe did willing hence depart, Sayd, (rapt vvith heauenly ioy) WITH ALL MY HART. Though fleſh be fraile, yet hers ſo voyd of feare, (For death did not in his owne ſhape appeare) Did entertaine ſo kindly its owne foe, (Who came to Court, but vnwares kild her ſo) As ſhe eſteem'd it onely one hard thruſt, At that ſtrait gate by vvhich to life we muſt: Faith, Hope, and Loue poſſeſt her heart and minde, Leauing no place for fearefull thoughs to finde: Troupes of vvhite Angels did her bed impaile, To tend the ſoules flight from the fleſhy gaile, It to conduct vnto that heauenly throne, Which Chriſt prepar'd, vvith glore to crowne her on. O! how my fleſh-clog'd ſoule would ſcale the sky, And leaue that deare companion here to ly: To ſee her entertaind, vvith glory crownd, While troupes of Angels her arriuall ſound To that new kingdome: they all God doe praiſe For her tranſlation, and their voyces raiſe, In ſigne of Ioy, but yet that Ioy comes ſhort Of vvhat they make, for moſt to them reſort, For, for the greater ſinner, Chriſt hath ſayd, That doth repent, the greater ioy is made: Yet that's made vp in glore, for ſhe ſo farre Doth thoſe exceed, as one another ſtarre: What may we thinke vnto her ſoule is ſhone, When from her baſer-part ſuch vertue's flowne; As a ſad reuerent feare their ſenſes pierce, Who ſighing ſee her ſorrow-ſuted-Hearſe: What would they do, if their vaild ſoule could ſpy Her ſitting crownd aboue the ſtarrie skie: Sure they would doe (nay in their hearts they doe) Euen at the thought thereof, with reuerence bow. But leaue to ſpeake, nay, not ſo much as thinke, Leaſt of thoſe Ioyes which nere in heart could ſinke. Lets not enuy'er, but inueigh gainſt our Fate, That we behinde her, are ſtaid here ſo late: And lets not mourne for her, that ſhe's hence, But for our ſelues, that we are kept from thenee Whither ſhe's gone: yet let no teare ore-flow, (Sorrow ſoone ceaſeth that's disburdned ſo) Let them ſtraine inward, if they le needs diſtill, And with their drops thy hearts ſad center fill; And when its full, it can no more containe, Let the caske breake, and drowne thee in that maine.
On the Queene. THe world's a Sea of errors, all muſt paſſe, Where ſhelues and ſands the purling billow blinds: Mens bodies are fraile barks of brittle glaſſe, Which ſtill are toſſ'd with aduerſe tyds and winds: Reaſon's the Pylot that the courſe directs, Which makes the veſſell (as its hieght) holde out, Paſsions are partners, a ſtill-iarring-rout: Succumbing-thoughts are life-inuading leaks. How built her body! ſuch a voyage made; How great her reaſon! which ſo rightly ſwayed; How plyant paſsions! which ſo well obayd; How dantleſſe thoughts, vaine doubts durst nere inuade. Her body, reaſon, paſsions, thoughts did gree, To make her life the Art to ſaile this Sea.
The ſecond Elegie. EAch Countrey now contributes to the Thames, Which a ſupport of euery currant clames, Why doſt thou ſo ſweet Thames? Is not thy ſorrow Sufficient for thy ſelfe, but thou muſt borrow? Or wants thy waters vvorth for ſuch a charge? As to conduct great Annes laſt body'd-barge; Or is it cauſe ſo iuſt and kind thou art, Thou'lt not incroach that, wherein each hath part? Sure thats the cauſe, the loſſe is generall, And that laſt office muſt be helpt by all. Yet wonder not they come not now ſo ſweet, As they doe vſe, when they to ſollace meet: They're not themſelues, they are compounded things, For euery one, his lateſt offring brings And ſends it by theſe brookes, vnto her ſhrine, Whoſe waters with their teares are turned brine: Each ſubiects cheeke ſuch falling drops diſtaine, As if to dew, ighes had diſſolu'd the braine: Which from their eyes ſtill in aboundance powre, Like a moiſt haile, or liquid pearly ſhowre: Which in ſuch haſte, each one another chaſes, Making ſwift torrents in late torrid places, Diſgorging in theſe brookes, making them riſe, So's ſoueraigne Thames almoſt feares a ſurpriſe: Feare not faire Queene, it is not their ambition, But ſwelling ſorrow, that breeds thy ſuſpition: Its ſorrow feedes thoſe currents and thoſe rils, Which thy vaſt channell vvith an Ocean fils, Which eye-bred-humor ſo hath chang'd thy Nature, Thy fiſhes thinke they liue not in thy water: It, or their taſte is alterd, for they thinke, For thy ſweet ſtreames they briny liquor drinke: How vveari'd is thy ſiſter famous Forth, Bringing ſad Scotland's ſorrowes from the North, Who comes not out of dutie, as the reſt Who vnto Thames their carefull courſe adreſt, She comes, her equall, will not yeeld in teares, In ſubiects ſorrow's, nor in countries cares. Great Nephtun's ſelfe doth feare inuaſiue wrong, Seeing her ſtrange waues throw his waters throng, And cauſeth Triton to ſound an alarme, To warne the Sea-Gods in all haſte to arme, who bringing billowes in braue battell-ray, Doe meane Forth's fury vvith their force to ſtay: But vvhen they ſee her thus all vvrapt in woe, And the ſad cauſe of her iuſt ſorrow know; They lay not their defenſiiue armes aſide, But as a guard, her through their gulfes do guide, Striuing vvith all the pleaſures of the Maine, This grieuing-ſtranger-Queene to entertaine, Out throw their boures of cleare tranſparent waues, Chriſtaline-wainſcot, pearle the bottome paues: Her they conduct, and to abate her woe, Their Sea-delights and riches all they ſhow, Which Neptune (now in loue) vvould gladly giue her For loue, yet dares not offer leaſt hee grieue her; Who loues and would not haue his loue vnkind, Muſt wooe a pleaſant humor, vacant minde: This makes him ſtay his ſute, and ſtriue to pleaſe, With all the loue-alurements of the Seas: Yet all doe not ſo much as moue one ſmile, An anxious ſorrow ſoone diſcouer'th guile, Yet he vvill guid & guard, her grieuing ſtreames, Whom at her entry in the vviſhed Thames, He leaues, and vowes in diſcontent to mourne, Till faireſt Forth back to the Sea returne. Her ſiſter her receiues vvith kind imbrace, Their liquid armes claſping, they interlace In loue ſo ſtraight, they cannot be vntwinde, They ſeeme both one, in body and in minde. O happy vnion! labour'd long in vaine, Reſeru'd by God to Iames his ioyfull raigne, And Anne's; O bleſſed couple ſo eſteem'd, By all fore-knowing Ioue, that He them deem'd Worthie each other, and to vveare that Iemme, Bleſt Britaines now vnited-Diademe. He eſteem'd none, vvorthy to wear't before them, But kept it ſtill in ſtore, for to decore them. How did He ſuffer thoſe two kingdomes try All open power, and priuate policie; Yet ſtill increaſed diſcord; others force, Made ſeperation greater, ſu'd diuorce. How did one teare the other, ſpare no toyle, To bath in blood the neighbours fertill ſoile; Wrath, diſcord, malice, enuy, rapiny, ſtrife, Thefts, rapes, and murderous miſchieues were ſo rife, None liu'd ſecure, while each King did protect The others fugitiues, (for his reſpect) Thus looking for no reſt, or end of hate, But with the ruine of the aduerſe State. God, he effects it (that to him alone, We might aſcribe the honour; and being one, We might loue better: Twixt vnited foes, And ſeperated friends, loue and hate growes To greateſt heights:) And for this end doth raiſe, (Vſing the meanes) the honour of his dayes; Great Iames, the ioy preſaging Northrene ſtarre, Whoſe radiant light illuminates ſo farre. As it doth warme with its all-quickning-beames, The frozen-loue betwixt the Tay and Thames; With wonder and delight, drawing all hearts And eyes, to loue and ſee his Princely parts. And (what is ſtrange) who hated moſt before, With admiration, moſt his worth adore, Wiſhing they were his ſubiects: He is King Already of their hearts; the poyſon'd ſting Of rancor is remoou'd, for loue they call him, And with their kingdoms ornaments inſtall him, Great confidence his vertous life muſt bring, Whom ſuch old foes, loue forces make their King. Where vvas ere heard, of emulating foes, (Rooted in hate with others, ouerthrowes Such and ſo long) that did their wrath apeaſe, And yeeld (won but by loue) to right, as theſe. Yet doe they not repent; they finde report Sometime is vvrong'd, and may indeed come ſhort In commendations; yet its rare (as here) For ſhe's a woman, and (by kinde) vvill beare More then ſhe ſhould: but his laſt ſubiects find Themſelues with Saba's Queen of ſelf-ſame mind, That fame (though ſaying by beliefe) had wrong'd Two Kings, not telling halfe to each that long'd; For England heard not, nor could it haue thought, That Scotlands king ſuch wonders could haue wrought Long may he liue, and die vvell, full of yeares, And vvhen his death ſhall draw vs dry vvith teares, On Brittaines Throne may his ſeed euer raigne, Till Chriſt doe come (to iudge the vvorld) againe. Who vvould haue thought from the Scot-hated-Dane, Whom vanquiſh'd England ſo much did diſdaine, (Oppreſt with baſe ſucceſion) they did turne, (Being freed) Lord-dane to lurdane for a ſcorne; Who would haue thought (I ſay) frō Dane ſhould ſpring One, vvho from Scots and Engliſh eyes ſhould vvring Such hearty teares; muſt not her worth be much, Since we doe find its-loue-effects proue ſuch, Hovv great that worth (in ſuch, ſuch loue could breed) O let it liue for euer in her ſeed: And let that loue in our hearts neuer die, But euer liue to her Peſteritie: And thoſe ſweet ſtreames her mate and ſhe conbinde In loue, O let their armes be nere vntwinde From kind imbraces, and though now their greetings Be not ſo ioyfull as at other meetings, Yet is their loue all one, they take one part, The one ioyes not, the other ſad at heart: They ſurfeit now in ſorrow, then in pleaſure, Ioy then exceeds, griefe now is aboue meaſure. To honour Charles (our hope) vvhen they met laſt, How did they rob each meadow as they paſt, Of ſweets, each banke a poſie did beſtovv, Of faireſt flowers, that on his brim did grovv: Theſe & ſuch like, they brought from euery part, And gratulations from each ſubiects heart: They ſwell'd vvith pride, riſing in loftly vvaues, And all the neighbour bordring banks out-braues Their fiſhes frolick'd, ſhowing ioy by gesture, The waters (vvantonizing) vvoo'd their Maiſter; So faſt their billowes 'bout his bleſt barge throng'd, They hurt themſelues oft, oft their fellowes vvrong'd: Each vvould be firſt, on others backs ſome ride, Some vnder others ſlippry ſhoulders ſlide, Though beat with oares, yet vvill they not turne backe, For they their humble proſtrate homage make, The Sun then guilt each gliſtring-glaſsie-coat, Thoſe Marin-maſquers wore, danſ'd bout his boat, Who by the muſicke meaſur'd not their paces, Deaf'd vvith a confus'd cry from diuerſe places, Of maidens, matrons, aged men, and boyes, Which from each quarter made a confus'd noyſe, Of hearty Aue's, vvelcomming their Prince, Eccho (vvith anſwering tyrd) was mute ſtill ſince, The Citie with the ſuburbs did appeare, Like a large Theater vvhen he came neare: Each window, wall, each turret top and ſteeple, Was fild with euery age, ſex, ſort of people: So as ſome thought (vvho earſt had neuer ſeene Such numbers) that the buildings all had beene, Of Imagry contriu'd, by cunning Art: For on the ground, the Brewer in his cart, The Sculler, Carman, and the baſer ſort, Seem'd ſtrong and rudely caru'd clownes, to ſupport The ſtately frame: Maides, Prentiſes and groomes, Made ſhop-dore, window, ſtale, and lower roomes: The batlements, houſe-couerings and the leads, As tyles or ſlates, young boyes & girles ore-ſpreads: (The middle roomes all round about the Thames, Which Ladies held, and choiſer Citie-Dames) Such tooke for ſpaces, vvhich faire ſtatues held, Where Caruer and the Painter both exceld; So pure complexions theſe ſeem'd made by Art, As Nature neuer did the like impart To louely youth, The large, low, open breaſt, Full, white, round, ſwelling, azure-vain'd, increaſt The error, for they thought none liuing vvould Lay out ſuch parts, for all eyes to behold: So curious were the colours which vvere ſhowne, As Nature hardly could from Art be knowne: So that they could adiudge them due to neither: But participles, taking part of either, Yet all by voyce and geſture ſeemed glad, Wonder it was to ſee a thing looke ſad. Now its not ſo, the offrings are but teares, The ſighes, and groanes, of Brittaines bleſt-reft ſheres Are now the acclamations; theſe two ſtreames, Compounded waters of mixt ſorrow ſeemes, Yet walke, they hand in hand with equall pace, T'wards that late pleaſant, but now penſiue place Where ſorrow ſutedin a ſable weed, Doth vvith a mourning vaile each heart ore-ſpread, And Phoebus for to make the world and minde, To vveare one liuery, all his beames confinde, Dimming each eye in darkneſſe of the night, Either aſham'd to mourne in open ſight, Or loth to alter with his brighter ſtreames, Our late obſcured Cyntia's leſſer gleames; For her fled ſoule vvhich doth with glory ſhine, Left with its lodging ſomething thats diuine, Which vvith reflection ſmileth on theſe rayes, Which her bright ſoule now frō the skies diſpleas. And theſe light orbes which vvith ſuch ſwiftnes roule About the Heauens, acquainted vvith her ſoule, To light her corps, doe ſet in euery porch Of the damantine Heauen, a ſtarry torch, Which darkned with the weeping Earths moiſt vapours, Are her laſt lampes and neuer dying tapers, Thames trembles, Forth doth feueriſe for feare, Both roare to ſee their ſoueraigne thus appeare Their billowes breake their hearts againſt the ſhore, Their fiſhes faint (yet cannot tell wherefore) But vvhen they float vpon the water crop, And ſee the teares from eyes and oars which drop; They thinke them all to few, and adde their owne, And ſwimme in proper waters (earſt vnknowne) The water-Nymphes now round about her boat, Cloath'd in ſad ſable mourning habits float, The Hamadryads, and the Siluans all, To beare apart in this complaint they call. Who ſince her death, had practis'd in their teares, Streames deep enough: none now the water fears, They brought with them ſweet Camomile and Rew, Mint, Spicknard, Marioram, her way they ſtrew, With flowers of choiceſt colour and of ſent, Which from the ſlender-weeping-ſtalk was rent. Her Exequies theſe Nymphes together ſing, Till vvith this conſort Heauen & Earth doth ring: Heauens in uying our waters, walkes, and woods, Hath reft our ioy, and plac'd her 'mongſt the Gods. No more our wandring waues ſhall wantonize, No more ſhall ſwelling billowes braue the skies, No more ſhall purling Zephyr curle our head No more we'l foamy-powders thereon ſpread, No more ſhall now Meandrian walkes delight vs, No more deſpaire vvith death ſhall now affright vs, Since heauen inuying our late happie floods, Hath reft our ioy, and plac'd 'mongſt the Gods. Wee'l take no ſport now to perſue the Fawne, Wee'l no more tread light meaſures on the Lawne, Wee'l deck our heads no more with Flora's flowres, Wee'l vvooe no more our vvooddy Paramours, Wee'l beare no part hereafter vvith the birds, Wee'l vveep for woe, and teach them vvaile in vvords; Since heauen enuying our late happy woods, Hath reft our ioy, and plac'd her 'mongſt the Gods. Wee'l hide our heads within our ſhores & ſhelues. Wee'l dwell in darkeſt cipreſſe groues with elues. No more wee'l ſollace in great Nephtunes hals. No more wee'l dance at Syluanes feſtiuals. Becauſe ſhe's gone, whoſe glory grac'd our floods, Becauſe ſhe's gone who honour'd walkes and woods. Thus ſung they her along, but come to ſhore, Where ſhe muſt leaue them, they nere ſee her more, They ſinke to bottome, either in a ſwone, Or elſe themſelues (now loathing life) to drowne. The Forth and Thames loſing their ſo lou'd-ſight, Vow, yearely to renew their woes, that night.
An Epitaph. POwer to doe ill, and practiſe onely good, Humbleſt in heart, higheſt in place and blood, Faireſt, and freeſt from looſe-deſires in thought, Pleaſures to tempt, yet not diſtain'd in ought: With anxious care, in courage nere deiected, Though cauſe of ioy, with no vaine-ioy affected. Know Reader, whenſoere theſe lines you ſcan, Such (and none ſuch but ſhe) was our Queene Anne 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉
An Epitaph. A Wife, a Daughter, Siſter to a King, Mother to thoſe, whoſe hopes doe higher ſpring Chaſte, faire, vviſe, kind; firſt, Crowne-vnited w r We knew her ſuch, and held her for no more. That ſhe was more: Gods daughter, and heauens heire, We know, ſince parted hence, He crownes her there. FINIS.