SORROVVES LENITIVE.
Written Vpon occasion of the Death of that hopefull and Noble young Gentleman, John Lord Harrington, Barron of Exton, &c. Who died the 27. of Febr. 1613.
By ABRAHAM IACKSON.
OVID. 4. de Ponto.
Temporis officium solatia dicere certiest,
Dum dolor in cursu, dum petit aeger opem.
LONDON: Printed for Roger Iackson, and are to be solde at his Shop neere the great Conduit in Fleet-streete. 1614.
TO THE RIGHT HONOVRABLE AND VERTVOVS LADIES, THE Lady LVCY, Countesse of Bedford, and the Lady ANNE HARRINGTON, &c.
Right Honourable:
YOur fauourable acceptance of my poore endeauours, in an Office of the like nature, hath animated mee againe to put Pen to paper, with a purpose to lenifie that bitter pill of Passion (which naturall affection hath once more caused you to swallow) with the sweet iulip of Consolation. And for as much as Phisitians cannot well apply their Cordialls [Page]to the sicke, till they know the syntomes of the disease; I haue (in a feeling sympathie of your griefe) aymed at your Complaints, and haue written them according to my conceipt, not doubting, but (if I had beene Secretarie to you afflicted thoughts) I should haue made them appeare more like themselues.
Next (as method in that case required) I haue set downe such meditations of Comfort, as I thought best suting to your visitation▪ Beseeching you to vouchsafe them as gracious a censure, as an humble and deuoted heart may be thought worthy to be allowed, that rests, and euer will remaine
Your Honours, ready in all humility to doe you seruice, ABRAHAM IACKSON.
SORROVVES LENITIVE.
When awlesse Death, with poyson-pointed dart
Had pierc't Fames fauourite, yong Harrington,
That plant of Honour, through his gen'rous hart;
Two mournfull Ladies, in affection one,
(His wofull Mother, and his Sister deere)
From troubled thoughts, shed torrents christall cleere.
And as a day-long-labouring Husband-man,
That with heart-fatting ioy doth feast his eyes,
To see his full-ear'd Corne (with Zephyr's Fanne)
Blowne on to ripenesse; if a storme arise,
That with sterne blasts destroyes the forward graine,
Sits downe and wailes the losse of his long paine.
Or as a Merchant, standing on the shore,
His long absented Ship doth new behold,
Entring the Hauens mouth, full fraught with store
Of Orient pearle, and purest Indian gold;
If in his sight the vessell suffer wracke,
Straines out with cryes, till heart with sorrow cracke.
So did the wofull Lady Harrington;
When she was reft of him, that was her ioy,
Her loue, her life, her deere, and onely Sonne,
Her ease in Mourning, comfort in annoy,
Her greatest solace in her most distresse,
Her curing Cordiall in heauinesse.
So gracefull Lucy, Bedfords worthy Wife,
When brute, too true, had to her eares related
The sodaine wracke of that beloued life,
Whom dismall Fate vntimely so had dated,
Did cast her selfe into the armes of moane,
And to her selfe rip'd vp her griefes alone.
And if a Poet may be bold to write,
How he conceiues such passions were conceiu'd;
Then thus the grieu'd Lady Mother might,
(With sighes) bewaile her hopefull ioy bereau'd.
These broken accents, (Eccho's of her groanes)
Might be the mournfull method of her moanes.
O thou my dearest deare, and louing Childe;
Best part of me, deriued from my wombe:
The sole Idea of thy Father milde,
My staffe of age to guide me to my Tombe!
Art thou extinct? hath life forsaken thee?
Hast thou relinquish'd all the world and me?
Wert thou not young, in prime of flowring life?
Were not thy passions sway'd with temperance?
Were not thy humors in perfection rife?
Wert thou not pious in perseuerance?
How haps it then, that thou wert rap't in hast,
When but the world began thy worth to cast?
O art thou gone, and am I left behinde?
Shall neuer more mine eyes behold thee heere?
Must griefe ore-flowe the measure of my minde,
vvhil'st houres cōpleat the daies, or daies the yeere?
What sight can please without the sight of thee,
Whose life, was life, whose death is death to me?
O had I all forgone what so is mine,
Within the compasse of this massie round;
Except that part of me that is diuine,
Wherein th' Idea of my God is found;
So that I had sweet Sonne enioyed thee,
Who being parted, parts all ioy from mee.
O cruell Parcae now I see tis so,
Ye are call'd Parcae, not because ye spare
The liues of such, as worst we may forgoe:
But on the contrary, ye Parcae are:
Because ye plucke the buds with partiall hand,
And let the riper fruits vngathered stand.
Tis said that Niobe was turn'd to stone,
For wailing too too much her childrens death.
Be't so or no; I haue more cause to moane,
Whil'st soule and body are conioyn'd with breath,
For her griefe ended, with her ended ioy:
But mine still liues, to lengthen lifes annoy.
Auctolia hearing but a false report
Of her Vlisses death, that (with more Knights)
Did to the siege of tow'r-built Troy resort,
To quell the pride of Greece-abusing sprights;
Renounc'd all ioy, turn'd solace into moane:
Because she did but thinke her Sonne was gone.
Oh what shall I doe? how shall I containe
My selfe in sorrow, that too well doe know
The losse of him; that was my ease in paine,
My greatest comfort, in griefes ouer-flowe?
How shall I keepe from breaking to extreames,
That haue my heart so fraught with sorrowes theames?
Let Niobe say what she can deuise
To aggrauate her selfe-confounding moane,
And let Auctolia hers apologize.
Yet Niobe became a sencelesse stone:
And Auctole wayl'd a misconceaued feare:
But true effects of griefe my heart doth weare.
As would appeare could I Dole's language speake.
But Sorrow tyes the tongues of grieued weights.
So that they must in mid-discourses breake,
And keepe the worst behind to vexe their sprights.
Sith this is Mourners case; then thus in briefe,
I grieue because I cannot tell my griefe.
Thus might a Poet shadow what she said;
Though what she said indeed her selfe best knowes:
As saying most when she was most dismay'd,
In priuate sort commenting on her woes.
Next then we may imagine, as before,
The noble Countesse, how she did deplore.
And if you can conceiue Polixen's woe,
When her deare brother Troilus was slaine,
By force of fierce Achilles fatall blowe:
Or how that royall PRINCES did complaine,
For Brittains hope, renowned HENRIES death:
So might you think did Bedford spend her breath.
For thus, me seemes, her thought-bewraying tong
Vtters the passions of her griefe-seaz'd heart,
That doe in heapes vpon each other throng
As though they would her soule and body part.
O dearest brother, soule-vnited friend!
What timelesse hap wrought thy vntimely end?
Time turnes the Heauens in a certaine course;
The Starres doe keepe their constant motions:
Order directs the rowling Oceans source:
Sence-wanting creatures keepe their stations:
Mans fickle state giues onely cause of sorrow,
That knowes his eue, but doth not know his morrow,
Had I a Sonne to lose (as I haue none)
I thinke his losse could not more grieue my hart;
Then thus to be left brotherlesse alone.
Who hath like wound, & doth not feele like smart?
To loose a Sonne, yet might I haue another:
But hopelesse am I left of any Brother.
For looke how th'Elm e and Vine doe sympathize:
Or Wood-bind with the Haw-thorne doth agree:
Looke how the Ivy with the Oake doth rise:
Or how the Steele and Load-stone natur'd be:
So did we loue, so were our hearts affected:
What one did fancie, tother still respected.
But Death, the Author of Confusion,
That doth vndoe Loues hardest tyed knot,
Breaking the bonds of sacred Vnion,
Casting on blooming Youth, old Ages lot,
Came with his woolly feete, but iron fist,
And drew this Impe of Honour to his list.
O world! no world; but Deaths Meandry maze;
O maze! no maze: but to-end-posting life;
O life! no life: but Bauen-kindled blaze;
O blaze! no blaze: but end of humors strife.
O moment strife, blaze-flashing, maze of death,
Whose end tends to the end of humane breath.
Swift is the Shittle in the Weauers Loome;
Hasty the rayn-bred torrents rise and fall;
Fading the May-day flower, the Summers bloome;
Vncertaine the rebound of Tennice ball;
Nay, name I all the moment Types I can,
Yet none so fickle as the life of man.
Deuide an howre in equall-spaced quarters;
Each quarter in his Minutes; Minutes againe
In Seconds: then let skilfull'st number parters
Their Arithmeticall choise Maxims straine
To part those Seconds, in their single prime;
And that's mans measure in the clock of Time.
All this is character'd in him, who was,
Who was (O fatall word!) the Character
Of Knightly Honour, Courtiers looking-glasse,
Map of perfection, Vertues register:
But now is gone; yet left this name behinde
For me, to treasure vp in grieued minde.
Which I will doe, (with true deuotion)
Whil'st my world-wearied soule liues in my flesh,
And in my mirth, the name of Harrington
Shall make griefes brinish fountaine spring a fresh,
And if my teares doe stint, or tongue doe faile;
Know Sorrow wants both teares, and tongue to waile.
As I was writing this conceiued moane;
Mine eyes did let fall drops into mine Inke,
Moysting againe its drinesse: whereupon
My sympathizing Muse gan thus to thinke.
I must not leaue these Ladies in this plight:
For Inke made liquid bids me more to write.
And as an Art-instructed Surgeon,
(That hath search't all the corners of a wound)
Doth not so leaue his Patient but vpon
The gash, layes healing Salues to make him sound:
So must I now (that haue so launc't your griefe)
Apply some Cataplasme for reliefe.
Your losse was great, great Ladies I confesse;
And such as passion cannot but condole.
Nay, Piety her selfe could doe no lesse:
As is recorded in Gods sacred roll.
For the beleeuers Grandsire did bewaile
His dearest Sara, when her life did faile.
So holy Ioseph, that Bellerophon,
Wept when his aged Father Iacob died:
So did the kingly Prophet for his Sonne;
The Israelites for Moses also cried,
And that which most in mourning makes for vs
Our blessed Sauiour wept for Lazarus.
But yet that heathen howling out of measure
Suites not with those, for whō Christ shed his blood.
For such repining drawes on Gods displeasure,
Tis but a shadow of a seeming good.
A Hell-hatched off-spring of blacke-mouth'd Despaire,
That doth Gods image in the soule impaire.
O Ladies therefore calme your Passion:
Make not your Noble harts Griefes chaire of State.
Let it be pious Comforts station,
Your heart-tormenting care to mitigate.
For Comfort is the Cataplasme alone,
That cureth care, salues sores, relieueth moane.
Thinke but how Iacob (after wearinesse)
Was by the dreame-seene Angels solaced:
Or how that Proto-martyr, in distresse,
Was ioyed to see Heauens windowes opened.
Such will your solace be, and such your ioy,
If you encline to Comfort in annoy.
Comfort, the stay of sadded Christians soule,
Comfort, the health of griefe-decayed health,
Comfort, the power of Reason to controule
Sterne passion, that would get the heart by stealth,
Will be to you, soule, health, and powre, & case,
Your sadnesse, sicknesse, weakenesse to appease.
And as the precious Opall doth containe
The beaming brightnesse of the Diamond,
The azure luster of the Saphirs vaine,
The Emerauld in verdure goes beyond:
So Comfort doth th' effects of peace embrace,
And yeelds the fruits of mercy and of grace.
But this is but as twere an outward shale
To th' tast-ensweetning Kernell that's within,
The touching of the foote of Iacobs scale,
Before we clime by it the heauens to win,
The gentle spreading of the healing Plaister.
To make it when tis on to stick the faster.
We therefore must apply this soueraigne Balme,
This heauen on earth, this hold from Desperation,
This ioy in life, this tempest-laying calme,
This hope in Death, this staffe of preseruation,
Home to your hearts, to make you feele againe
The ioy you had, before you had this paine.
Had you a Sonne? Had you a louing Brother?
Had you a Comfort? You what you held deere?
Had you no more? Nor had you any other?
And is he reft away, to both so neere?
Yet waigh but both your happinesse in his;
And tell me then if you be void of blisse?
He was your Sonne: but now he is a Saint.
He was your Brother: now an Angels Mate.
He was your Comfort: now no cause of plaint.
He was your deere: but now in better state.
You had no more, make that your cause of woe,
Because you had no more, so to bestowe.
Tis true his body was of perfect mould,
And such as might haue giuen his soule content,
For one whole age a Mansion there to hold,
Where euery part did homage to her bent:
Reason sate Regent, and the will obayed,
All Passions by these two, were mildely swayed.
Tis true, he was a modell of perfection,
Furnisht with rarest gifts of Natures store,
Endowed with sanctity, the soules refection.
Was what his yeeres could yeeld, and somewhat more.
For in his prime of youthly iolity,
He was repleat with graue morality.
His auncient birth might be (as oft it is)
The foster-Nurse of selfe-vp-puffing pride:
But his faire thoughts soar'd higher farre then this,
And such vaine-glorious humours he defi'd.
With thriftlesse Prodigalls he did not sort,
True Bounties measure did his state support.
So that a man might thinke he had beene sent
As a choise Iewell from Gods treasury,
T'adorne the world, and not as though God meant
To shew him vs, and forthwith presently
To take him from vs, in his deepe displeasure,
Seeing vs so vnworthy such a treasure.
But Ladies, this is not your case alone.
Twas Iuda's case, when their Iosiah fell:
Twas Englands case their Edward being gone.
Twas Brittains case, when HENRY bid farewell.
HENRY a Master-piece of Natures mould,
The young mans hope, the refuge of the old.
HENRY, that was your Sons, your Brothers Lord:
HENRY, whom he in vertue imitated:
HENRY, by whose example he was stor'd
With noble-minded thoughts, to heauen elated:
HENRY, that lou'd him, & well knew his merit,
His faith, his constancie, and noble spirit.
HENRY, to whom his heart was so affected,
That if he might haue ransom'd him from Death,
He would (with dreadlesse loyall zeale directed)
Haue spent his deerest life-maintaining breath.
But Adams heires, each one ingaged stand,
To pay this forfeiture of Natures band.
Sith this is that which euery man can tell:
As being compos'd of brickle walls of mud:
And that your case doth want no paralell,
As we haue instanc't in the Royall bloud;
Then let this meditation still your crye;
That he that now is dead, was borne to dye.
You begge of God (in daily Orizons)
That his all-guiding will be done in earth,
As well as in th'heauenly Mansions,
Where blessed soules doe liue in datelesse mirth.
Tis graunted what you aske, his will is done:
For twas his will to take to him your Sonne.
Thinke how that Mother-virgin, holy, pure,
That blessed Phoenix of all woman-hood,
Did with faith-armed patience endure
To see the spilling of her Sauiours blood;
To see his precious side streame blood & water,
That was her Sonne, her Brother, and Creator.
That was that Lambe of God, in whom was found
No spot of sinne, whom no default could touch.
This might with dole her humane heart confound:
But that she knew Gods prouidence was such.
Against the which we ought not to repine.
True Christian will bends to the will diuine.
How willingly did Abraham obey
That dire commaund, when he was ready prest
With his owne hands his onely Sonne to stay?
His Faith taught him that all was for the best
That God appoints, though we cannot conceiue,
The searchlesse depth, from whence we good receiue.
What was your Sonne? and doe but rightly scan;
Was he more deere and precious vnto you
Then Abra'ms Son, or else the SON OF MAN?
Must you be priuiledg'd when Death is due
By Gods award? Let not your faith be cold
In him that can returne Sonnes thousand fold.
The little Sparrow fall's not to the ground,
Without Gods fore-decreeing prouidence;
And shall we thinke that man (in whom is found
The substance of the Creators quintessence)
Can be depriu'd of life if he doe nill,
Whose supreame powre drawes goodnes out of ill?
He left you and the world you say too soone.
Passion saith this: nay, Reason saith so too.
But how? with this fore-thought distinction,
Not for himselfe too soone, too soone for you.
For you: because your earthly ioy's bereauen.
Not for himselfe: who ioy enioyes in heauen.
What can you tell God hath for you ordain'd?
Or to what end your dayes he hath design'd?
Must his eterne decree be so restrain'd,
As that it should be fitted to your minde?
Little know we what comfort may abound,
vvhen with Despaire Sathan would vs confound.
When was your Patience euer tri'd before
By any vncouth wracke of humane chance?
God hath you blest with Honours, wealth, & store,
And on you many blessings did aduance.
Because your friends first die, is this a wrong?
All sorts see that, chiefe those, whose liues are long.
Would you (as earth-bred mortalls all desire,
That solace in this vale of misery)
Wish that you might, to what you would aspire
And not beawed by the Deity!
Then you depriue your selfe of that sweet boast
Whom God most loues, those he doth chastice most.
This fickle life is but a swift-runne race:
A doubtfull-ending combat strugling still:
Vpon the troubled Seas, a Sailers case:
A Captiues lot, fetter'd against his will:
A toylesome labour, full of sweating paine:
A iourney pestered with winde and raine.
O happy he, that first doth gaine the price:
Happy, that soonest doth the conquest winne:
Happy, that findes the Port ere stormes arise:
Happy, quicke shaking off the chaines of sinne:
Happy, the lab'rour at the close of day:
Happy, the trauailer, that ends his way.
If these be happy, happy then is he,
That hath so soone runne out his irksome race,
Obtain'd the conquest, got the Port, is free,
Ended his worke, come home in happy case;
If he be happy: you are happy too,
That he was yours, although not now with you.
His life was seasoned with the thoughts of Death.
Witnesse his sanctimonious purity,
Witnesse his words spoke with his latest breath,
To you his wofull Mother sitting by.
Lord LESV come, to thee my soule I giue,
Thou dy'dst for me, that I with thee might liue.
[...]
To him therefore, that thus had fixt his minde,
Death was the greatest Comfort that could be,
The instrumentall meanes that he could finde,
Out of his bodies Goale to be set free:
As being the key t'vnlocke the prison dore,
That was by youthfull strength kept fast before.
And as some Knight, edg'd with the thoughts of glory,
Hauing with pow'rfull Ensignes conquered
Some spatious, wast vnfertile territory,
Hath yet a fairer Land discouered:
But knowes not how it's faire shoares to recouer,
Vnlesse he had some meanes to passe him ouer.
So this young Lord, this worthy Christian Knight,
Armed according to Saint Pauls direction,
Hauing subdu'd that damned subtill spright,
And brought the world and flesh to his subiection;
He did, with Moses, on mount Nebo stand,
And ken'd the heauenly Canaans promis'd Land.
But knew not how that Eden Land to gaine,
Vnlesse Death gaue him wastage to the shoare,
VVilling to vndergoe what so euer paine,
VVere it to hale the Ropes, or tugge the Oare.
Death therefore graunted what he did desire,
Taking nought but his earthes part for her hire.
VVhat shall I say? Death was to him no more,
But a griefe-ending sweet Catastrophe:
A passage from this worlds Aegiptian shore:
To Canaan aboue through the red Sea:
A Sunne to melt his liues congealed Frost:
A landing of his Ship in tempest tost.
As was the glorious Angell that conuay'd
The blessed Peter from the loathsome darke:
As was mount Ararat, on whose top stay'd
The righteous Noah's deluge-washed Arke:
Lastly, Death was to him, but as a Page,
That lights a Taper to an vpper Stage.
All which in time it will be vnto vs,
If we doe act our parts as he did his.
For then, when Conscience shall our deeds discusse,
She will assure vs of eternall blisse.
As him she did, whose faith had apprehended,
The ioyes of heauē, before earths date was ended.
His soule brook't no delayes from heauens delight,
Loathing to be sinne-soyl'd with this grosse ayre,
But sweetly offer'd vp his virgin spright
To her great Maker, chast, and spotlesse faire;
Where he doth ioy: for whom we so do mourne,
Wishing vs there, and not his owne returne.
Thrice blest immortall soule rest then in blisse,
Enioy those ioyes, for which thou wer't prepard:
VVe know our fault, and Loue leades vs amisse,
To grudge that thou with Angels blisse hast shar'd
Not that we ought, but good to thee bequeaue;
But grieu'd so soone, thy sweet consort to leaue.
And you sad Ladies that are clad in blacke,
Best suting with those weights, that Sorrow feeds,
Think what this WORTHY hath, & what you lack,
And you wil find your owne-case wants such weeds.
For mortall you, in cares doe draw your breath,
Immortall he, needes none to waile his death.
FINIS.