The most horrible and tragicall murther of the right honorable, the vertuous and valerous Gentleman, Iohn Lord Bourgh, Baron of Castell Connell.

Committed by Arnold Cosby, the foure­teenth of Ianuarie.

Togeather with the sorrowfull sighes of a sadde soule, vppon his fune­rall: written by W. R. a seruaunt of the said Lord Bourgh.

Tempus, fortuna, flent.
[printer's or publisher's device]

Printed by R. R. 1591.

The sighes of a sad soule vpon the vnfortunate death of the Right Ho­nourable the vertuous and valarous gentleman the Lord Bourgh.

The sighes of the Night.

THe gorgeous Sun hath spent his holy fire,
& scowling clouds are wrapped arme in arme,
The morning to the salt sea doth retyre,
& deadly sleep doth cast an endles charme:
Fore-figuring some euerlasting harme.
The Nights faire Queene doth bend hir iuory browes
And gleames a gloomie beaming on the boughes.
And Mercurie forerunner of the euening,
Hath bathd his golden winges in clotted bloud,
And euery gentle plannet sitteth greiuing,
And that doth moue that euer firmely stoode:
A pitchie fogge doth couer euery flood.
And while the day breake striueth with the starres
The Sunne and Moone maintaine continuall warres.
The mountaines sincke vnto the valleis deepe,
And riuers swell vnto the mountaines hight,
No pleasaunce doth his wonted order keepe:
A winde remoues the waues: there teares doe sighe
And liquide moysture turnes to sulphering drith:
So sorrow burnes when dreirie teares are spent:
And ouer heat doth make a soft relent.
A swannish tune becomes my morning song,
And in my sight hir feathers turnd to blacke,
No day is seene, but night is ouerstrong:
For still the morning blush is turned backe,
Because no mourning eye shall sorrow lacke,
[Page] A quire of Owles instead of Nightingals,
With Elegies my fainting sorrow quailes.
The dewe that fals is like the sent of death,
And brings a mortal Serene with the fall,
A graue is all the pleasure of the earth,
and springing blisse is but as barren gall,
and with our feete we digge our buriall,
What booteth all the pride of boasting lust
When martiall armour is a tombe of dust.
Buried aliue within the graue of Night,
Where darknes guideth my lamenting griefe,
I lie bereaued of my former light,
As one that in distresse did finde reliefe,
And placed sorrow in his soule for chiefe,
For that sweete lampe of life that I so loued,
Is from my wonted guidance quite remoued.
I loath the cheerefull ioy the day doth bring,
because the day mainteines the thing I hate:
Sweet is the musick that the Screchowles sing
And in good time are Minutes ouerlate,
For in my fancie loue is blacke debate,
And when I see my withered senses striue,
Then do I thinke my sorowes are aliue.
I looke and see the daughters of great Ioue,
That loude his noble vertues that I loue,
Sit sighing in a melancholie groue:
and to combine a coronet haue stroue,
Of all the plantes that in the field doe roue,
For that swet Lord I hold the world in skorning
& hate day, night, the euening & the morning.

The sighs of the Morning.

Now as a mourning goddes comes the Morne,
Like to a wretched Pilgrime clothd in gray,
Hir lowring lookes like one that was forlorne,
Gusht showres of teares vpon that dismal day:
And when she saw his deepe & mortal harmes,
She tooke my Lord within her louing armes.
Meeting the Lark that mounted with her notes,
Hir Christall bodie brusht vpon her breast:
& by that sūmonce tunde their warbling throts
To sing the burthen of my great vnrest:
And when I sigh the birds with heauie heigh,
Trebble their sonnets, and approch me nigh.
If she had lost hir glimcing Lucifer,
That is familiar with hir bright vprise:
No sorrow could such greiuousnes inferre,
As now departed from hir tearefull eyes.
And if hereafter I do see hir cleare,
Ile flie from hir, as an inconstant pheare.
Hir crimison Mantle fell into the Sea,
And almost made the Lordlie Neptune mad,
But when he knew the mourning of the day
His royall hall with mistie fogge was cladde,
And vnderstanding of this sadfull end,
He sighed, and said that he had lost a friend.
When as the Nimph did know this cursed hape
& what bruite soule did act that damned deed,
a heauie clangor of hir armes did clappe,
To bidde all true Nobilitie take heede,
How they did trust to flearing Sicophants,
Or fauoured proud contemptuous miscreants.
Between theire browes see mischefe fyrmlie knit,
And yet a fawning sweetnes in their lipps:
VVithin there harts doth ouglie treason sit,
And Adders venome from their pleasure sips.
Take heede faire Lordes, and feare ye to embrace:
The marke of nature in a flattering face.
The Goddesse ending with a greuous sobbe,
Went vpp, to tell within her statelie court:
How vice the noble did of vertue robbe,
And there did write his honors rare report.
When I beheld yt I was wel content,
And yet me thought I wisht the Nights assent,

The Third sigh of Winter.

My fire is greater than whole Forests flames,
Eternall Winter kindleth in my brest:
And in my heart a Regester of names,
Of balefull stormes the season hath imprest.
Somtimes the windes doe diue in to my hart,
And call them forth to renouate my smart.
Then euery storme doth take a seuerall limbe,
And in those limbes possesseth seuerall veynes:
And like Saturnus makes my bodie grimme,
By letting forth my bloud in paynfull streynes.
And when I sigh I raise a bremie storme,
So all my ioyes are spent in winters forme.
This winter commeth by that flowers fade,
Whose couler brought bright comfort to my sight:
Whose sweete perfume my ioyfull pleasure made,
Whose leaues reflexed like a starrie light.
The coward malice cropt it from the ground,
And now in sommer is no pleasure found.
As heauie as the frostie grayberdes weight,
Lieth congealed sorow on my heart:
And yet my burden seemeth but a sleight,
Lightning, and thunder griefes and sighes doe part
The one with sodaine flashes blinds mine eyes,
The other with a wasting terrour flies.
A frost of care hath nipt my springing youth,
My Sun is downe should make the yce relent:
And heaps of snow are gathered by my ruth,
All which are hillockes of cold discontent
And if this wintering chilnes euer burst,
A washing storme must waist the frozen crust.
Then from the brasen prison breaks the winds,
And from their swelling mouthes do send out showers:
And driue me to the thought of that which bindes,
Bundels of thornes to build vp darkesome bowers
Vnder that gloomy shade I sitte and sing,
The greeuous losse of such a pretious thing.
Wo is my Winter for so great a misse,
And in that season on his sadful hearse:
A hermitage Ile build shall be my blisse,
And call on age my yongnes to reuerse
And in his worthie praise my pen shall dwell
Whose vertue did all base contempt expell.
Ile sit vntill my breath ingraue this grace
Vpon the stone doth couer his sweet corse.
Here vertue in a milkewhite mildnes staies
Vntill eternall glorie by his force,
Conioyne his body to his pretious soule
In his sweet bosome that doth all controule.

The fourth sigh of the Spring.

The Soueraigne of the Planets neuer rose,
But in a cloudie vale did shrowd his head,
His Chariote couered like a mourning hearse
Reiected quit his golden furniture,
Ceres and Flora suffered such a dearth,
as neuer happened on the barren earth.
When first the cursed hand, by cowards watch
Did seperate that life that loude my light,
The spring did sprout, but blacke was al hir sap
The violete turned to a tawnie hew,
Dim was the rose, yet yallow were the seedes,
For mourning minds, betokening mournful weeds.
The wind with tragicke musicke wiffeth sighs,
Thorow the linnow stalks that shook the flours,
and Aiax bloud that breed the Hyacinth,
Congealeth care vpon the grassie bancks,
But then the daintie Lillie lost hir leaues,
& they were boūd amōgst the reapers sheaues.
The loftie Pines did pine within the valleys,
and stood like stripped champions in a storme.
They that are cut & daunce vpon the billowes,
are carelesse in the cold extreamest chaunces.
and as the deepest brookes do murmur least,
So they say little, that did loue him best.
Vpon a springing oke doth keepe Joues byrde,
That letteth fall a feather euerie flight:
His sorrow lets the Iuie haue his growth,
That turnes the Eagle to the bird of night,
When Okes and Eagles die for griefe not age
There feare and ruine runne in equipage.
Tmolus hir selfe whereas the Safron growes,
Hath intermixt hir spice with lothsome weds,
Blacke woll doth grow on the Arabian shrubs,
as hard as are the quils of Porcupins,
Of Rauons couler lookes the Cotton tree,
a glorious spring againe shall neuer bee.
Thus is my spring become the leaues decaie,
Where Charecters of endles griefe are writ.
The dewfull teares do trickle from the boughs
That lost their cloathing when I lost my loue,
and aye to me my sorrow writs the worst,
My ioyes are barren and my selfe accurst.
If any care bee buried in the earth,
Some quaking furie send it from hir brest,
and leade my lumpe that being ouer prest,
I may conucie this dead time to my rest,
Where wrapped vp in bright archangels wings
I may behold that which my comfort brings.

The Graces Funerall.

Since first the morning & the euening mourned
Since winter and the spring time are bereaued,
Of all the ioyes my inward losses breathed,
angels reioyce my loue is now receiued,
The Graces haue his louely bodie balmed.
and haue the centure of the earth perfumed,
Whereas that bodie shall not be consumed,
& that which wrents the groūd is euer calmed
Their golden robs his bodie now hath couered,
& Dians Doues their Iuory brests haue plumed,
Which by his bodie yet aliue haue houered,
[...]nd his faire resting is by heauen assumed.
Foure morrall vertues haue his soule conueied
And spightfull fates his vertues haue deceiued,
And great Iehouah hath his worke surueied,
And with that blessed sacrifice is pleased.
Who knew my noble louer whilst he liued,
And will not say his vertues haue deserued,
In fames huge books to haue his name described
And euery honour that hee had reuiued.
My wandring wit in sorrowes sourse is drowned
& whē I wrought his praise the Muses frowned
My shallow brain his noblesse hath not soūded,
Nor hath my pen his worthines renowmed.
Now hath immortall sorrow neare approached,
And on my mazing wretchednes hath ceazed:
And hath my ruler night againe conducted,
whose gaping horour cannot be appeased.
Then of his soules sweete safetie assured,
Which our redeemer by his death procured,
And since my sorrowes cannot be redressed,
They are embrac'te as euermore distressed.
FINIS.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.