Sir Thomas Wrothe his sad encomion, vpon his dearest consort, Dame Margaret Wrothe Who died of a fever at Petherton Parke, in the countie of Somerset, about midnight of the 14. day of October, 1635. And was buried in the parish church of St. Stephen, in Coleman Street, London, the 11. of November, next ensuing.

Sir Thomas Wrothe his sad encomion, vpon his dearest consort, Dame Margaret Wrothe Who died of a fever at Petherton Parke, in the countie of Somerset, about midnight of the 14. day of October, 1635. And was buried in the parish church of St. Stephen, in Coleman Street, London, the 11. of November, next ensuing.

Table of contents

Title page

A SAD ENCOMION.

Consilium amantis.

§

§

[Page]

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SIR THOMAS WROTHE HIS SAD ENCOMION, Vpon his Dearest Consort, Dame MARGARET WROTHE. Who died of a Fever at Petherton Parke, in the Countie of Somerset, about Midnight of the 14. day of October, 1635. And was Buried in the Parish Church of St. STEPHEN, in Coleman Street, London, the 11. of November, next ensuing.

Sequitur post gaudia, luctus,

LONDON, Printed for HENRY SEILE, 1635.

A SAD ENCOMION.

[Page]

[Page]

CAn any Sorrow be like Mine, whose Losse

Is more than Toung may tell, or Heart conceive?

Am I pick [...] out, to beare this heavie Crosse,

And in obedience, what is dearest, leave?

With bleeding Heart, I must avow that no man

Did ever lose more vertuous, worthy Woman.

An Angels Tongue were fitter than my Pen,

To blaze abroad Her worth, and Vertues rare:

She daily walkt with God, more than with Men;

Yet Men and Women often had a Share

Of Her defused Good, from Mouth and Hand;

And blest the House was, where She did command.

☞

A chearefull Spirit, and a patient both,

Her sweet-composed Body did possesse;

Neatnesse She highly priz'd, and hated Sloth,

As did Her words and actions all expresse:

She had no Warrant, often would She say,

To spend a Minute idle of a day.

[Page]

☞

Gracious Her words, but few; small Wrongs She hid them;

The greatest Injuries that ere were done Her,

She did remit, and nourisht those who did them;

So mercifull She was, good words soone woon Her:

There's not an Heart that is not foule and rotten,

Which lov'd not Her, who ne'r shall be forgotten.

A MARGARITE She was, a Iewell rare,

Fit for His Cabinet, who now hath tane Her,

The World nor I was worthy for to share

So RICH a Gem; but Heav'n is now the gainer:

To summe up all, this Woman, this my Wife,

She was the Honour, Comfort of my Life.

The Bird that warned PETER of his Fall,

Nor yet the fatall Bell-man of the Night,

Did ever startle Her, or Her apall,

So circumspect She walkt, and so upright;

☞

Nor Death nor Sicknesse tooke Her unaware,

For ev'ry houre for both She did prepare.

And when they came, no Lambe that goes to slaughter,

More meeke than She, more willing to submit,

To such a temper love of Heav'n had brought Her,

That for no other Mansion She was fit:

☞

Come Father, Come, Come quickly, oft She cry'd,

Lord Iesu quickly come: He came, She dy'd.

[Page]

And so She dy'd, as by Her Soul's migration,

She lives againe, in such a blest estate,

That I doe wish and long for such mutation.

Her paines in Sicknesse, who can explicate?

☞

Th'Almightie's Arrowes often did She crie,

Sticke fast within me; oh, I die, I die.

And so doe I, sweet Soule, my dearest Deere,

Because in life I did no more respect thee;

And now all hopes are lost to have thee heere,

My great neglect most deepely doth affect mee:

And just it is, because I was no wiser,

That He should have Her, who much more doth prize Her;

Yet She did freely par'ne my faults and errors,

As much as in Her lay; would Heav'n doe so,

I should be quit of many hideous terrors,

Which my neglect of Her may bring me to:

Worth'est of Women, now too late I see,

Thou wast too good, and I too bad for thee.

If Pray'rs incessant, from a bleeding Heart,

If Sighes, heart-renting Groanes, and flouds of Teares,

If Gold and Silver, or Physicians Art,

If mercifull and helpefull Womens Cares,

Had beene of force (with losse of my deare Life)

They had redeem'd from Death my dearer Wife.

[Page]

But who can ransome or redeeme his Brother

From Deaths impartiall Stroake? if any,

My part in this hath beene beyond all other;

For by Her Death, my Losse is more than many:

But since it is decreed, that all must die,

All must submit to that, and so must I.

Yet this, great God of Heav'n, is my Request,

(Because I must without this Comfort live)

Teach Me to live as She did, who is blest,

That I may die as She did: lastly, give

Thy Servant leave to see Her with his Eyes,

After this Life; then happie when He dyes.

And that which add's more sorrow to my heart,

Is my enjoyn'd progression with Her Corps

From that same place where Life from Her did part,

Through Townes and Hamlets, Villages, and Dorps,

Twice fiftie miles and ten; and in those Townes,

Be made a gazing Marke for Fooles and Clownes.

There, some Mens Pittie will augment my Sadnesse,

And Mendicants, perhaps, will shed a Teare

For Her, who often gave them Cause of Gladnesse,

By scattering Her Money here and there:

Perhaps, Necessitie may force me stay

In that same Inne where we Both living, lay.

[Page]

Oh, here's a Tryall! helpe me, gracious Lord,

To shoulder up the weight of this Affliction:

Sad Thoughts will meet me here, at Bed and Boord:

Nor Meat nor Drinke, nor Sleepe, can be refection:

A sadder March than this, may no man have;

No better Wife was ever brought to Grave.

And now, me thinkes, the dolefull March I make:

One calls, Lead on; Stay, Stand, another cryes;

And all this while, the Suffering part I take,

With bleeding Heart and overflowing Eyes:

Each Pase, a Mile; and every Mile, seemes double,

So tedious all things are to minds in trouble.

Who? what? whence? and, Prithy Coach-man tarry;

And, Whither goe you, Passengers demand?

Others enquire, what doth the Carriage carrie

A Man, or Woman? Then, anon, we stand

To breathe our Horses, some thing mend amisse;

All which, a Tryall of my Patience is.

Yet this not all: The neerer I approach

Vnto the Place desired for my rest,

Friends unexpected meet the leading Croach,

And unto it, and me, much Griefe exprest:

But to my Losse, their Teares give no Reliefe;

They rent my heart, and aggravate my Griefe.

[Page]

At last, foure Dayes conclude this sad Progression,

But not my Sorrow; that, like angry Wounds

Bleeds fresh againe, and swells beyond expression,

As did Her Love to mee, which had no Bounds:

The House I built, Her living to content,

Now seems Her Grave, which makes me more lament.

Inevitable Force constraines it so,

Till Buriall Rites may well prepared bee;

That to her Grave She decently may goe,

With Kindred, Friends, and Neighbours of Degree:

In this I doe but what another must

Performe for me, when Dust is brought to Dust.

No sooner noys'd, that I am come to Towne,

But my Religious well-affected Friends

Come to Condole, and raise my Heart, cast downe,

With sweet advice: some, write; some, servants sends;

Perswading, not to give my Griefe such scope,

Nor sorrow, as a Man that's void of hope.

How easie those in Health, the Sicke advise;

When brought themselves unto the like condition,

Such Counsell is a Cor'sive: oh, my Eyes!

Where shall they turne, to find Contents fruition?

I cannot Sleepe, Eat, Drinke, Stand, Sit, or Walke,

But still me thinkes I see Her, heare Her talke.

[Page]

Discourteous Ladies, who doe governe Life;

Clotho, Lachesis, Atrapos, Ladies of Destinie.

Can Ladies to a Lady be so cruell?

Ye might have taken mee, and spar'd my Wife;

In mee there is no Worth, She was a Iewell.

But cease a while, mine Eyes, to waile and weepe,

Till She be layd where She shall ever sleepe.

The Day is come, the dolefull Funerall Day,

When nought appeares, but what may Sorrow move;

Sad Visages, sad Hearts, Teares, Blacke Aray;

Yet I must sorrow most, who most did Love:

This, this the saddest Day I ere did see;

Would it had beene (Sweet-heart) for mee, not Thee.

Yet thou hast finished thy Worke, thy Race,

And well improv'd the Talents which were lent thee;

And to a glorious Life, from this, of Grace

Thy mercifull Creator he hath sent thee:

Lesse cause I have thy absence to deplore,

Non amittitur sed praemittit [...]

Since lost thou art not, onely gone before;

And made free Citizen of Heav'n: when I,

Who have not serv'd my Time compleatly out,

Am subject to the Worlds servilitie,

The Flesh, and Satan, with his cursed Rout.

Harke, pensive heart, the Bell toules, friends are come,

And I must take the chiefest Mourners roome.

[Page]

On, on afore, the Temple see is nie,

Make hast to bring Her to Her Inne of Rest,

And ease your shoulders of Mortalitie,

Which is Immortall now, and ever blest:

Though now thy Sheets not Linnen are, but Lead,

High time it is (deare Heart) thou wert in Bed.

I must interre thee, by thine owne Desire,

Where I will lye by Thee, who lay by Mee

For twentie yeeres and one; and there, my Sire,

And vertuous Mother, also lodged bee

In that same Bed of Rest; and likewise, there

The Child, which once thy fruitful Womb did beare.

Rest then, sweet Woman, in that silent Cell,

Vntill the Resurrection bring thee forth:

Meane while, thy Life, these Lines, & Toungs shall tell,

Thou wert a Woman of a matchlesse worth;

A Patterne to all Ladies, who out-live Thee:

More would I say, if more praise I could give Thee.

Consilium amantis.

[Page]

O Man, who boasts of Strength or Wittie Flashes,

Or ought beside, thou art but Dust and Ashes;

And sure thou shalt at Christs Tribunall give

A strict account, how thou didst die and live:

Deferre no moment, under vaine pretences,

Amend thy Life, repent of thine Offences.

FINIS.

Information about this book

Title statement

Sir Thomas Wrothe his sad encomion, vpon his dearest consort, Dame Margaret Wrothe Who died of a fever at Petherton Parke, in the countie of Somerset, about midnight of the 14. day of October, 1635. And was buried in the parish church of St. Stephen, in Coleman Street, London, the 11. of November, next ensuing.

Wroth, Thomas, Sir, 1584-1672.

Edition statement

1635

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Text Creation Partnership,

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Date

2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A15792

ID [STC]

STC 26053

ID [STC]

ESTC S120430

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

99855627

ID [PROQUEST]

99855627

ID [VID]

21128

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A15792)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 21128)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 1056:5)

Source

— Sir Thomas Wrothe his sad encomion, vpon his dearest consort, Dame Margaret Wrothe Who died of a fever at Petherton Parke, in the countie of Somerset, about midnight of the 14. day of October, 1635. And was buried in the parish church of St. Stephen, in Coleman Street, London, the 11. of November, next ensuing., Wroth, Thomas, Sir, 1584-1672..

Extent

[2], 9, [1] p.

Printed [by Elizabeth Purslowe] for Henry Seile,. London :: 1635.. (In verse.) (Printer's name from STC.) (Reproduction of the original in the Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery.)

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