Lachrymæ musarum The tears of the muses : exprest in elegies / written by divers persons of nobility and worth upon the death of the most hopefull, Henry Lord Hastings ... ; collected and set forth by R.B.

Lachrymæ musarum The tears of the muses : exprest in elegies / written by divers persons of nobility and worth upon the death of the most hopefull, Henry Lord Hastings ... ; collected and set forth by R.B.

Table of contents

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Title page

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Upon the death of the most hopeful young Lord, The Lord HASTINGS: A Remembrance from a Kinsman.

On the death of my worthy Friend and Kinsman, the Noble, Vertuous, and Learned Lord HASTINGS.

A Funeral-Elegie upon the death of Henry Lord Hastings, Son to the Right Honorable, Ferdinando Earl of HUNTINGDON, &c.

Upon the Death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS.

EPIGRAM Upon the death of the most hopeful, Henry Lord Hastings, Eldest son of the Right Honorable, FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon, Heir general of the high-born Prince, GEORGE Duke of Clarence, Brother to King Edward 4.

Upon the death of my Lord Hastings.

An Elegie upon the Lord HASTINGS.

For the Right Honourable, LVCIE Countess of HUNTINGDON. 1649. From her Honours humblest Servant, T. P. Her Soliloquie, or her Meditation.

The Rational Reply.

On the untimely death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS, Onely Son to FERDINAND and LUCIE, Earl and Countess of Huntingdon.

Illustrissimi Herois, Domini HENRICI HASTINGS, EPICAEDIUM.

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Upon the Right Honourable, LUCIE Countess of Huntingdon's Heroick and most Christian bearing of that grand Affliction, the death of her onely Son, The young Lord HASTINGS, &c.

An ELEGIE Upon the death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS, the onely Son and Heir of the Right Honorable FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon; Deceasing immediately before the day designed for his Marriage.

On the incomparable Lord HASTINGS: An ELEGIE.

A Funeral-Elegie upon the Right Honourable the Lord HASTINGS.

An ELOGIE Upon the most lamented death of the Lord HASTINGS, Onely Son and Heir to the Right Honorable the Earl of Huntingdon. Deceased at LONDON, 1649.

Upon the death of the Lord Hastings.

The New Charon, Upon the death of Henry Lord Hastings. The Musical part being set by M. Henry Lawes.

An ELEGIE Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.

To the Earl of HVNTINGDON, On the death of his Son.

In obitum Henrici Domini Hastingii, Filii, FERDINANDI Comitis Huntingdonii, unici: Simulac * Unionis, totius Angliae, pretiosissimi. EPITAPHIVM.

Anglicè.

In Honour to the Great Memorial of the Right Honourable Henry Lord Hastings, deceased; Late, the most Hopeful, Onely Son, and Heir apparent to the Right Honourable FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon.

Upon the much-lamented death of the Lord HASTINGS.

To the never-dying Memory of the Noble Lord Hastings, &c. The meanest Son of the Muses consecrates this ELEGIE.

An Epitaph on the same.

An ELEGIE On the death of the Right Honourable, Henry Lord Hastings; Presented at his Funeral.

ON HENRY Lord HASTINGS.

EPICEDION In obitum Domini HENRICI HASTINGS Baronis, Illustrissimi.

Upon the much-lamented Departure of the right Hopeful, and truly Noble, HENRY Lord HASTINGS, Son and Heir to the Right Honorable, FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon.

Epitaph.

Upon the unhappie Separation of those united Souls, The Honorable Henry Lord Hastings, And his beloved Parallel.

An ELEGIE On the much-lamented death of the Lord HASTINGS.

To the Memory of the Right Noble, and most Hopeful, Henry Lord Hastings, Deceased.

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POSTSCRIPT.

Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.

On the untimely death of the Lord HASTINGS, Son to the Earl of HUNTINGDON.

De honoratissimo Juvene, Dom. HENRICO HASTINGS, Linguis, Artibus, & Virtutibus excultissimo, Comitis HUNTINGDONIAE Filio Unico; qui undevicesimum Aetatis suae annum agens, diem obiit, magno cum Literarum juxtà & Literatorum detrimento.

Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.

In Obitum Honoratissimi Viri, Domini HENRICI HASTINGS.

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LACHRYMAE MVSARVM.

Quam cu [...]eret, [...]acrymans augusti Herois in vruam,

Musa tuum Niobe corpus▪et Arge tuum!

Vt fiueret Morbi Dolor aemulus; ut (que) tume [...]at

Pustula, sic tumeat Lachryma, mille oculis

Flete De [...]e: Britonum hunc Florem tellure repostū

Expromta in Lachrymas Castalis unda riget

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LACHRYMAE MUSARUM; The Tears of the MUSES: Exprest in ELEGIES; WRITTEN By divers persons of Nobility and Worth, Upon the death of the most hopefull, Henry Lord Hastings, Onely Sonn of the Right Honourable FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon Heir-generall of the high-born Prince GEORGE Duke of Clarence, Brother to King EDWARD the fourth.

Collected and set forth by R. B.

Dignum laude virum Musae vetant mori.

Hor.

London, Printed by Tho. Newcomb. 1649.

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The Names of the Writers of these following ELEGIES.

Earl of Westmorland.

Lord Falkland.

Sir Aston Cokaine.

Sir Arthur Gorges.

M. Robert Millward.

M. Tho. Higgons.

M. Charles Cotton.

M. Tho. Pestel sen.

M. George Fairfax.

M. Francis Standish.

M. I. Ioynes

M. Samuel Bold.

M. I. Cave.

M. Phil. Kindar.

M. Robert Herrick.

M. Iohn Denham.

M. Io. Hall.

M. I. B.

M. Iohn Benson.

M. I. Bancroft.

M. Will. Pestel.

M. Tho. Pestel jun.

M. R. P.

M. Io. Rosse.

M. Alex. Brome.

M. Edward Standish.

M. R. Brome.

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[Page]

Upon the death of the most hopeful young Lord, The Lord HASTINGS: A Remembrance from a Kinsman.

IS there a bright Star faln from this our Sphere,

Yet none sets out some newer Kalender?

Do the Orbs sleep in silence? Is the Scheme

Struck dumb at th' apprehension of the Theme?

I shall not challenge Booker here; nor will I

Call up the Mathemat-like dreams of Lilly,

To search the reason, sift Prognosticks out,

How this so sad Disaster came about;

Since that to every one it is well known,

The best and precious things are soonest gone.

[Page] Such Grief by th'cause is heightned to excess;

And where that falls, expression goes less.

Yet if we'd scan why thus he's Hasting hence,

His name may give you some intelligence.

The World with him this opposition had;

He was too good for it, and that too bad.

WESTMORLAND.

On the death of my worthy Friend and Kinsman, the Noble, Vertuous, and Learned Lord HASTINGS.

FArewel, dear Lord and Friend, since thou hast chose

Rather the Phoenix life, then death of Crows:

Though Death hath ta'n thee, yet I'm glad thy Fame

Must still survive in Learned Hastings Name.

For thy great loss, my Fortune I'll condole,

Whilst that Elizium enjoys thy soul.

FALKLAND.

[Page]

A Funeral-Elegie upon the death of Henry Lord Hastings, Son to the Right Honorable, Ferdinando Earl of HUNTINGDON, &c.

KNow all to whom these few sad Lines shall come,

This melancholy Epicedium,

The young Lord Hastings death occasion'd it,

Amidst a storm of Lamentations writ;

Tempests of sighs and groans, and flowing eyes,

Whose yeelding balls dissolve to Delugies;

And mournful Numbers that with dreadful sound

Wait this bemoaned Body to the ground,

Are all, and the last Duties we can pay

That Noble Spirit that is fled away.

'Tis gone, alas! 'tis gone, though it did leave

A body rich in all Nature could give:

Superiour in beauty to the Youth

That won the Spartan Queen to forfeit truth,

Break Wedlocks strictest bonds, and be his wife,

Invironed with tumults all her life.

[Page] His yeers were in the Balmy Spring of age,

Adorn'd with blossoms ripe for Marriage,

And but mature: His sweet Conditions known

To be so good, they could be none but's own.

Our English Nation was enamour'd more

Of his full Worths, then Rome was heretofore

Of great Vespatian's Jew-subduing Heir,

The love and the delight of Mankinde here.

After a large survey of Histories,

Our Criticks (curious in Honour, wise

In parallelling generous souls) will finde,

This youthful Lord did bear as brave a minde:

His few, but well-spent yeers, had master'd all

The Liberal Arts; and his sweet tongue could fall

Into the ancient Dialects; dispence

Sacred Iudaea's amplest Eloquence,

The Latine Idiome elegantly true,

And Greek as rich as Athens ever knew:

The Italian and the French do both confess

Him perfect in their Modern Languages.

At his Nativity, what angry Star

Malignant Influences flung so far?

What Caput Algols, and what dire Aspects

Occasioned so Tragical Effects?

[Page] As soon as Death this fatal blowe had given,

I fancy mighty Clarence sigh'd in heaven;

And (till this glorious soul arrived there)

Recover'd not from his Amaze and Fear.

Had this befaln in antient credulous times,

He had been Deifi'd by Poets Rhymes:

That Age (enamour'd on his Graces) soon

Majestick Fanes in Adoration

Would have rais'd to his Memory, and there

On Golden Altars, yeer succeeding yeer,

Burnt holy Incense, and Sabaean Gums,

That Curls of Vapour from those Hecatoms,

Should reach his soul in heaven. But we must pay

No such Oblations in our purer Way:

A nobler Service we him owe then that,

His fair Example ever t'emulate:

With the advantage of our double yeers,

Let's imitate him; and (through all affairs,

And all encounters of our lives) intend

To live like him, and make so good an end.

To aim at brave things, is an evident signe,

In Spirits, that to Honour they incline;

And (though they do come short in the Contest)

'Tis full of glory to have done ones best.

[Page] You mournful Parents, whom the Fates compel

To bear the loss of this great Miracle,

This Wonder of our times; amidst a sigh,

(Surrounded with your thickst Calamity)

Reflect on Joy; think what an happiness

(Though Humane Nature here conceits it less)

It was to have a son of so much worth,

He was too good to grace the wretched Earth.

As silver Trent through our North Counties glides,

Adorn'd with Swans, and crown'd with flowry sides;

And rushing into mightier Humber's waves,

Augments the Regal Aestuarium's braves:

So he, after a Life of Eighteen yeers,

Well manag'd, (as Example to our Peers)

In's early youth (encountring sullen Fate)

Orecome, became a Trophey to his state.

Didst thou sleep, Hymen? or art lately grown

T'affect the Subterranean Region?

Enamour'd on blear'd Libentina's eyes,

Hoarse howling Dirges, and the baleful cries

Of inauspicious voices, and (above

Thy Star-like Torch) with horrid Tombs in love?

Thou art; or surely hadst oppos'd this hie

Affront of Death against thy Deitie;

[Page] Nor wrong'd an excellent Virgin, who had given

Her heart to him, who hath his soul to heaven:

Whose Beauties thou hast clouded, and whose eyes

Drowned in tears of these sad Exequies.

Those fam'd Heroes of the Golden Age,

Those Demi-gods, whose Vertues did asswage

And calm the furies of the wildest Mindes,

That were grown salvage, ev'n against their kindes;

Might from their Constellations have look'd down,

And (by this young Lord) seen themselves out-gone.

Farewel, admired Spirit, that art free

From this strict prison of Mortality.

Ashby, proud of the honour to enshrine

The beauteous Body, (whence the Soul divine

Did lately part) be careful of thy Trust,

That no profane hand wrong that hallowed Dust.

The costly Marble needs no friend t'engrave

Upon it any doleful Epitaph:

No good man's tongue that office will decline,

Whilst yeers succeeding reach the end of Time.

ASTON COKAINE.

[Page]

Upon the Death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS.

SInce that young Hastings' bove our Hemisphear

Is snatch'd away, O let some Angels Wing

Lend me a Quill, his Noble Fame to rear

Up to that Quire which Hallelujah sing.

Sure Heaven it self for us thought him too good,

And took him hence just in his strength and prime,

When Vertue 'gan to make him understood,

Beyond the Peers and Nobles of his time.

Wherefore 'twill ask more then a Mortal Pen,

To speak his worth unto Posterity;

Whose judgment shin'd 'mongst grave and learned men,

With true Devotion, and integrity:

For which, in heaven, the Joys of lasting Bliss

He reaps, whilst we sowe Tears for him we miss.

[Page] But I no praise for Poesie affect,

Nor Flatteries hoped meed doth me incite;

Such base-born thoughts, as servile, I reject:

Sorrow doth dictate what my Zeal doth write:

Sorrow for that rich Treasure we have lost,

Zeal to the Memory of what we had:

And that is all they can, that can say most.

So sings my Muse in Zeal and Sorrow clad;

So sang Achilles to his silver Harp,

When foul affront had' reft his fair delight;

So sings sweet Philomel against the Sharp;

So sings the Swan, when life is taking flight:

So sings my Muse the notes which Sorrow weeps;

Which Antheme sung, my Muse for ever sleeps.

ARTHUR GORGES.

[Page]

EPIGRAM Upon the death of the most hopeful, Henry Lord Hastings, Eldest son of the Right Honorable, FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon, Heir general of the high-born Prince, GEORGE Duke of Clarence, Brother to King Edward 4.

'TIs a Mistake; Lord Hastings did not die,

But 'twas our Hopes, and his great Parents Joy

That did depart. Is he said to decease,

That raigns in Glory now, and lives in Peace?

Yet may we gently mourn, not that he's gone,

But left us till the Resurrection.

Our Joy ought to be more, since he doth get

A Heavenly Crown, for an Earths Coronet.

Then let us cease our Tears: for if we grieve

Too much, too little surely we believe.

ROB. MILLWARD.

[Page]

Upon the death of my Lord Hastings.

THese are thy Triumphs, Death, who prid'st to give

Their lives an end, who best deserve to live.

Dull, useless men, whom Nature makes in vain,

Or but to fill her Number and her Train;

Men by the world remembred but till Death,

Whose empty story endeth with their breath,

Stay till Old-age consume them; when the Good,

The Noble, and the Wise, are kill'd i'th' bud.

Such was the Subject of our Grief, in whom

All that times past can boast, or times to come

Can hope, is lost: whose Blood, although its Springs

Stream from the Royal loyns of Englands Kings,

His Vertue hath exalted and refin'd;

For his high Birth was lower then his Minde

But that the Fates, inexorably bent

To mischief Man, and ruine his Content,

Would have this Sacrifice, the Sisters might

Have been affected with so sweet a sight,

And thought their hastie Cruelty a Crime,

To tear him from his Friends before his Time.

THOMAS HIGGONS.

[Page]

An Elegie upon the Lord HASTINGS.

AMongst the Mourners that attend his Herse

With flowing eyes, and wish each Tear a Verse,

T'embalm his Fame, and his dear Merit save

Uninjur'd from th' oblivion of the Grave;

A Sacrificer I am come to be,

Of this poor Offring to his Memory.

O could our pious Meditations thrive

So well, to keep his better part alive!

So that, in stead of Him, we could but finde

Those fair Examples of his Letter'd Minde:

Vertuous Emulation then might be

Our hopes of Good men, though not such as He.

But in his hopeful progress since he's crost,

Pale Vertue droops, now her best Pattern's lost.

'Twas hard, neither Divine, nor Humane Parts,

The strength of Goodness, Learning, and of Arts,

Full crowds of Friends, nor all the Pray'rs of them,

Nor that he was the Pillar of his Stem,

[Page] Affection's Mark, secure of all mens Hate,

Could rescue him from the sad stroke of Fate.

Why was not th' Air drest in Prodigions forms,

To groan in Thunder, and to weep in Storms?

And, as at some mens Fall, why did not His

In Nature work a Metamorphosis?

No; he was gentle, and his soul was sent

A silent Victim to the Firmament.

Weep, Ladies, weep, lament great Hastings Fall;

His House is bury'd in his Funeral:

Bathe him in Tears, till there appear no trace

Of those sad Blushes in his lovely face:

Let there be in't of Guilt no seeming sence,

Nor other Colour then of Innocence.

For he was wise and good, though he was young,

Well suited to the Stock from whence he sprung:

And what in Youth is Ignorance and Vice,

In him prov'd Piety of an excellent price.

Farewel, dear Lord; and since thy body must

In time return to its first matter, Dust;

Rest in thy melancholy Tomb in peace: for who

Would longer live, that could but now die so?

CHA. COTTON.

[Page]

For the Right Honourable, LVCIE Countess of HUNTINGDON. 1649. From her Honours humblest Servant, T. P. Her Soliloquie, or her Meditation.

'TIs mystick Union, Man and Wife,

Yet scarce distinct from Single life,

Till like the Sun, a Son arise,

And set them Both before their eyes:

No sweeter, braver, fairer sight,

Then thus to stand in our own Light.

And such a Son I joy'd: (Ay me!

Was ever such a Son as he?)

And felt what fervent spirits of Love

Orbs of Maternal Bowels move.

I wou'd not shun those outward snares,

Of Shape, of shining eyes and hairs;

[Page] Which still the more they catch, or wound,

More pleasing still their power I found.

And it is lawful, godly too,

To love what Gods own fingers do:

Whose Angels still are sweetly fac'd,

Himself with perfect Beauty grac'd.

But eager Vertue from the Clay,

In words and actions making way

To Sense: in All that heard or saw

Became a fierce almighty Law,

And stoop'd all hearts that were not stone,

Or drown'd in Malice; or in Moan,

Like mine. So overgone with Wo,

My very Reason bids it go:

Nor lies it in the power of Wit,

By Reason to recover it.

The Rational Reply.

By Reason to recover it,

Sans forlorn Hope, or wings of Wit,

Who serves you, his main Battel brings.

Heark how the feather'd Tempest sings;

Your clouds of Grief transpiercing quite,

Or hurrying to disordered Flight.

[Page] Then (Sorrow vanquisht) on his Herse

Rears Trophies of victorious Verse.

First, let us ask Impatience why

At gentle Death's approach we cry.

Sweet Favourite of heaven, that flies

With Cupids face, but Hermes eyes;

Whose Rods, and Snakes, and seeming harms,

Our souls in slumber wisely charms.

For that poor Spark call'd Life; the brand,

The Rush we carry in our hand;

Which dropping and defiling spends:

Death gives Delight that never ends.

O mad mistake! Sea-tost, a Calm;

And wounded, we reject a Balm:

Rabide for want of Rest, we keep

A bawling, and refuse to sleep:

Dead-weary tir'd, yet scorn to stay;

And, Cripple, hurl our Crutch away.

But these are General: for your pain

Here's water of a Special vein;

Wherein no relish you shall feel

Of Sulph'ry Wit, but Reasons steel.

What cou'd you wish your Son? A pair

Of Dove-like Eyes; as Ioseph fair;

[Page] Straight as young Mountain-Pines, whose arms

The Sun with early kisses warms:

Guilds, blazons so each Leaf and Limb,

That Paint is dirt, and Metal dim.

He was all this, and all that we

Can fetch from Beauties pedigree.

The Case so bright, what radiance threw

The Jewel that it did indue!

The Queen that held the Throne in state

Of Grace, there drest and re-create:

Till like a Lark from earthly Cage

Enlarg'd, and fir'd with strong new Rage,

She mounts, and sings in heaven. And what?

May we not fall some drops thereat?

Good reason, if the Tears you shed

From joyful brains expansion spread,

Call it not Grief; foul Envie 'tis,

To whine at Saints enshrin'd in bliss.

Reflect on all the whole worlds frame,

It climbs and twines to whence it came:

So Beams that shine, and Streams that flow,

Back to their Sun and Ocean go.

So Vernal Flowers, which, at their birth

Thrust up pure crowns from impure Earth,

[Page]Grow by degrees full ripe, and then

Must hide them in their Roots agen.

He parted in Perfection's time,

In Golden Number, and in Prime

Of Life, of Love, and White Report

For Vertue; past the ranker sort

Of Flash-green youths; no Vicious Stain

Envenoming his Blood or Brain:

From Duels, Drink, Dice, Cares, Age, Laws,

Faces of Dames, and Eagles Claws,

Exempt: he laughs at us that still

Bleat round the bottom of the hill.

Last, think of your clear open way

To heaven, obstructed by his stay;

While, more then Mer-Maid, face and words

All Ear-wax melts, and breaks all Cords.

Did not his Look, his Voice and Deed,

With full commerce of Pleasure feed

Your Sense and Soul? which now takes wing,

Checks not at ought; nor spies fair thing

Worth stooping at. O let it flie

To Quarries there above the skie.

THO. PESTEL, Pat.

[Page]

On the untimely death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS, Onely Son to FERDINAND and LUCIE, Earl and Countess of Huntingdon.

UP, Beldame Muse! thy Climacterick's past:

But one work more; thy lastingst, if not last.

Lord Hastings glorious shade before us stands,

Whose Vertue exacts this Duty from our hands:

'Twill be a Night-piece, friends: Here never seek

Lucie large-soul'd, and Ferdinand the meek;

Who both esteem'd it braver work and worth,

To bring this Son up, then t'have brought him forth.

He th'Exposition to their double Text,

The Glass wherein they saw themselves reflext;

He, that was He; and She, and both in one,

Both she and he, all three, in him are gone.

This Sun-set all obscur'd: with Aetna prest,

Their burning Giant Grief can take no rest.

[Page] To print so black a Sorrow fair, I want

Gold-plate for Paper, Pen of Adamant.

Veils on those chief Close-mourners faces spread;

I pencil out all gentler eyes in Red

Swoln lids; as having spent their bottom-store

Of precious dew-drops, till their hearts are sore.

Which fast congeal'd Balm has his Herse infixt

In Chrystal Case, with Pearl and Amber mixt.

Rare Monument! but cannot him refine,

So rich a Saint impov'rishing his Shrine.

Was he not purest, fairest, wisest, best?

All Graces magazin'd, yet unexprest.

When his bright Bodies eminence I view'd,

With such a soveraign Intellect indu'd,

So just and ponder'd Temp'rature to finde,

So early ripe, so richly matcht in Minde;

Choice Gem of Nature, set in Nuturing Gold;

Exulting Fancy quick conceiv'd the Mold

Was ready now, wherein th'Almightie's hand

Wou'd cast new Nobles, and restore the Land;

Whose finest Gold, if in compare it bring,

Is sure to finde his strong Mercurial Sting.

He caus'd us hurl our Vows, and gave free scope

To change our Wishes into Present Hope.

[Page] But O Sydneian! O Blood-Royal Fate!

Great Britains curse, whose sinful, shameful State

Makes all Heroick Vertue soon decay;

Which mad she throws, or just God takes away.

So fell our Ripheus in New Troy, lest he

Perchance her Fires and instant Ruine see:

For will that sacred Thundrer never powre

On such a Sodom his revengeful showre?

Where Lust and Pride, with their five brethren stand

In bold defiance of his armed hand:

Where Lords and Gentry, mindless of white Fame,

Graceless of old, are now beneath all Shame.

Pardon, fresh Saint, to set thy shining Good

With such coarse foils, to make it understood:

To topless height, from their base depth below,

Thy flaming Pyramid of Praise wou'd grow.

But for thou joy'st th'applause of Angels there,

How frivolous are our weak Ecchoes here!

THO. PESTEL the father.

[Page]

Illustrissimi Herois, Domini HENRICI HASTINGS, EPICAEDIUM.

INcipe Musa dolens (causaest heu magna doloris)

Edere lugubri Carmina moesta sono.

Squallida funerea cingas mea Musa cupresso

Tempora, & in lacrymas fons Heliconis eat.

Tristia prol [...]tis jam sunt celebranda choreis

Funera; plorantes tristia sola decent.

Nunc fletus, pallor, gemitus, suspiria, luctus,

Atque decent madidae funera tanta genae.

Heu quanta est rigidi dura inclementia Fati?

Corripit egregium mors inopina virum;

Cujus erant animo Pietas, Sapientia, Virtus,

Qui fuerat generis spesque decusque sui;

Dum parat ut Sponsus taedas celebrare jugales,

Vrna vicem thalamis cogit inire suis.

Sperata arescit tenera modò messis in herba,

Absumptus subito funere penè Puer.

[Page] Sed cum Nestoreis fuerat dignissimus annis,

Tam citò cur tetricis praeda deabus erat?

An quia pulcher erat, primaeque in Flore Iuventae

Parca fuit teneri capta decore viri?

An quod amant Iuvenum pasci Exanthemata Flore,

Signavit niveam Pustula rubra cutem?

Pustula Lernaeo crescens pollentius angue

Insperata lues, torruit igne jecur.

Insuetas Libitina dapes Bellaria gestit,

Nullaque plebei corporis off a placet.

Moestus cecinit, GEOR. FAIREFAX.

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PHOCYLIDES.

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LEt every generous soul pay to this Herse

Some tribute of his Grief to flow in Verse.

Hast not a vein for Verse? yet if thou could

Distil each word in Numbers, sure thou would.

All Sorrows, streams flow not from Pens, but Eyes:

Let others write; thou ow'st thy Sighs and Cries.

G. F▪

[Page]

Upon the Right Honourable, LUCIE Countess of Huntingdon's Heroick and most Christian bearing of that grand Affliction, the death of her onely Son, The young Lord HASTINGS, &c.

HEavens bless your Wits (dear Madam) here's a sad

Trial, enough to make a Man stark mad.

A Cross might vex a blest Saint's patience,

Were he not mounted 'bove the reach of Sense.

How shall a female brest be able then,

To bear a shock might shake the best of men?

To me, a Miracle it is, you live;

Much more, to hear that you do onely grieve:

Nay, what is yet more strange to me, that you

In point of Grief, pay Nature but her due:

As if you could do more then others, and

Had all those rebel-Passions [...] command.

[Page] Upon a loss so heavie as yours is,

Some Niobe had been a stone, by this:

And we might plain have read her discontent,

On her still weeping Marble-monument.

Madame, you shame the very Stoicks, who

But talkt of those brave matters, which you do.

They could boast much, and well discourse upon

The patient suffering of affliction:

But, when it came to th' point, they ne'er came nie

This acting part of your Philosophie.

But, 'tis no wonder that a Stoick you

Out-strip; I'd see a Christian thus much do:

Shew me a Christian that a Cross will take,

So heavie, freely, for his Iesus sake;

Or, that shall be presented with a Cup

So bitter, and willingly shall drink it up.

Well, I had thought, in point of suffring, no-man

Could me have stript; but now, I yeeld t'a woman.

And (Madame) this I am resolv'd upon,

Your heart is full of Grace, or made of Stone.

FRANCIS STANDISH.

[Page]

An ELEGIE Upon the death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS, the onely Son and Heir of the Right Honorable FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon; Deceasing immediately before the day designed for his Marriage.

FOrbear, forbear, Great house of Huntingdon,

T'engross this Grief, as if 'twere all your own:

The Kingdom has a share; and every Eye

Claims priviledge to weep his Elegie.

The Mirrour of our Age, Lord Hastings dead?

And in his Urn, our hopes, thus, buried?

And shall not we come in, (who share i'th' smart)

In your sad consort, to lament our part?

We must—or, if that language be you say,

Rude, and uncivil; we intreat we may.

Alas! our griefs swell high, whilst inward pent;

They'll burst our hearts, unless we give them vent.

For pity then, if not to spare your eyes,

Let our tears joyn, to mourn his Obsequies.

Sweet souls, alas! when we have wept our fill,

You'll finde enough of tears, for you left, still.

[Page] But stay—What voice was that? Methinks I hear

My better Angel whisp'ring in my ear

Words of another strain, which purer are

Then what my Carnal Muse suggesteth, far.

What though our loss be great; so great, that none

In our Age has exceeded it, but One?

Yet, this is not the way t'express our Pieties,

By making large Alembecks of our Eyes.

The greater our loss is, the more's his gains;

And, whom our eyes think dead, our hearts know

A Saint in heaven: who, being there inthron'd, (reigns

How can he take it, here to be bemoan'd?

Away then with these Pagan Rites, and be

More Christian-like in your Solemnity:

And know, he celebrates his Fun'ral best,

Who comes unto't, as to a Nuptial-feast.

And truely, 'tis his Nuptial-feast indeed;

Not, that which Man meant, but, which God decreed.

A Marriage fit for him; and, in my sence,

Most sutable unto his Innocence:

A Marriage with the Lamb, who took his sin,

First, quite away from him; and then, took Him.

Why should we mourn then? how can it but please us?

When young Lord Hastings married to his Iesus.

FRA. STANDISH.

[Page]

On the incomparable Lord HASTINGS: An ELEGIE.

TO speak thy Praises, or our Sorrows, now,

Are both impossible. Alone they know

(Exalted Soul) thy worth, who now above

Converse with thee by Intellect and Love.

Grief onely, and dumb Admiration, are

The Legacies thou hast bequeath'd us here.

This onely woful Comfort's left us now;

Our Misery's compleat: Fate knows not how,

Beyond this, to inflict another wound:

" They fear not falling, that lie on the ground.

Not perfect Bankrupt was this Land till now,

Nor her sick lapsed desp'rate state below

The hopes of all recovery: till His fall,

We could not justly say we had lost All.

We could not say, while he was yet alive,

Truth and Religion did not still survive:

There was a Church and Academy still:

All Vertue, whilst he liv'd, they could not kill.

Justice and Honour; whatsoever's good,

Was not yet fled from Earth to Heaven. Still stood

[Page] In him (that Cypher for these many yeers)

Th'opprest, and now quite ruin'd House of Peers.

All these, not lost, but outlaw'd, did conspire,

To him, as to their centre, to retire.

But he is gone; and now this carcase, World,

Is into her first, rude, dark Chaos, hurl'd.

Vertue and Knowledge now for Monsters go:

To grope out Truth henceforth, how shall we do?

Or finde what's Just or Sense? To whom repair,

To let us know those things have been (not are.)

Further then him, before, you need not move,

To learn the Placits of the

Stoick and Academick Philosophy.

Porch or Grove.

Or had you pleased to consult the Sprite

Of the deep

Pythagoras

Samian, or

Aristotle.

Stagyrite,

Seneca.

Cordova's Sage, or

Plutarch.

him that did renown

The scarce-before-him-known

Cheronea.

Boeotian Town:

Rome, Athens, Sybils Oracles could teach

Nothing not comprehended in his reach.

Was none so hopeful Instrument as he,

The savage World t' reduce from Levity;

Purge and restore our Manners, and call home

Civility to barb'rous Christendome.

For this great Work, he furnisht was like those

Upon whose sacred heads did once repose,

[Page] In shape of parted Tongues, celestial Fire:

What they infused had he did acquire:

Unless we justly make a doubt, wheth'r He

At Eighteen could in full possession be

(Without a Miracle) of all Tongues; one

Whereof to purchase asks an Age alone.

Him in's own Language might have heard indite,

The Swarthy Arab, or the Elamite:

What Athens heard, or Solyma, or Rome

Of old, that from his tongue did flowing come:

He that now drinks of Tyber, or of Po,

Utters not that word that he did not know:

No more doth he that tastes the Streams of Sceine,

Or those of Celtica, or Aquitain.

He was indeed a Miracle: and we,

That Miracles are ceas'd, may now agree.

How could we hope t' enjoy him, being one,

Whose new profane Opinion says, There's none?

Besides this, our own wicked Merits might

Instruct us; 'Twixt our Darkness, and his Light,

There could not be a long Communion.

In vain therefore, alas, did we go on,

To light his Nuptial-Tapers, and invoke

Iuno and Hymen, and the air to choke

[Page] With ecchoing Epithalms; the whilst above,

Th' Angelick Quire, enflamed with his love,

Court him from us, to those Celestial Bowers,

As fitting for their Consort, and not ours.

So unto Heaven (our thoughts being fixt on Clay)

In's Fever's fiery Chariot he takes way:

The weeks first day sets forth; and six days done,

(As God had his) his Sabbath he begun.

Thrice happie Soul! whose Work and Labour gone,

Holds with thy Maker's such proportion.

Now whether he a Constellation be,

Intelligence, or Tut'lar Deity,

Is hid from us. 'Tis great'st part of our cross,

Nothing of him to know or feel, but's loss:

Which though we could not read in leaves of Fate,

Thy Tow'rs (O Ashby) did prognosticate,

Which fell the dutious ushers to his fall:

There was no further use of them at all,

Since he must fall, for whose sake they had stood;

" Not be at all, as to no end,'s as good.

This these Prophetick Buildings did perceive,

And, bowing to the ground before, took leave,

JO. JOYNES.

[Page]

A Funeral-Elegie upon the Right Honourable the Lord HASTINGS.

WHat Soil is this, where nothing that is good,

Nor Vertues branch, can live, nor Beauties bud?

For thou wast both, great Heroe, on whose head

The Muses and the Graces both had shed

And pour'd out all their store: for Form and Wit,

Vertue and Honour, there did crowned sit,

As in their Temple, where they chose to shine;

And, being Deities, made thee their Shrine:

Yea, great Apollo thought once to resigne,

And make thee President of all the Nine.

For us, poor Dwarfs in Science, we thought fit

To hold in Fee, of thy great Giant-wit,

Those smaller parcels which we have of Art,

And pay thee Tribute, each one for his part.

For thou wert second Verulam, to disclose

Nature's dark Secrets: and if any pose

'Bout Metaphysicks, he might answer'd be,

And read no other Suarez o're, but thee,

[Page] Wherfore great Phoebus did at length combine

With Hymen, to perpetuate thy Line,

By matching with Astraea: this seem'd fit,

To him that's god of Physick, and of Wit;

That in this ebbe of Justice, Wisdom, Grace,

Thou mightst be Stem and Root of such a Race,

As might revive dead Vertue, and restore

To present view what th' Heroes did of yore,

By quelling Monsters, purging Ordures hence,

Of Vice and Sin, that stain the Conscience.

And this we hoped all: yea, 't had been done,

Had not the Soil been England, whereupon

This noble Branch was planted: but she hates

Ever her gen'rous Plants: here culminates

Old Saturn, enemy to all that's good,

Eating his childrens Flesh, swilling their Blood:

And England is his Sister; Mother of Sins,

Stepdame to Vertues, Nurse of Assasins.

A Soil that fosters Brambles, Shrubs, and Thorns;

Slaughter's the Lamb, and sets up Beasts with Horns.

A Soil, that nurses Briars, Weeds, and Rape;

But starves the Olive, Fig-tree, and the Grape;

Those Nobler Plants, and glory of the Wood,

To all that know what's Soveraign, Sweet, and Good.

[Page] Go travel then, brave Soul, take wing, and flie

From place accurst, where nought but Perjurie,

Rapine and Blood do swagger; and where all

Must turn eith'r Country-Carl, or Cannibal,

That means to live: Noble here must be none,

Nor gen'rous Plants, whilst Brambles hold the Throne.

Fly then from Babylon up to Sion; there's

In Heaven both Monarch, and an House of Peers;

Yea, there are Bishops too, with grave aspect,

The Churches Nobles, all with glories deckt:

And there's an Academ, though here's none now,

Where high Degrees are given to such as thou.

Doctors, Virgins, and Martyrs, these are three,

Say ancient Fathers, that have Dignity;

Certain Aureola's above the rest,

Because that these have earned Glory best.

Thou art these three: Doctor in learned Lore;

Virgin as pure, as any there before,

Save onely one: and Martyr sure thou art,

If either Love or Fever plaid his part.

Hie then, immortal Soul, to thine own Sphere,

Where these three Crowns attend thee; and shine there

A glorious Constellation, far above

The frowns of Fortune, or the pangs of Love.

S. BOLD.

[Page]

An ELOGIE Upon the most lamented death of the Lord HASTINGS, Onely Son and Heir to the Right Honorable the Earl of Huntingdon.
Deceased at LONDON, 1649.

TEach me (dread Fate) out of thy strong-clasp'd book,

Whose every Marble page as vast doth look

As th'immense Volume of Eternity,

Whereto for Index serves Mortality.

Teach me (dread Sire, while I have time a while)

These two flat Contraries to reconcile;

Th'Effect to be, and still and still subsist;

The Cause to vanish, and yet ne'er be mist:

Goodness one main toward Subsistencie,

As convertible in the

Ens, Verum & Bonum convertuntur. Arist.

Trinitie

Of Being, thus to pass as nothing were

Dependent from it in this Worlds Matter;

[Page] And yet that Matter 'tis suppos'd to be,

Except as truely Good, no Entity.

The Riddles out th' Abstract HE took away,

Yet left the Concrete World Good still; to stay,

To tell the Speculators of our time,

How meerly supernatural, sublime

HIS being in it was; and (if of HIM)

Our notions may be: so shall we esteem

No Loss b' our losing Goodness; but't more improv'd,

More highly honor'd, and more dearly lov'd,

Then when 'twas Consubstantial: so shall all

That but minde HIM, grow Metaphysicall,

Rarely transcendent, as HE was: for Minde,

An Extract 'bove the mix of earth-Mankinde;

Such as to which, Place, Wealth, Pow'r, Goodness, give,

To make them (what they would be thought) To live.

This Noble Top-sprig grew from such a Stem

As well might serve t' adorn a Diadem;

To give and take a lustre, whose bright rays

Might have dispell'd the Fog of these black days.

Oh what an Expectation have we lost,

That now but t'have had such, we are left to boast!

And with an impious Modestie shall blame

Even Destiny, that left us nought but's Name:

[Page] A Name so glorious in what ere is Hie,

That it will stand inroll'd t'Eternitie.

Great Huntingdon's grac'd HEIR went from us hence

A gracious Victim to high Providence.

Ad raptum primi Mobilis Domini C. C. raptim sic flevit deditiss. familiae ejusdem & Humillimus servus, J. CAVE.

Upon the death of the Lord Hastings.

HEre—Stay, Tears, until these Obsequies

Have had their Rights perform'd. Here—here lies

Th'Off-spring of the gods, Apollo's glory,

The Muses Morning-star; the true Story

Of faign'd Adonis. Whatsoe'er is said

Of Angels bliss, within this Tomb is laid.

Nature, if ever, as before of old,

Thou shalt form Vertue, frame it of this Mold.

Flow Tears, now flow amain, to wash this Tomb,

And keep it fair until the day of Doom.

PHIL. KINDAR.

[Page]

The New Charon, Upon the death of Henry Lord Hastings. The Musical part being set by M. Henry Lawes.

The Speakers, Charon and Eucosmeia.

Euc.

CHaron, O Charon, draw thy Boat to th'shore,

And to thy many, take in one soul more.

Cha.

Who calls? who calls?

Euc.

One overwhelm'd with ruth;

Have pity either on my Tears or Youth,

And take me in, who am in deep Distress;

But first cast off thy wonted Churlishness.

Cha.

I will be gentle as that Air which yeelds

A breath of Balm along th'Elizean fields.

Speak, what art thou?

Euc.

One, once that had a lover,

Then which, thy self ne'er wafted sweeter over.

He was—

Cha.

Say what.

Eu.

Ay me, my woes are deep.

Cha.

Prethee relate, while I give ear and weep.

Euc.

He was an Hastings; and that one Name has

In it all Good, that is, and ever was.

[Page] He was my Life, my Love, my Ioy; but di'd

Some hours before I shou'd have been his Bride.

Chorus.

Thus, thus the Gods celestial still decree,

For Humane Ioy, Contingent Misery.

Euc.

The hallowed Tapers all prepared were,

And Hymen call'd to bless the Rites.

Cha.

Stop there

Euc.

Great are my woes.

Cha.

And great must that Grief be,

That makes grim Charon thus to pity thee.

But now come in.

Euc.

More let me yet relate.

Cha.

I cannot stay; more souls for waftage wait,

And I must hence.

Eu.

Yet let me thus much know,

Departing hence, where Good and Bad souls go.

Cha.

Those souls which ne'er were drencht in pleasures stream,

The Fields of Pluto are reserv'd for them;

Where, drest with garlands, there they walk the ground,

Whose blessed Youth with endless flow'rs is crown'd.

But such as have been drown'd in this wilde Sea,

For those is kept the Gulf of Hecate;

Where, with their own contagion they are fed;

And there do punish, and are punished.

This known, the rest of thy sad story tell,

When on the Flood that nine times circles Hell

Chorus.

We sail along, to visit mortals never;

But there to live, where Love shall last for ever.

ROB. HERRICK.

[Page]

An ELEGIE Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.

REader, preserve thy peace: those busie eyes

Will weep at their own sad Discoveries;

When every line they adde, improves thy loss,

Till, having view'd the whole, they sum a Cross,

Such as derides thy Passions best relief,

And scorns the succours of thy easie Grief.

Yet lest thy Ignorance betray thy name

Of Man, and Pious; read, and mourn: the shame

Of an exemption from just sense, doth show

Irrational, beyond excessive Wo.

Since Reason then can priviledge a Tear,

Manhood, uncensur'd, pay that Tribute here

Upon this Noble Urn. Here, here remains

Dust far more precious then in India's veins:

Within these cold embraces ravisht lies

That which compleats the Ages Tyrannies;

Who weak to such another Ill appear:

For, what destroys our Hope, secures our Fear.

[Page] What Sin unexpiated in this Land

Of Groans, hath guided so severe a hand?

The late Great Victim that your Altars knew,

You angry gods, might have excus'd this new

Oblation; and have spar'd one lofty Light

Of Vertue, to inform our steps aright:

By whose Example good, condemned we

Might have run on to kinder Destiny.

But as the Leader of the Herd fell first,

A Sacrifice to quench the raging thirst

Of inflam'd Vengeance for past Crimes: so none

But this white fatted Youngling could atone,

By his untimely Fate, that impious Smoke

That sullied Earth, and did Heaven's pity choke.

Let it suffice for us, that we have lost,

In Him, more then the widow'd World can boast

In any lump of her remaining Clay.

Fair as the gray ey'd Morn, He was: the Day,

Youthful, and climbing upwards still, imparts

No haste like that of his increasing Parts:

Like the Meridian-beam, his Vertues light

Was seen; as full of comfort, and as bright.

Ah that that Noon had been as fixt as clear! but He,

That onely wanted Immortality

[Page] To make him perfect, now submits to night;

In the black bosom of whose sable Spight,

He leaves a cloud of Flesh behinde, and flies,

Refin'd all Ray and Glory, to the Skies.

Great Saint shine there in an eternal Sphere,

And tell those Powers to whom thou now drawst neer,

That, by our trembling Sense, in HASTINGS dead,

Their Anger, and our ugly Faults, are read:

The short lines of whose Life did to our eyes,

Their Love and Majestie epitomize.

Tell them whose stern Decrees impose our Laws,

The feasted Grave may close her hollow Jaws.

Though Sin search Nature, to provide her here

A second Entertainment half so dear;

She'll never meet a Plenty like this Herse,

Till Time present her with the Universe.

JOHN DENHAM.

[Page]

To the Earl of HVNTINGDON, On the death of his Son.

My Lord,

COuld any Tears our Miseries remove,

Redeem our Losses, or asswage our Love,

Blest were you, though you paid for ev'ry Tear

As rich a Jewel as the West can bear,

And did, for ev'ry Sigh or Groan, dispense

An od'rous Tempest of Masle Frankincense.

But these impossible Wishes cannot finde

A place; and are but scatter'd by the Winde.

The Laws by which the World is govern'd, are

As Indispensable as Regular.

A perisht Flower can from that Central fire

That lurks within its seed, next Spring aspire

[Page] Unto its former life and beauty: But

Pityable Man, when once his eyes are shut,

Is no more seen; but past recov'ry lost;

A tender fleeting Form, a Bloodless Ghost.

And, 'las, that God-like Youth that did amaze

All Expectations, and faln Vertue raise

Beyond her known Idea's He, in whom

So many Noble Bloods had found their home;

(Like some fam'd River, whose proud streams are great,

Because that Other Rivers therein meet:)

He that was onely like Himself; hath quit

His Cage of Clay; I saw a paleness sit

Upon his lips, and lurid darkness break

And chase the Orient Purple of his cheek.

I saw his Eyes seal'd to eternal Night,

And all those Spices which Corruption fright

Straw'd on his Waxen Limbs. He's gone, he's gone,

And cruelly fled; and yet not he alone,

But Courage, Sweetness, Innocence, and Truth,

And all those sweet imbellishments of Youth;

And all those full Perfections which engage

Our praise, and cast a reverence on Age;

And all those Arts, which by long toil acquir'd,

Do make men either useful or admir'd:

[Page] All which he mastred, not as others, who

By lame Degrees to a Full stature grow;

He, at the first, was such: what other men

From Climate, Humour, Temper, Custom gain,

Nature endow'd him with: and though she please

To d'all her works at leasure, by degrees;

In this vast Miracle she her self surpast,

And shew'd, at once, Perfection and Haste.

Nor was there any thing in him to weed,

To prune, or straighten: that Celestial Seed

The Stars had shed into him, could not flow

To Loosness, nor yet poorly under-grow.

Nothing in him was crooked, lame, or flat,

But Geometrically proportionate:

Nor had he that which the severely Wise

Deplore in Men, and would abolish; Vice.

His was a Snowie soul, a pure Essence

So clearly shining in'ts first Innocence,

That He did that Opinion true declare,

That Vice and Evil utter Nothings are.

Nor was his Knowledge other: that pure Minde

Was too Aethereal, and too refin'd,

To know or common Paths, or common Bounds:

His was like Lightning, which all Sight confounds,

[Page] And strikes so swiftly, that it seems to be

Rather the object of the Memory.

Thus did he oft his Tutors sense prevent,

And happily surprise him in's intent:

Thus he o'er-run all Science, (like a King

Conquering by approach) as if that every Thing,

Stript of its outward dross, and all refin'd

Into a Form, lay open to his Minde:

Or his pure Minde could suddenly disperse

It self all ways, and th'row all Objects pierce.

Yet whatsoe'er into his Minde did pass,

Though writ in Water, did remain in Brass.

Yet has this Genius made a sad depart,

Maugre those strong Resistances of Art,

[...]hich the wise-pow'rful MAYERN, (who can give

[...]s much as poor Mortality can receive)

Could, like a Father, make; maugre the Vows

And holy Ardences of a melting Spouse;

Maugre that strength of yeers which had not known

His tender Cheeks blossom'd by their first Down;

Maugre those Hopes which did so bravely feign

That a great Race should spring from him again;

A Race of Hastings's, whose High Deeds should raise

New lustre to their Grand-sires Images.

[Page] But ('las) these Hopes are now meer Dreams become,

And all those Glories buried in his Tomb.

Too rigorous Fates, 'tis but an envions sport,

To make those Lives that are most brave, most short;

Or in destroying Heroes do you finde

A way so oft to Massacre Mankinde?

Or cannot milder Heaven one Influence throw,

To make one thing Glorious and Lasting too?

But there's a difference 'twixt Heav'n and Earth,

And those things which from Each receive their birth:

On Earth, the finest things fade soonest; there,

Ill-boding Meteors the most short-liv'd are.

And yet,(my Lord) since that Celestial fire

That is shut up within us, doth aspire,

Being once freed, like an ambitious Flame,

Unto that Fountain, from whence first it came;

With what a glorious Brightness is He gone,

May we suppose, that so augustly shone

Even th'row his Clay? What ravishing Transports now

Seize on that Intellect? How doth it glow

With fresh Illapses of the purest Light,

Free from the Bondage of chill Sense and Night?

How do the ghosts with admiration gaze

On this great Shade! With what a proud amaze

[Page] Some look on what he was, whiles others ween,

With emulous Sorrow, what he should have been!

Whilst that his Love, exalted by its Loss,

Does more sublim'd intuitive species toss;

And, swoln above it self, serenely move

In that great Centre of Light, Life and Love;

Where I must lose him: For, can I express

What He's, that am not He? But this confess,

My Lord, that since you measure by his bliss

Your Wishes, this his Apotheosis

(Where part of you is Deifi'd) must call

Your Acclamations, but no Grief at all.

He's now at peace, disturb him not with Fears,

Nor violate his Ashes with your Tears.

J. HALL.

[Page]

In obitum Henrici Domini Hastingii, Filii, FERDINANDI Comitis Huntingdonii, unici: Simulac * Unionis, totius Angliae, pretiosissimi. EPITAPHIVM.

HIc* Gemma est, pro quâ, Venus & Cum Pallade, Juno,

Antiquam litem, tresrenovâre Deae.

Vincere erant omnes, ipso Jove Iudice, dignae;

Vincere, sed cunctae non potuêre Deae.

Ergo, memor strages quantas lis prima dedisset,

Jupiter hanc Gemmam condidit hoc Tumulo.

Anglicè.

Here lies a * Jewel, for which strove

Pallas, Iuno, and Queen of Love.

Iove being Judge, they all were thought

Worthy to ha't, but all could not.

Remembring therefore what great Wars

Fell out, upon their former Jars;

Iove, to prevent the like to come,

He lockt this Jewel in this Tomb.

FRANCISCUS STANDISH.

[Page]

In Honour to the Great Memorial of the Right Honourable Henry Lord Hastings, deceased; Late, the most Hopeful, Onely Son, and Heir apparent to the Right Honourable FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon.

BLush, ye Pretenders to Astrologie,

That tell us Stories out of Ptolomie,

Kepler, with others; what shall be this yeer

Th'effects of Saturn joyn'd with Jupiter;

But could not tell us that our Sun should Set,

To rise no more within this Sphere; nor yet

Th'Effects we have since felt: That such a Star

(For whose vast Loss we now sad Mourners are)

Its much-admired Influence should withdraw,

And be No more, to us, Ye ne'er foresaw.

This, had you but predicted long ago,

We might have been prepar'd for such a Blowe.

But Oh Accursed-Envious-Fowl Disease!

Within thy Circuit, could none other please

[Page] Thy Palate: Was thy Thirst so great,

That, onely, Noble Blood must quench the Heat?

Hadst thou miss'd him, we could have spar'd thee Store;

Or with thy Phangs hadst mark'd him, and No more;

Our Curses had been spared: nor should we

Have call'd thy Footsteps a Deformity.

But thus, to seize on Honour, Beauty, Youth,

And at one Draught Carouse them, plainly doth

Convince us, That with Death thou didst agree,

To Storm this Fort, which, else, had kept out Thee.

Cupid, no more be stil'd a Deity;

Thy Bowe and Quiver, may they shatter'd lie:

And Hymen, henceforth be thine Altars raz'd,

Thy Priests be dumb, thy Temples all defac'd:

Since that for This, your Pow'rs conjoyned were,

To sport your selves with this so Noble Pair.

Why were your Torches lighted in their Eyes?

Pretending Nuptials, meaning Sacrifice.

What Advocate will dare to justifie,

Or Story match, this Matchless Tyranny?

But 'tis in vain; in vain we do Increase

Our Woes, complaining, which are Numberless▪

But Fate, we serve, not search thy deep Intents,

Nor dare we Quarrel at those cross Events

[Page] Accoast us daily. We would onely pay

The rites of our poor Tears, t'his Memory.

Had this our Loss been but a Private one,

'T had been the loss (yet) of a Precious Stone:

But as a Mighty Rock, shrunk from his place,

Unfixeth all about it, is our Case.

Should we now drain the Fountain of our Eyes,

And bring in Rivers 'stead of Elegies;

Could we at once weep Blood, and rend our Hearts,

Still we shouid come far short' his great Deserts.

Since then there is no Vertue in our Tears,

To warm his Bloodless Limbs: since w' ought to bear

Our Crosses with smoothe brows, and to submit

To Heaven's Decree, who best knows what is fit;

Thrice-Noble Pair of Mourners at this Hearse,

Who claim Chief Priviledge; Why do your Tears

Still issue forth? Oh do not lend a Voice

To Grief so sad; and make so shrill a Noise,

Ecchoing Fruitless Groans, that fill the Skie,

And thus Lament his state ye should Envie.

There is a time for Tears; but certainly,

There is a time to lay those Sorrows by.

Resolved, therefore, on the Question, We

Will doat no more on Earth's Inconstancy:

[Page] For, If to Man and Beast the Lot's all one,

What Priviledge have we to build upon?

If the tall Cedars must be Levell'd, why

Should humble Shrubs expect Security?

Resolved, also, Their Condition's best,

Whom Heaven hath taken to Eternal Rest:

Whither, Great Soul, th'art fled, and now dost raign

Above in Majestie, neer Charles his Wain.

I. B.

Upon the much-lamented death of the Lord HASTINGS.

HOw richly is thy Sepulchre adorn'd!

With how much State thy Obsequies perform'd!

Drest in their Sable Robes, each Muse out-vies

The other, in their mournful Elegies:

Mournful indeed, since thy own Loss sends forth

A Grief as great, as (living) thou hadst Worth.

Our Pens grace not thy Herse enough; it wears

The mournful Livery of thy Country's tears;

Widowed, ere Married, to thy Parts; that so

Thy Love writes Maid, yet is half Widow too.

All good men mourn: she weeps, 'cause thou art gone.

Fain would I die, to be thus wept upon.

JO. BENSON, Hosp. Lincoln.

[Page]

To the never-dying Memory of the Noble Lord Hastings, &c. The meanest Son of the Muses consecrates this ELEGIE.

WHat? will my cloudy forehead never clear?

Shall I the arms of Sorrow ever bear

Crost' bout my Skeleton? and shall mine eye

Be like Aquarius Pitcher, never dry?

O surely never! Grief from yeer to yeer

Rents my poor Heart, and makes his Home-stead there:

Affliction gripes me, as young Hercules

The gasping Snakes: Nor can I hope for ease,

When noble Hastings, in whom Hope did lie▪

At Anchor, is storm'd hence by Destiny;

And, like a Paphian Rose but newly thrust

Out of its Green Bed, blasted into Dust.

Remorseless Fate! be hateful as thy Harms,

That rudely pluckst out of their Countries arms

Her loveliest Pledges: couldst thou not have seiz'd

Upon some worthless Wretches long diseas'd,

[Page] Or fell'd some sturdie Oaks, that have so long

Done with stiff arms the bending Willows wrong;

But needs thou must a Noble Plant remove,

So fixt in Piety, so fill'd with Love

And Goodness, as before our Grandsire's Fall

He had begotten been, and Nature (all

That intersected time till he was born)

Had studied how her dear Work to adorn?

Thou in meer pity mightst have taken Truce

A while, and given him longer use

Of vital Joys. But thus rare Flowers fail

As soon as blown; sweet Spices most exhale;

Fair shining Gems too frequently are crackt;

And richly-laden Vessels quickly wrackt.

Come, noble Nymphs, drop Sorrows Pearls apace

Into his Sepulchre, and on that place

Sweet Flowers plant, that Embleme-wise may show

His sweeter Graces for whose sake they grow;

And cause his fresh Grave visited to be,

As a rare Garden, and rich Treasury.

You worthy Parents of this peerless Son,

Think that you see him (now his Part is done

On this lowe Stage) applauded by the hie

Angels, i' th' Court of blest Eternity:

[Page] And let such tow'ring Contemplations throw

Your Sorrows down, and smother all your Wo.

What ere was wanting in his Life's extent,

His Fame supplies, without a Monument:

Who with all weight of Worth that Youth could have,

Sank to the restful centre of the Grave,

As th' Indian dives for Pearls. But Pearls, and Gems,

And all those dazling things call'd Diadems,

What are they to the Glories that surround

His dearer Soul, i' th' heavenly Palace Crown'd?

Where, above Mortal Change, and Fatal Chance,

He (while the rapt Orbs their Lavolta's dance)

Sings Hymns of Joy, and with the Angels Quire

Keeps a blest time, that never shall expire.

An Epitaph on the same.

Tread off, prophaner feet, forbear

To press this hallowed mold, where lies

Fair Vertue's and high Honour's Heir,

The Darling of the bounteous Skies;

Who by rare Parts, the flight of Fame,

In Life, out-went; in Death, his Name.

THO. BANCROFT.

[Page]

An ELEGIE On the death of the Right Honourable, Henry Lord Hastings; Presented at his Funeral.

HOw comes this press of People to this place,

Oppress'd with inward Anguish? On each face

Sorrow sits deeply printed; and each eye,

Swoln big with Grief, drops down an Elegie.

'Tis Love, that Magnes of the world, that drew

This sad Assembly hither, not to view

Each other, but with Zeal and Service pure,

To wait on him, who, living, I am sure,

Was so compleat Perfection, that I may

(Sans Flatt'ry) call him Miracle, and say,

He di'd to make his Motto good, this way,

In height of Gratitude, for to express,

He honour'd us to wait upon his Herse.

Who can be silent now, or so dull grown,

Not to have sense? An universal Groan

[Page]Befits a Gen'ral Loss. Come, let us sigh

Together; so conspiring far more high

To raise his Fame and Monument: I know

The gentler Windes will their assistance show,

And on their wings transport his lovely Name

As far as Titan with his fulgent Flame

Doth gild the World. This done, their latest breath,

In hoarse and hollow Murmures against Death,

They will expire: which I should also do,

Were it not Womanish, and Childish too.

We may not grieve too much, lest it should prove

Envie at Happiness, not Signes of Love.

For he was Vertue's Magazine, and thence

He did disperse his pretious Influence

On all about him. He was right compleat,

And, which is wonderful, as Good as Great.

Cease then your Grief, and dry your eyes: though hence

He's fled, yet still a great Intelligence

He lives; and will for many Ages stand,

For Life and Learning, Mirrour of the Land.

W. PESTEL.

[Page]

ON HENRY Lord HASTINGS.

THree Loyal HENRIES, sprung from Huntingdon,

We saw alive: the First and Last are gone,

Bright Saints to Heaven, above all Fanci'd Spheres,

To meet their Soveraign in That House of Peers:

The Third, Gods hand by Wonder hath preserv'd,

In whom their Honour Trebly is reserv'd.

So Sybils Books consum'd; the Last, contains

Their precious Truths, and Treble Value gains.

Howe'er, we sadly mourn his Nephew's Fate

Makes Widow'd England still more desolate.

Oh, never Such a Son to Parents mind;

oh, never Subject Loyaller inclin'd;

Oh, none more Pious, none more Man, so soon;

Ripe for his Set, ere rais'd to half his Noon.

That mightier hand, that stopp'd the mighty Sun,

Can th'row his Circle, sooner, make him run.

A varied Fever had surpriz'd his Head,

And Death ensu'd, when Royal Blood he bled.

[Page] Bodies live not, when Head and Heart decays,

Where all their Veins are right Basilica's.

The Fountain dri'd, how should the Chanel run?

Goodnight to Stars, when Darkned is the Sun.

Thus Royal, Loyal, Learn'd, Lov'd Hastings lies;

All Good mens Loss; to Saints, a glorious Prize.

THO. PESTELLUS, filius.

EPICEDION In obitum Domini HENRICI HASTINGS Baronis, Illustrissimi.

SAnguineas Oculis lachrymas effundere possem,

Infandum damnum si reparare queam.

Sed frustra. Tantum lachrymis aequare dolorem

Non opis est nostrae. Tetrice siste dolor.

Quomodo virtutes comprendam Epicedia scribens

Carmine, quas nullus vel numerare potis?

Doctrinae, ingenii lumen columenque sepultum

Hoc, nostro Zenith, Sole cadente jacet.

[Page] Nonne vides Flores excindi tempore Verno?

Dulcis sic cecidit Flosculus ingenii,

Heros illustris, nulli Pietato secundus;

Tantum annis juvenis, Cognitione senex.

Ingenuas Artes didicit Iuvenilibus annis;

Virtutum centrum, Relligionis honos.

Mystica cunctorum primordia novit ad unguem:

Doctrinae eximiae calluit omne genus.

Procedam ulterius? tantum est renovare Dolorem

Infandum. Iam nunc gurrula Musatace.

Auree Flos Sophiae, requiesce secure Sepulchro;

Nostrum, Te extincto, plangere munus erit.

R. P.

[Page]

Upon the much-lamented Departure of the right Hopeful, and truly Noble, HENRY Lord HASTINGS, Son and Heir to the Right Honorable, FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon.

COme, Tragick Muse, finde me one Spring through all

Parnassus Rise, womb-swell'd with bitter'st Gall,

To write my Heart, as Sable as the Herse;

My Thoughts as Black, as ever stood in Verse.

Resigne, for once, th' Elixar of All yet

Ere vow'd unto thy Shrine; their Fancie, Wit,

Their Language; Youth of all; yet all this Store,

Too small to pencil That, which calls for More.

Lend me a Fancie, which may reach; a Minde

As full of Excellency, in every kinde,

As th' Earth of Causes, or the Heavens of Light:

The Sun's but full, and full's the Margarite.

Fit me with Tiptoe-Language, to command

The sharpst-ey'd Intellect, and force a stand:

[Page] Such may the Subject be, so full of dress,

Deserving more then Language can express.

Furnish my Brain with onely so much Art,

To tell the World, There was One, whose least part

Deserv'd the largest Volume: tell me then,

If so much Youth was not th' Abstract of Men.

When These have done their parts, and Thousands more,

All is but Callis, unto Tagus shore;

A Minute, to an Age; Lead-Oar, to Gold:

So precious was that Gem now Caskt in Mold.

If (Passenger) thou ask whom this may be,

Thus Thron'd on such an height of Dignity;

I may not tell, but blushing, when each Letter

Terms my speech rude, because 'tis spoke no better.

Ghess by the Sequele; see the Mourners all,

Ev'n drunk with Asps, and Cockatrices gall;

Pensive to death: view next th' Attendants; see

How each one droops, because it was not he.

The very Steeds which drew that heavenly Load,

Went such a pace, as if they'd understood

Their Master's fall; so slowe, yet full of grace,

As ne'er to come unto a parting-place.

Like hairy Comets pregnant with Mishaps,

Do seldom come alone; but After-claps

[Page] Of Princely Horrour, (issues of that Womb:)

Such (though in State) are Waiters on a Tomb.

Lo here, the Crest, the Sword, the Gantlet, all

Applauded Rites, that speak a Funeral,

Like Comets, come before, and tell us plain,

Some Prince his Death, or Noble Hero's slain.

I can no longer hold: Look ye upon

The Royal Arms, and then say, Huntingdon

Hath now the largest share in this sad Fate;

Though Darby, Suffolk, Clarence, great in State,

May challenge Blacks; yet much more Royal Blood,

Centred in Hastings, t'make a perfect Good:

Amongst this Throng of Nobles, we may set

A Stuart, Tudor, and Plantagenet:

None e'er disdain'd this Royal, Loyal Stem,

Faithful to Church, true to the Diadem:

Well might it be thought Honour to fix there,

Where God's sole Soveraign, and the prime sole Peer.

So much of every Line, of every Good,

Of every Vertue, extant in their Blood

Was here; that as in him they lived all

Sweetly united; so in him they fall.

I here dare tell the mad Pythagorist,

Helyes; his Transmigration now hath mist:

[Page] A Body so compos'd; each Lineament

So perfect, full, exact,'s if Nature meant

To shew her Master-piece: and that possest

With such a noble Soul, as ne'er can rest

In coarser Roofs; it can no other fit;

There's not a Subject capable of it.

Judge in three words: he was, at these young yeers,

A Synod, Commons, and an House of Peers.

His pure, diviner Parts, shew him but lent

The World, a Pattern for their Parliament;

Where ev'ry Member, like a Loyal Soul,

Assists each other, to compleat the Whole.

Of a just Temper, Gracious and Good

To God and Man; kept close, yet understood;

Apparent, yet unvoic'd; made known to all

But to himself: no ways Thrasonical

Of what whole Ages might: therefore in brief,

His Lords and Ladies highest Joy and Grief.

Should I attempt each Circumstance to scan,

Which makes the Grief unequall'd, as the Man;

[...]ight by oddes far sooner end this Strife

[...] Dead my Self, then This to th' Life.

[Page]

Epitaph.

Here lies our Ages Paramont; the Store

Of Albions shame, because it mourns no more.

And since the Fate is so, if, for his fall

We cannot weep enough, our Children shall.

JOH. ROSSE.

Upon the unhappie Separation of those united Souls, The Honorable Henry Lord Hastings, And his beloved Parallel.

WHat make I here? how ill this place befits

A Shrub, to sprout i' th' Lebanon of Wits?

Mong such Caesarean Muses, whose pure strains

Out-soar the Clouds of Sublunary brains.

I'ld quit the place, but that I know I may

Lament as much, though not so well as they.

Thus Princely Eagles, when together th'are

Met at a Carcase, yeeld the Fly a share.

[Page] The Tongs and Iews-trump too, when they do come

In Consort, serve to fill a Vacuum,

And to compleat the sound, though artless Tone:

So he that can't sing Elegies, can groan.

Sad accident! how pityable's Man!

Billow'd about this restless Ocean;

Born to be wretched; who no sooner doth

Begin to live or love, but dies to both:

The Tennis-ball bandy'd 'tween Love and Fate,

Whom both do court, yet both do emulate.

Whom (like young Doctors) Women use to kill,

To try Experiments, and nurse their skill:

The Females Trophie. Or if Love can't do't,

To sink him, Fate contributeth her foot,

To crush i' th' Bud. Thus the great Hastings di'd;

The Young-mens Glory, and the Scholars Pride;

Envie's just Zenith—

But why should I lament his death? since he

Loseth not by't: but 'tis his LOVE and We;

She, we 're undone; for both have lost that All,

That She could Love, or We could Vertue call:

One who by's Learning did demonstrate, that

There is a Plebs in Brain, as well as State;

[Page] And by his Studies labour'd to derive

Nobility from Worth, its Primitive:

Whom he that would mourn, as he ought to do,

Must be the Poet, and the Subject too.

Now others Obsequies are my Thanksgiving;

Nor mourn I for the dead, but for the living.

Poor Hemistick! that but began to be

Inoculated, when she lost the Tree.

She that had flam'd her soul with Hymens fires,

Who with full Sayls, blown on with strong desires,

In reach of Hav'n, in sight of Safety, sinks;

Up to the lips in Nectar, yet not drinks.

She that had past the Gulf of Love and Wo,

(Which none but we, that taste and feel, can know)

Now must love o'er again, and come to be

New disciplin'd in Cupids A, B, C.

How vast a world has she to range about?

How long a search, ere she can finde one out,

Second to him? An equal we despair,

Like Pallas born o' th' brain of Iupiter.

Riddle of Nature, of unfathom'd parts,

Whose Brain was the Synopsis of all Arts:

Whose Soul, whose Heart, whose Person justly can

Stile Lover, Scholar, and a Gentleman:

[Page] Whom loaden Nature did designe to die

Unwedded, being a Genealogie

Unto himself, and therefore thought it shame

To live in any Issue but his Fame.

This Sun in's Zenith, totters now, and falls;

And Death's the Vigil to Loves Festivals.

Thus purest Lovers, when their Ioy is near,

Are by't struck dead, as Cowards are by Fear.

Yet though he could not know what Joys wait on

The Bridal-Bed, but by privation;

Now woes the Angels, and intends to be

Wedded to them in their Virginity.

Yet are the Muses cross'd: for had this hit,

We'd joyn'd Yorks Wealth, to th' Lancaster of Wit.

Sic flevit ALEX. BROME.

[Page]

An ELEGIE On the much-lamented death of the Lord HASTINGS.

A Lack, good young Lord Hastings, is he dead?

He's rise again, as sure as buried.

There's Comfort yet that's worth our Sadness then:

But yet w'are bound to grieve, as to love men.

Shall I be silent then, not to relate

The Grievance of my Minde for this sad Fate?

Wanting the Learned Phrases to set forth,

In high Expressions, such a Subject's worth.

Let deep Divines, that long have studied Art,

Adorn their Lines to please: I'll write my Part.

Then on, my mournful Pen, help, Muses nine,

That he may drop a Tear, that reads a Line;

When he shall know the grievous Sighs and Groans

Of that sad Noble Race of Hnntingdons.

[Page] Great pity 'tis, so young a Branch as He,

Should drop so sudden, from so good a Tree.

But Heaven th'Author of all earthly things,

Must have his will on Lords, as well as Kings.

Nor is the Root so faded, but hath power

To plant a Graft that may produce a Flower,

To equalize the Loss you so lament,

And cure the Malady of Discontent.

Cease not to mourn, yet, let not inward Grief

Cause a Despair, since heaven can give relief.

They're Angels guard him; King of kings hath sent,

Where's difference 'twixt a Jayl from Parliament.

Cease then to weep; for he and Angels sing

Halle lujah in Heav'n, with Charles our King.

EDWARD STANDISH.

[Page]

To the Memory of the Right Noble, and most Hopeful, Henry Lord Hastings, Deceased.

A Way, my Muse, or bid me hence from thee;

No Subject for thy help, nor Work for me,

This Story yeelds. For, by thy dictates, I

Never spilt Ink, except in Comedie;

Which in the thronged Theatres did appear

All Mirth and Laughter. What should we do here,

Amidst an Inundation of such Grief,

As to be dry'd up cannot hope relief

Till the Last firy day▪ Yet since 'tis so,

How can we scape our shares of general Wo?

And (pardon me, Thalia) your sublime

Spirit, since this Vicissitude of Time

Has found no cause to smile, nor have you been

But Mourner-like, and but by Mourners seen.

And, though you cannot express Sorrow, I

Must be allow'd to shew Mortality;

[Page] And grieve without your aid. No painting forth,

Or Flourishes of Art, on Weight and Worth

Are requisite: This Story is too true

To be made more perspicuous to our view,

By adding Fiction to 't. All may be said

Or written in few words, Lord Hastings's dead.

But who can stop at this! when these few words

An Argument wide, as the World affords,

Of Grief? Yet see! th' expression to prevent,

It stupifies us with Astonishment

Which dumbs us, and benums our Faculties▪

And like an Over-charge within us lies:

Such, as in its Report, the Canon breaks:

No less this Sorrow threatens, ere it speaks.

Now let Sigh-tempests and Tear-torrents rise,

To pour out Marble-hearts, th'row melting Eyes,

For this dear Loss: when we are forc'd to say,

The Hope of Huntingdon is turn'd to Clay;

Henry Lord Hastings, He—Here let me stay:

Sad World, I tell thee Who he was, not What;

That would o'er-swell the Volume: Read thou that

In the precedent Elegies, here writ,

By Masters of best Eloquence and Wit.

Read, and mark well his Character, and know,

They do of Truth more then Affection show.

[Page] On this ingenuous Subject none could lye,

Though ne'er so much inspir'd with Poetry.

Enrich thy Knowledge, once, by having read

More Vertue, then is Living, of one Dead.

They are march'd on. Now I bring up the Rear,

And not without as True and Salt a Tear

As the Van-leader of this solemn Train:

Onely to thee I utter this again,

Thou World, Read and Collect all, here, exprest

Of Excellencies on this Lord deceast;

And adde, with it, all thou canst think is good;

And all that thou canst wish were understood

To be thine own, to all is said before;

Great Hastings was, and is all that, and more.

RIC. BROME.

§

HEre was the end of the Book intended to have been; and so was it Printed, before these following Papers were written or sent in.

[Page] Of all those the Noble, Reverend and worthy Writers nominated in the Catalogue without their due Additions of Title, or listed contrary to their Degree or Quality, a Pardon is most humbly desired for the Collector, whose Crime of Ignorance grew out of the want of timely Instruction.

POSTSCRIPT.

ELEGIES, Written by

M. Andrew Marvel.

M. M. N.

M. Ioannes Harmarus.

Iohannes Dryden.

Cyrillus Wyche▪

Edw. Campion.

Tho. Adams.

M. Radulphus Mountague▪

[Page]

Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.

GO, intercept some Fountain in the Vein,

Whose Virgin-Source yet never steept the Plain.

Hastings is dead, and we must finde a Store

Of Tears untoucht, and never wept before.

Go, stand betwixt the Morning and the Flowers;

And, ere they fall, arrest the early Showers.

Hastings is dead; and we, disconsolate,

With early Tears must mourn his early Fate.

Alas, his Vertues did his Death presage:

Needs must he die, that doth out-run his Age.

The Phlegmatick and Slowe prolongs his day,

And on Times Wheel sticks like a Remora.

What man is he, that hath not Heaven beguil'd,

And is not thence mistaken for a Childe?

While those of growth more sudden, and more bold,

Are hurried hence, as if already old.

For, there above, They number not as here,

But weigh to Man the Geometrick yeer.

[Page] Had he but at this Measure still increast,

And on the Tree of Life once made a Feast,

As that of Knowledge; what Loves had he given

To Earth, and then what Jealousies to Heaven!

But 't is a Maxime of that State, That none,

Lest He become like Them, taste more then one.

Therefore the Democratick Stars did rise,

And all that Worth from hence did Ostracize.

Yet as some Prince, that, for State-Jealousie,

Secures his neerest and most lov'd Ally;

His Thought with richest Triumphs entertains,

And in the choicest Pleasures charms his Pains:

So he, not banisht hence, but there confin'd,

There better recreates his active Minde.

Before the Chrystal Palace where he dwells,

The armed Angels hold their Carouzels;

And underneath, he views the Turnaments

Of all these Sublunary Elements.

But most he doth th' Eternal Book behold,

On which the happie Names do stand enroll'd;

And gladly there can all his Kinred claim,

But most rejoyces at his Mothers name.

The gods themselves cannot their Joy conceal,

But draw their Veils, and their pure Beams reveal:

[Page]Onely they drooping Hymeneus note,

Who for sad Purple, tears his Saffron- coat;

And trails his Torches th'row the Starry Hall

Reversed, at his Darlings Funeral.

And Aesculapius, who, asham'd and stern,

Himself at once condemneth, and Mayern;

Like some sad Chymist, who, prepar'd to reap

The Golden Harvest, sees his Glasses leap.

For, how Immortal must their Race have stood,

Had Mayern once been mixt with Hastings blood!

How Sweet and Verdant would these Lawrels be,

Had they been planted on that Balsam-tree!

But what could he, good man, although he bruis'd

All Herbs, and them a thousand ways infus'd?

All he had try'd, but all in vain, he saw,

And wept, as we, without Redress or Law.

For Man (alas) is but the Heavens sport;

And Art indeed is Long, but Life is Short.

ANDREW MARVEL.

[Page]

On the untimely death of the Lord HASTINGS, Son to the Earl of HUNTINGDON.

IT is decreed, we must be drain'd (I see)

Down to the dregs of a Democracie:

Death's i' the Plot, and in his drunken mood

Swills none, of late, but streams of Noble Blood▪

Was't not enough the Hatchet did hew down

Those well-grown Oaks, and Pillars of the Crown,

But that the tender Sapling too must fall

Thus, to inhanse the Kingdoms Funeral?

Ye Widow'd Graces, and ye Muses too,

Bring your Perfumes; with Tears and Flowers bestrew

This sacred Temple, where ye once did sit

Crowned with all the pomp of Youth and Wit.

'Tis HASTINGS, he that promis'd to appear

What Strafford, Falkland, and brave Capel were;

Whose pregnant Brain spake a descent from Iove,

And Shape Celestial, from the Queen of Love;

[Page] So that, to charm the World, he match'd the grace

Of Nestors Wisdom with Adonis Face.

The Nurse Minerva boasts how this her son

Suck'd dry the Poets and their Helicon;

With what a nimble pace he posted ore

The fields of Phant'sie, rifled all her Store,

Cropt ev'ry Flow'r and Tulip which did grow,

To make a Garland for his own fair Brow;

That young Apollo never wan more Praise,

When he pursu'd his Love, and catcht the Bays.

This but the Bud, these but the Blossoms were;

The Fruit grew ripe in Studies more severe,

Where he seem'd born to master and control

Both the Cecropian and the Roman School,

Big with designe t' usurp the Chair of Wit

From Tully, and depose the Stagirit.

Adde next to these, the Grace which did belong

T' unlock those Treasures with a Golden tongue;

A Tongue so rarely furnisht, as might boast

It self of kin to those at Pentecost;

And in their proper Languages begun

To court the Rising and the Setting Sun;

Fit to reform our own degen'rous Sprites,

And plant the world with Loyal Proselytes.

[Page] Thus ripen'd, (see!) this rare Example stood

No less ennobled in Desert then Blood;

Whilst others, swoln high with an empty Name,

Leave nothing but their Lusts and Sins to Fame:

But if you'll Noble be indeed, your yeers

Improve like him, strive to become his Peers.

How joy'd, (think you) the Noble Huntingdon,

To be thus copi'd in so brave a Son!

How did he bless, admire, and smile, to see

This young Ascanius of his Family,

As did Aeneas that his onely Joy,

The precious Relique of confounded Troy!

What Fruits he reckon'd would the Harvest bring,

After so sweet and so serene a Spring!

How fair an Issue should the Boy beget,

Good as their Sire, and as their Grandsires Great,

Whose Vertues claim this Title to their Line,

Of all the British Heroes most Divine.

No marvel then the famous Mayern strove

To place his Childe where he had fixt his Love,

Melting the Indies, to unite in one

His Onely Daughter with this onely Son;

That so his longing Soul might once behold

This Jewel set within his Ring of Gold.

[Page] The old man woo'd, as if he meant to prove

An earnest Rival in his daughters love;

Gave Hymen speedy Orders to prepare

The Triumphs due unto this harmless War;

Invited all the gods of Mirth and Wine,

That, as Themselves, the Feast might be Divine:

Venus her Trinkets sent, without delay,

To dress ten thousand Cupids for the day:

The Duellists with plighted hands did greet,

And promis'd quick within the Lists to meet;

The lustre of whose mutual Smiles and Rays,

Foretold a Sunshine of auspicious days.

But Oh! the Scene is alter'd; some cross Star

Darts down Infection th'row the Hemisphear:

Those eyes which Hymen hop'd should light his Torch,

Aethereal flames of Fevers now do scorch,

And envious Pimples too dig Graves apace,

To bury all the Glories of his face:

The Boy-god sighing, soon unbends his Bowe,

And, with his Mother, lies extinct belowe,

In vain expecting Succour, while the Race

Of Stygian Monsters seize upon the place;

Where they their Revels keep, mocking the skill

Of best Physitians, and then rage their fill,

[Page] Till ugly Death his dire Magnetick Dart

Shot th'row the Veins, to hit his tender Heart,

Ruined the Fort, and then snatch'd the Prize

Due to the conquest of his Ladies eyes.

The onely Legacies he left us, are,

Grief to his Friends; and to the World, Despair▪

So when fair Phoebus 'gins to gild the Morn,

Some sullen Cloud, within a moment born,

Sends Hell and Darkness th'row the air to flie,

And all with Mourning hangs the lofty Skie.

M. N.

[Page]

De honoratissimo Juvene, Dom. HENRICO HASTINGS, Linguis, Artibus, & Virtutibus excultissimo,
Comitis HUNTINGDONIAE Filio Unico; qui undevicesimum Aetatis suae annum agens, diem obiit, magno cum Literarum juxtà & Literatorum detrimento.

PEgasus excussit fontem unum e Vertice montis;

Laxat at hìc fontes singula Musa duos.

Semper ut è teneris lacrymae Labuntur ocellis,

Sic LACRYMAE Musis Musica semper erit.

Apostrophe ad defunctum.

Qui Musas omnes in Te complexus es uno,

Musa Tibi non est quae fleat una satis.

[Page]

[...].

[...]

[...].

[...]

[...].

[...].

[...]

[...].

[...]

[...].

IOANNES HARMARVS, Oxoniensis. [...], & C. W. M. moerens posuit.

[Page]

Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.

MUst Noble Hastings Immaturely die,

(The Honour of his ancient Family?)

Beauty and Learning thus together meet,

To bring a Winding for a Wedding-sheet?

Must Vertue prove Death's Harbinger? Must She,

With him expiring, feel Mortality?

Is Death (Sin's wages) Grace's now? shall Art

Make us more Learned, onely to depart?

If Merit be Disease, if Vertue Death;

To be Good, Not to be; who'd then bequeath

Himself to Discipline? Who'd not esteem

Labour a Crime, Study Self-murther deem?

Our Noble Youth now have pretence to be

Dunces securely, Ign'rant healthfully.

Rare Linguist! whose Worth speaks it self, whose Praise,

Though not his Own, all Tongues Besides do raise:

Then Whom, Great Alexander may seem Less;

Who conquer'd Men, but not their Languages.

[Page] In his mouth Nations speak; his Tongue might be

Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.

His native Soyl was the Four parts o' th' Earth;

All Europe was too narrow for his Birth.

A young Apostle; and (with rev'rence may

I speak 'it) inspir'd with gift of Tongues, as They.

Nature gave him, a Childe, what Men in vain

Oft strive, by Art though further'd, to obtain.

His Body was an Orb, his sublime Soul

Did move on Vertue's and on Learning's Pole:

Whose Reg'lar Motions better to our view,

Then Archimedes Sphere, the Heavens did shew.

Graces and Vertues, Languages and Arts,

Beauty and Learning, fill'd up all the parts.

Heav'ns Gifts, which do, like falling Stars, appear

Scatter'd in Others; all, as in their Sphear,

Were fix'd and conglobate in's Soul; and thence

Shone th'row his Body, with sweet Influence;

Letting their Glories so on each Limb fall,

The whole Frame render'd was Celestial.

Come, learned Ptolomy, and trial make,

If thou this Hero's Altitude canst take;

But that transcends thy skill; thrice happie all▪

Could we but prove thus Astronomical.

[Page] Liv'd Tycho now, struck with this Ray, (which shone

More bright i' th' Morn, then others beam at Noon)

He'd take his Astrolabe, and seek out here

What new Star 't was did gild our Hemisphere.

Replenish'd then with such rare Gifts as these,

Where was room left for such a Foul Disease?

The Nations sin hath drawn that Veil, which shrouds

Our Day-spring in so sad benighting Clouds.

Heaven would no longer trust its Pledge; but thus

Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us.

Was there no milder way but the Small Pox,

The very Filth'ness of Pandora's Box?

So many Spots, like naeves, our Venus soil?

One Jewel set off with so many a Foil?

Blisters with pride swell'd, which th'row's flesh did sprout

Like Rose-buds, stuck i' th' Lily-skin about.

Each little Pimple had a Tear in it,

To wail the fault its rising did commit:

Who, Rebel-like, with their own Lord at strife,

Thus made an Insurrection 'gainst his Life.

Or were these Gems sent to adorn his Skin,

The Cab'net of a richer Soul within?

No Comet need foretel his Change drew on,

Whose Corps might seem a Constellation.

[Page] O had he di'd of old, how great a strife

Had been, who from his Death should draw their Life?

Who should, by one rich draught, become what ere

Seneca, Cato, Numa, Caesar, were:

Learn'd, Vertuous, Pious, Great; and have by this

An universal Metempsuchosis.

Must all these ag'd Sires in one Funeral

Expire? All die in one so young, so small?

Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great Fame

Had swoln 'bove any Greek or Romane Name.

But hasty Winter, with one blast, hath brought

The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to nought.

Thus fades the Oak i' th' sprig, i' th' blade the Corn;

Thus, without Young, this Phoenix dies, new born.

Must then old three-legg'd gray-beards with their Gout,

Catarrhs, Rheums, Aches, live three Ages out?

Times Offal, onely fit for th' Hospital,

Or t' hang an Antiquaries room withal;

Must Drunkards, Lechers, spent with Sinning, live

With such helps as Broths, Possits, Physick give?

None live, but such as should die? Shall we meet

With none but Ghostly Fathers in the Street?

Grief makes me rail; Sorrow will force its way;

And, Show'rs of Tears, Tempestuous Sighs best lay.

[Page] The Tongue may fail; but over-flowing Eyes

Will weep out lasting streams of Elegies.

But thou, O Virgin-Widow, left a [...]ne,

Now thy belov'd, heaven-ravisht Spouse is gone,

(Whose skilful Sire in vain strove to apply

Med'cines, when thy Balm was no Remedy)

With greater then Platonick love, O wed

His Soul, though not his Body, to thy Bed:

Let that make thee a Mother; bring thou forth

Th' Idea's of his Vertue, Knowledge, Worth;

Transcribe th' Original in new Copies; give

Hastings o' th' better part: so shall he live

In's Nobler Half; and the great Grandsire be

Of an Heroick Divine Progenie:

An Issue, which [...]t' Eternity shall last,

Yet but th' Irradiations which he cast.

Erect no Mausolaeums: for his best

Monument is his Spouses Marble brest.

JOHANNES DRYDEN, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.

[Page]

In Obitum Honoratissimi Viri, Domini HENRICI HASTINGS.

INcipe lugubris, Musa incipe nostra, querelas;

Contineat Lachrymas nec Cytherea suas:

Excidit amplexu Mus [...]rum abreptus Alumnus;

Pulchrior Idalio Sponsus Adone perit▪

Cum celebranda forent lae [...]o connubia cantu,

Ferres accensas túque Hymenaee faces:

Pronuba praebebant piceas funalia flammas;

Iunonis subiit tunc Libitina vices.

Vertitur in moestum genialis sponda feretrum;

Fit vespillo, priùs qui Paranymphus erat.

Flent omnes tristíque irrorant imbre cadaver;

Et superat morbi lachryma fusa notas.

Pro virtute tuâ si vota superstite dentur,

Victima si pro te sospite digna cadat;

[Page] Vt Pietas, Virtus, Linguaeque, Artesque supersint,

Nec pereat formae, aut Nobilitatis honos;

Qui pro communi renuit se tradere Fato,

Non tibi, sed Patriae denegat officium.

Occidis exemplar, generosae & norma juventae;

Insequitur morum magna ruina tuam.

Vita tibi dempta est, sed nobis Regula vitae:

Tecum Nobilitas semisepulta jacet.

Graecia, Roma, tuam excoluit (quotae Natio!) Linguam:

Qui totum excoleret te, minor orbis erit.

Tantus es, ut coeli tumulandus in orbibus esses;

Non satis in Tumulum terra Britanna patet.

At quid amator eras? Musarum castra sequenti

Permansi [...] puro sanguine sana cutis.

Mox ubi pectus amor, Morbilli corpus adurunt:

Tabe omni costas fortiùs urit amor.

Protegis arte tuâ cultores Phoebe; dolendum est

Arte quod in Medicâ nil Cytherea potest.

Sponsa parata, velut pulchrae virtutis Idaea,

Interiore animam concremat igne tuam.

I procul hinc conjux, auges incendia fletu,

Vulnerat ex oculis ignea gutta tuu.

Est toleranda mihi duri inclementia morbi;

Virtus, aut facies non toleranda tua est.

[Page] Exturget mihi Mens, & laxat Corporis arcta

Vincula, in amplexus non satis ampla tuos:

Extendítque cutem, partésque exporrigit omnes,

Ruptá;que mille aditus per sua membra parat.

Exit Sponsi anima, i [...]gremium Sponsaeque recepta est:

Non duo, jam nexi mentibus unus erunt.

Totus amor, totus nunc Spiritus, I pete coelos:

Non Sponsus, Christi sis modo Spousa tui.

CYRILLUS WYCHE, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.

§

PVllâ hâc in Vrnâ saeculi Genius sui

Reclinat augustum caput:

Natura multâ dote quem ditaverat,

Hominúmque coetu exemerat.

Mortalitatem nisi fateretur suam,

Intelligentiam putes.

Desideratiùs quis unquam vixerit,

Poterítve flebiliùs mori?

Meditentur alii busta, suspendant Tholos,

Titulis onusti grandibus:

[Page] Quorum superstes fama Marmoribus manet

Tribuenda non meritis suis.

Non poscit Hastings Funeris pompam hanc sui;

Sibi non Sepulchra postulat,

Epitaphiúmve, quod recenseret quibus

Sit ortus è Penatibus.

Pietate, Factis, Arte, Linguis Inclytus

Stat Ipse Monumentum sibi.

EDW. CAMPION, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.

§

ARtibus, & Linguis, & Sanguine Nobilis Heros,

Vrnula tot dotes non capit unae tuas.

Vix capiti locus est; in coelis quaere sepulchrum:

Terra negat, Tumulo non satis ampla tuo.

Scribenti titulos mihi longa excrescit Honorum

Pagina; & inceptis grandior illa meis.

Nescimus Patriam, tua si modò lingua loquatur:

Esse suam credit Graecia, Roma suam.

Non unus moreris, funus non plangimus unum;

Sed strages hominum, sed [...] obis.

[Page] Fama superjectam Coelo dignissima te [...]ram

Rumpit, & ad similes te vehit alta deos.

Pallas virtutes, artes donavit Apollo;

Mors tamen has, ill as invidiosa rapit.

Parca parat sua tela, parat sua tela Cupido;

Comburit corpus pustula, pectus amor.

Festinat Citherea suas accendere taedas:

Accendit taedas invi a Parca suas.

Exornat Citherea torum, Libitina Sepulchrum;

Illa suum sternit floribus, illa suum.

Laberis ex Thalamo in Tumulum; mirabile Spectrum

Visus es, & Sponsae non procus esse tuae.

Sponsa tuam mirata luem, restinguere vulnus

Conatur lachrymis; sed magis ardet amor.

Impatiens morbi ruit in contagia; cura

Tanta Tui est, ut sit nulla relicta Sui.

Sit licet atra lues, & nil nisi pustula corpus,

Ibit in ampexus (vel moritura) tuos:

Et placuere tui magis exanthemata vultûs,

Quàm flores propriis qui rubuere genis.

Cum Sponsâ mea Musa tuâ te plangit amátque,

Cum linguis muta est sed mea Musae tuis.

THO. ADAMS, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.

§

[Page]

NObilium pueris bullae olim insignia; Morbi

Nos insignivit plurima bulla notis.

Me nuper languente, infecit pustula corpus;

Iam mentem affecit, Te moriente, meam.

Morbi iterum videor tecum sentire dolores:

Quàm leve ferre meos, quàm grave ferre tuos!

Partior ipse tui languores corporis▪ O si

Virtutes animae partiar ipse Tuae!

RADVLPHVS MOVNTAGVE, EDWARDI MOUNTAGUE Baronis de Boughton Filius natu minor, ex Scholà Westmonast.

FINIS.

§

§

[Page]

[Page]

‘—Vana Salus hominis.’

PIETATI SACRUM.
H. S. E.
Quod mortale fuit
I. N. R. I.
Praestolans Epiphaniam, depositun
HENRICI Baronis HASTINGS
Com. Venantoduni Haeredis designati,
Sobole antiquissimâ & vere Regiâ prognati.
Quippe cujus
Praenobile fluentum per Hungerfordios & Piperelios à Ludovici
VI Francorum-Regis origine devolvit
Per Polos Masculo rivo è Venedotiae principe desilit;
Foemineo ductu è Clarentio, è Lineâ Plantogenistarum,
Ebullienti Nevillorum Scaturigine è Bello-campo promanat,
Qui è Mortuo-mari prosilit,
Bello-campi per dispensatores ab Henrieo primo Angliae
Per Nevillos Monte-acuto impetu ex Edv. I. Regio;
Noviss. per Stanlaeos luculenter prolabitur ab Hen. VII. sinu,
Terreni Sanguinis factus exhaeres,
Coelestem crevit haereditatem.
CLARITATEM SANGUINIS INGENII DOTIBUS SUPER A VIT.
H. I.
Trilinguis Sacer; nec non Gallici & Vernaculi idiomatis ornamentum.
Par decus artium.
Historiarum indagator Sagacissimus.
Omnifariae eruditionis Academia, magnum Numen.
SED VICIT INGENIUM MORUM ET PROBITATIS CANDOR.
E C C E,
Suavitatis Suada, Cor Gratiarum, Sedes Amorum;
Votum & deliciae populi dudum; Nunc desiderium;
Divini amoris flamma: Denuò Astrum.
Filius obsequen [...], Dominus benignus, impubes [...]thicus Senex;
Unicum familiae columen;
Pridiè Sponsalium (proh Hymenaee) Funere luit immaturo.
AT, at
Sanguine Christi longè maxumè Nobi [...]ior,
Sacrarum Literarum studio consultior,
Trini-unius cultu Sanctior, cluens,
Raptus in patriam obiit.
Divi defuncti manibus ingens hoc doloris Amphitheatrum tota Gens Britonum
L. M. Q.
Posuit.

‘Gloria Dei est celare verbum.’Prov.

Denatus A. D. MDCXLIX. IX Kal. Iulii. h

PHIL. KINDE [...].

Information about this book

Title statement

Lachrymæ musarum The tears of the muses : exprest in elegies / written by divers persons of nobility and worth upon the death of the most hopefull, Henry Lord Hastings ... ; collected and set forth by R.B.

Edition statement

1649

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2004-03 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A29640

ID [STC]

Wing B4876

ID [STC]

ESTC R2243

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

12015140

ID [OCLC]

ocm 12015140

ID [VID]

52510

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This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online 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.

Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A29640)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 52510)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 84:8)

Source

— Lachrymæ musarum The tears of the muses : exprest in elegies / written by divers persons of nobility and worth upon the death of the most hopefull, Henry Lord Hastings ... ; collected and set forth by R.B., Brome, Richard, d. 1652?, Dryden, John, 1631-1700..

Extent

[2], 98 [i.e. 96] p., [1] folded leaf of plates : ill.

Printed by Tho. Newcomb,. London :: 1649.. (Particularly notable for containing the first published work of John Dryden.) (Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.)

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