TEARES ON THE DEATH OF MOELIADES.
The third Edition.
EDINBVRGH Printed by Andro Hart. 1614
To the Author.
IN Wanes of Woe thy Sighes my Soule doe tosse,
And doe burst vp the Conduits of my Teares,
Whose ranckling Wound no smoothing Baume long beares,
But freshly bleedes when Ought vpbraides my Losse.
Then thou so sweetly Sorrow makes to sing,
And troubled Passions dost so well accord,
That more Delight Thy Anguish doth afford,
Then Others Ioyes can Satisfaction bring.
What sacred Wits (when rauish'd) doe affect,
To force Affections, Metamorphose Minds,
Whilst numbrous Power the Soule in secret binds,
Thou hast perform'd, transforming in Effect.
For neuer Plaints did greater Pittie moue,
The best Applause that can such Notes approue.
Sr. W. ALEXANDER.
TEARES ON THE DEATH of MOELIADES.
O Heauens! then is it true that Thou art gone,
And left this woefull Ile her Losse to mone,
Moeliades, bright Day-starre of the West,
A Comet blazing Terrour to the East:
And neither that thy Spirit so heauenly wise
Nor Bodie (though of Earth) more pure then Skies,
Nor royall Stemme, nor thy sweet tender Age,
Of cruell Destinies could quensh the Rage?
O fading Hopes! O short-while-lasting Ioy,
Of Earth-borne man, that one Houre can destroy!
Then euen of Vertues Spoyles Death Trophees reares,
As if he gloried most in many Teares.
Forc'd by hard Fates, doe Heauens neglect our Cryes?
Are Starres set only to act Tragedies?
And let them doe their Worst since thou art gone,
Raise whom they list to Thrones, enthron'd dethrone,
Staine Princely Bowres with Blood, and euen to Gange,
In Cypresse sad, glad Hymens Torches change.
Ah thou hast left to liue, and in the Time,
When scarse thou blossom'd in thy pleasant Prime.
So falls by Northern Blast a virgin Rose,
At halfe that doth her bashfull Bosome close:
So a sweet Flourish languishing decayes,
That late did blush when kist by Phoebus Rayes.
So Phoebus mounting the Meridians hight,
Choak't by pale Phoebe, faints vnto our Sight,
Astonish'd Nature sullen stands to see,
The Life of all this All, so chang'd to be,
In gloomie Gownes the Starres about deplore,
The Sea with murmuring Mountaines beates the Shore,
Blacke Darkenesse reeles o're all, in thousand Showres
The weeping Aire, on Earth her sorrow povres,
That in a Palsey, quakes to see so soone
Her Louer set, and Night burst forth ere Noone.
If Heauen (alas) ordain'd thee yong to die,
Why was't not where thou mightst thy Valour trie?
And to the wondring World at least set forth
Some litle Sparke of thy exspected Worth?
Moeliades, O that by Isters Streames,
Mong sounding Trumpets, fierie twinkling Gleames
Of warme vermilion Swords, and Cannons Roare,
Balls thicke as Raine pour'd by the Caspian Shore,
Mong broken Speares, mong ringing Helmes & Shields,
Huge heapes of slaughtred Bodies long the Fields,
In Turkish blood made red like Marses Starre,
Thou ended had thy Life, and Christian Warre:
Or as braue Burbon thou had made old Rome,
Queene of the World, thy Triumph, and thy Tombe.
So Heauens fair Face to Th'vnborne World which reeds,
A Booke had beene of thy illustrous Deeds.
So to their Nephewes aged Syres had tolde
The high Exploits perform'd by thee of olde;
Townes raz'd, and rais'd, victorious, vanquish'd Bands,
Fierce Tyrants flying, foyl'd, kill'd by thy Hands.
And in deare Arras, Virgins faire had wrought
The Bayes and Trophees to thy Countrie brought:
While some New Homer imping Wings to Fame,
Deafe Nilus dwellers had made heare thy Name.
That thou did not attaine these Honours Spheares,
Through want of Worth it was not, but of Yeares.
A Youth more braue, pale Troy with trembling Walls
Did neuer soe, nor She whose Name appalls
Both Titans golden Bowres, in bloody Fights,
Mustring on Marses Field, such Marse like Knights.
The Heauens had brought thee to the highest Hight,
Of Wit and Courage, shewing all their Might
When they thee fram'd. Ay me that what is braue
On Earth, they as their owne so soone should craue.
Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore,
From Thule, to Hydaspes pearlie Shore.
When Forth thy Nurse, Forth where thou first did passe
Thy tender Dayes (who smylde oft on her Glasse,
To see thee gaze) Meandring with her Streames,
Heard thou had left this Round, from Phoebus Beames
She sought to slie, but forced to returne
By Neighbour Brookes, She gaue her selfe to mourne:
And as She rush't her Cyclades among.
She seem'd to plaine, that Heauen had done her wrong.
With a hoarse plaint, Cleyd down her steeppie rockes,
And Tweid through her greene Mountaines clad with flocks,
Did wound the Ocean murmuring thy death,
The Ocean that roard about the Earth,
And to the Mauritanian Atlas tolde,
Who shrunke through griefe, and down his white haires rold
Huge Streames of teares, which changed were in Floods
Wherewith he drown'd the neighbour Plains & Woods.
The lesser Brookes as they did bubling goe,
Did keepe a Consort vnto publicke Woe.
The Shepheards left their Flocks with downe-cast Eyes,
Sdaining to looke vp to the angrie Skies:
Some brake their Pipes, and some in sweet-sad Layes,
Made senselesse things amazed at thy Praise.
His Reed Alexis hang vpon a Tree,
And with his Teares made Doven great to be.
Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore
From Thule, to Hydaspes pearelie Shore.
Chast Maides which haunt faire Aganippe Well,
And you in Tempes sacred Shade who dwell,
Let fall your Harpes, cease Tunes of Ioy to sing,
Discheueled make all Parnassus ring
With Antheames sad, thy Musicke Phoebus turne
In dolefull plaints, whilst Ioy it selfe doth mourne.
Dead is thy Darling who decor'd thy Bayes,
Who oft was wont to cherish thy sweet Layes,
And to a Trumpet raise thy amorous Stile,
That floting Delos enuied might this Ile.
You Acidalian Archers breake your Bowes,
Your Brādons quench, with teares blot Beauties Snowes,
And bid your weeping Mother yet againe
A second Adons death, nay Marses plaine.
His Eyes once were your Darts, nay euen his Name,
Where euer heard, did euery Heart inflame.
Tagus did court his Loue, with Golden Streames,
Rhein with his Townes, faire Seine with all she claimes.
But ah (poore I ouers) Death them did betray,
And not suspected made their Hopes his Prey!
Tagus bewailes his Losse, with Golden Streames,
Rhein with his Townes, faire Scine with all She claimes.
Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore,
From Thule, to Hydaspes pearlie Shore.
Eye-pleasing Meads whose painted Plaine forth brings,
White, golden, azure Flowres, which once were Kings,
In mourning Blacke, their shyning Colours Dye,
Bow down their Heads, whiles sighing Zephyrs flye.
Queene of the Fields, whose Blush, maks blush the Morne
Sweet Rose, a Princes Death in Purple mourne.
O Hyacinthes for ay, your AI keepe still,
Nay, with moe markes of Woe your Leaues now fill.
And you O Flowre of Helens teares that's borne,
Into these liquid Pearles againe you turne.
Your greene Lockes Forrests cut, in weeping Mirres,
The deadly Cypresse, and Inke-dropping Firres,
Your Palmes and Mirtles change; from Shadowes darke
Wing'd Syrens waile, and you sad Echoes marke
The lamentable Accents of their Mone,
And plaine that braue Moeliades is gone.
Stay Skye thy turning Course, and now become
A stately Arche, vnto the Earth his Tombe:
Ouer which ay the watrie Iris keepe,
And sad Electras Sisters which still weepe,
Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore,
From Thule, to Hydaspes pearlie Shore.
Deare Ghost forgiue these our vntimely Teares,
By which our louing Mind, though weake appeares
Our Losse not Thine (when we complaine) we weepe,
For Thee the glistring Walls of Heauen doe keepe,
Beyond the Planets Wheeles, boue highest Source
Of Spheares, that turnes the lower in his Course.
Where Sunne doth neuer set, nor vgly Night
Euer appeares in mourning Garments dight:
Where Borcas stormie Trumpet doth not sound,
Nor Cloudes in Lightnings bursting, Minds astound.
From Cares cold Climates farre, and hote Desire,
Where Time's exild, and Ages ne're expire:
Mong purest Spirits enuironed with Beames,
Thou thinks all things below, t'haue bene but Dreames;
And ioyes to looke downe to the azur'd Barres
Of Heauen, powdred with Troupes of streaming Starres:
And in their turning Temples to behold,
In siluer Robe the Moone, the Sunne in Golde,
Like yong Eye-speaking Louers in a Dance,
With Majestie by Turnes retire, aduance.
Thou wonders Earth to see hang like a Ball,
Clos'd in the ghaistly Cloyster of this All:
And that poore Men should proue so madly fond,
To tosse themselues for a small Foot of Ground.
Nay, that they euen dare braue the Powers aboue,
From this base Stage of Change, that cannot moue.
All worldly Pompe, and Pride thou seest arise
Like Smoake that's scattred in the emptie Skies.
Other Hills and Forrests other sumptuous Towres,
Amaz'd thou finds excelling our poore Bowres,
Courts voyde of Flatterie, of Malice Mindes,
Pleasure which lasts, not such as Reason blinds.
More sweeter Songs thou heares and Carrolings,
Whilst Heauens do dance, and Quire of Angells sings,
Then moldie Mindes could faine, euen our Annoy
(If it approach that Place) is chang'd in Ioy.
Rest blessed Spirit, rest saciat with the Sight
Of Him whose Beames (though dazeling) do delight,
Life of all liues, Cause of each other cause,
The Spheare and Center where the Mind doth pause:
Narcyssus of himselfe, himselfe the Well,
Louer, and Beautie that doth all excell.
Rest happie Ghost, and wonder in that Glasse,
Where seene is all that shall he, is, or was,
While shall be, is, or was, doe passe away,
And nothing be, but an Eternall Day.
For euer rest, thy Praise Fame may enroule,
In golden Annales, while about the Pole,
The slow Boötes turnes, or Sunne doth ryse
With scarlet Scarfe to cheare the mourning Skies.
The Virgins to thy Tombe may Garlands beare
Of Flowres, and with each Flowre let fall a Teare.
Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore
From Thule to Hydaspes pearlie Shore.
FINIS.
WILLIAM DRVMMOND.
OF JET,
Or PORPHYRIE,
Or that white Stone
PAROS affoordes alone,
Or these in AZVRE dye,
Which seem to scorne the SKYE;
Here Memphis Wonders doe not set,
Nor ARTEMISIA'S huge Frame,
That keepes so long her Louers Name:
Make no great marble Atlas tremble with Gold
To please a Ʋulgar EYE that doth beholde.
The Muses, Phoebus, Loue, haue raised of their teares
A Crystal Tomb to Him wherethrough his worth appears.
STay Passenger, see where enclosed lyes,
The Paragon of Princes, fairest Frame,
Time, Nature, Place, could show to mortal Eyes
In Worth, Wit, Vertue, Miracle to Fame:
At lest that Part the Earth of him could clame,
This Marble holds (hard like the Destinies)
For as to his braue Spirit, and glorious Name,
The One the World, the other fills the Skies.
Th'immortall Amaranthus, princely Rose,
Sad Violet, and that sweet Flowre that beares,
In SANGVINE SPOTS the Tenor of our Woes,
Spred on this Stone, & wash it with thy Teares,
Then go and tell from Gades vnto Inde,
Thou saw where Earths Perfections were confinde.
Sonnet.
APassing Glance, a Lightning long the Skies
That vsh'ring Thunder dies straight to our Sight,
A Sparke, of Contraries which doth arise,
Then's drown'd in the huge Depthes of Day and Night:
Is this Small-small cald Life, held in such Price,
Of blinded Wights, who ne're judge Ought aright.
Of Parthian Shaft so swift is not the Flight,
As Life, that wastes it selfe, and liuing dies.
Ah, what is humane Greatnesse, Valour N [...]
What fading Beautie, Riches, Honour, [...]
To what doth serve in golden Thrones to sit
Thrall Earths vaste pound triumphall Arches raise?
That all's a Dre [...]ne learne in this PRINCES Fell,
In whom saue Death, Nought mortall was at all.
WILLIAM DRVMMOND.
To the Reader.
THE Name which in these Verses is giuen PRINCE HENRIE, is that which he Himselfe in the Challenges of his Martiall Sports, and Mascarads, was wont to vse, MOELIADES Prince of the Isles: which in Anagramme maketh a VVord most worthie of such a Knight, as He was a Knight (if Time had fuffred his Actions answere the Worlds exspectation) onely worthie of such a VVorde, MILES A DRO.