FUNERALL OBSEQVIES, TO THE Right Honourable THE LADY ELIZABETH HOPTON.
By EDVVARD VVHATMAN.
Imprinted at London, 1647.
FVNERALL OBSEQVIES.
SToln to the grave? Then let me sigh, and dye,
And sepulchr'd in mine own Carcasse lye;
But that were Blisse: Calamity keeps state,
And comes attended by another Fate:
So the first fatall fall from Paradise,
Open'd the casements of our Grandsirs eyes,
And turn'd their blessing to their scourge. To know
Us wretched, is far worse then to be so.
A griefe unknowne is heal'd. Thus our losse drawes
That pleasing curtaine interposed was,
And makes the world transparent. Now, we spy
Our joyes are languish't to deformity;
All Creatures (the earth's sucklings) seeme to be
But Hieroglyphicks of Mortality:
Houses are graves, where moving Corpses dwell;
For who can say he lives, that knowes she fell?
But stay, rash pen, this blasphemy recall,
The vanquish't, not the Conquerors doe fall.
Death, which (with falser Opticks) doth appeare
Mighty and dreadfull, brought no terrors here.
It kills the bad, but to the good, it is
The Gate, the Key, and Porter too, to blisse.
You Nobler Sons of honour, who pretend
To live link'd revolutions without end,
Your hopes are empty, for I dare averre
The Path to glory is to study her.
Pardon great Saint, if thy low Vassalls praise,
Eclips the splendor of thy burnish't rais:
We know dull solid Bodies have the fate,
The bright ones luster to reverberate:
So the dim superficies of the Moone
Darts light and vertue by reflection.
But as a glasse when the foil's peecemeale rent,
And fretted into Marble doth present
Defective formes, yet all those parts agree
In (the worlds beauty) exact Symetrie:
So I deform'd with sin; yet know my breast,
(Cause her I honour'd) with some goodnesse blest,
Render a lame Effigies. For to doe't well,
I should in Vertue be her parallell.
Red Modesty now checks my Zeale, and sayes
The leaner Tribute of imperfect praise,
Injur's her holy Dust, and bids retract
Our forward hand from this prophaner act.
To raise a house shall I deny a stone,
Because I bring no Rock? doe all? or none?
All have not Hecatombs to sacrifice:
'Tis worse to be ungratefull, then unwise.
And though I have not Muse enough to swell,
My Verse into a great bulk'd Chronicle,
I will so paint, that, by the foot we'll guesse
At the proportion of Hercules.
Her minde was even, knew no Civill Jar,
But still maintain'd a brave defensive War,
Against sly Vice, and by a noble will,
All quarrelling extreames did reconcile.
Nor was she peg'd to Fortunes Wheele: when chance
Her streames into an Ocean did advance,
Majestique Pride could ne're usurp a Throne
Upon her brow. 'Twas sweetnesse Garrison.
Grim sorrow rais'd no rough frowne there. For he
That saw her manage infelicity,
Would court its lovelinesse, and sweare that Fate
Might give a prouder, but no happier state.
Nor were these paleated shews: No she
In reall deeds outvied Hipocrisie.
She courted greatnesse with no studied grace,
Nor look'd o're wretches with a quarter-face;
Nor did she ere extenuate a crime,
Cause 'twas exalted on the Front of Time.
But Oh! I feele an earth-quake, through my heart,
Some strugling spirit would a highway part,
As when the purest water doth aspire
To Ayre, by rarefaction tis made fire:
So would my griefe twist into rage, and I
Should write a Satire, and no Elegie;
Did I not know, Duty binds us to mourne
Those whom wee honoured, not scourge those wee scorne.
But I am yet too narrow, glory runs
(Like feathered Time) in nimble motions.
He's but halfe good, who only doth arive
(Worths lazy vacuum) the negative.
But here all active Vertues meet in one,
And made a Heavenly Constellation.
Fill'd with more lasting and refulgent Stars,
Then in the Concave of th' eight Orbe appears.
But a weake ray as easily might spie
The twinkling sparks conven'd i'th Galary
Observe their names and natures, and hope here
T'Epitomise them on our paper Spheare:
As I contemplate them. For Vertues were
Fluid, and Momentany things in her.
A Midwife to some one each houre became,
And made inscriptions in the leaves of Fame;
For they be letters in Gods great booke set,
And are to every one an Alphabet,
Span'd to a number: Yet cause they admit
Of transpositions, become infinite.
Thus goodnesse writes her Annals. Thus each man
Is his owne Volume and Historian.
And here were so composed that we might vote
Gods holy finger a third Table wrote,
And instituted her Example, Law,
Whence future Ages should a paterne draw,
To pace their lives by. For she, she alone
Was Quintessenc'd to a perfection.
Vertues (those rags of worth) which sometimes flame,
Then sleepe a pause, Agues of Zeale we name;
But here enchain'd, in an entirenesse flow'd,
And were united to the totall, good:
So when the creeping streames joine forces, than
They lose themselves, and are an Ocean.
So Silver, Gold, and sprightfull Mercury,
(Deified to Omnipotence) deny
Their ancient cognizance, and only owne,
The mighty title of Elixer stone.
Nor was (this world of worth) this great soule sent
Close Prisoner to a mud-wall'd Tenement:
No, no, it had a Temple so divine,
Doomsday (perhaps) may change, but scarce refine.
Her smiles (more cheerefull then the Suns) on earth,
Did Antidate almost essentiall mirth.
But Heaven is deni'd us heere; the blest we see
Are most obnoxious to destiny.
Long since that Mountainous Prophetique stone,
Hath the foure boundlesse Monarchys or'throwne;
Another (no lesse terrible)
Alluding to her disease.
hath slaineThe fist, the last, and greatest too againe:
For she was world, and Paramount alone;
All Passions bowed to her Dominion.
This Empire was too meane, she's flown more high,
And sits enthron'd in Gods owne Hierarchy,
And only leaves her holy Dust in paune,
That when the world's like her, she'll come againe.
Sleepe honoured Ashes in your peacefull bed
Sleepe, sleepe, and never be disquieted.
We'll feast on your Memoriall; and Fame
Shall be the Page, and Usher to your name.
Where ere it goes wing'd sighs shall hovering stay,
And liquid pearls shall pave the corrall way.
And since I raise no Tombe, nor crowne thy Hearse
With fasting Pyramids of weeping Verse.
Like to some Votary I will confine
Humble Devotions to thy sacred Shrine;
And if (as Heaven-indited Rolls declare)
As Victims, gratefull thoughts accepted are,
Pious perfumes each minute shall arise,
My Heart the Altar, Priest, and Sacrifice.
FINIS.