Funerall obsequies, to the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Hopton. By Edvvard VVhatman. Whatman, Edward. 1647 Approx. 8 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 4 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2013-12 (EEBO-TCP Phase 2). A96296 Wing W1591 Thomason E384_14 ESTC R201453 99861959 99861959 114105

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Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. A96296) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 114105) Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 61:E384[14]) Funerall obsequies, to the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Hopton. By Edvvard VVhatman. Whatman, Edward. [2], 5, [1] p. [s.n.], Imprinted at London, : 1647. In verse. Annotation on Thomason copy: "London 20 Aprill". Reproduction of the original in the British Library.

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eng Hopton, Elizabeth, -- Lady, 1591-1646 -- Death and burial -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. Elegiac poetry, English -- 17th century. 2020-09-21 Content of 'availability' element changed when EEBO Phase 2 texts came into the public domain 2012-03 Assigned for keying and markup 2012-04 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2012-05 Sampled and proofread 2012-05 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2013-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion

FUNERALL OBSEQVIES, TO THE Right Honourable THE LADY ELIZABETH HOPTON.

By EDVVARD VVHATMAN.

printer's decorative illustration

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 ſlaine The 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.