THE ULTIMUM VALE, OR, Last Farewell Of THOMAS Earle of Strafford. Written by himselfe a little before his death.

FArewell vain world, farewell my fleeting joyes,
Whole best of musick's but an Echo's noyse,
And all the lustre of your painted light
But as dull dreams and fantoms of the night.
Empty your pleasures too, nor can they last
Longer than aire-puft bubbles, or a blast.
Farewell you fading Honours, which doe blinde,
By your false mists the sharpest sighted minde,
And having rais'd him to his height of cares,
Tumble him headlong down the slippery staires.
How shall I praise or prise your glorious ills,
Which are but poyson put in golden pills.
Farewell my blustring titles, ne're come backe,
You've sweld my failes until my mastings cracke,
And made my Vessell reele against the rocks
Of gaping ruine, whole destructive knocks
Hath helplesse left me, sinking, here to lie:
The cause? I rais'd my main-top failes too high.
Farewell Ambition (since we needs must part)
Thou great Inchantresse of mans greater heart:
Thy guilded titles that do seeme so faire,
Are but like meteors hanging in the aire:
In whose false splendor, falling thence, is found
No worth, but water-like shed on the ground.
Farewell the Glory, from which all the rest
Derive the Sweets for which men stile rhem blest,
That from one root in severall branches spring,
I meane, The favor of my gratious King:
This too, hath led my wandring soule astray,
Like Ignis Fatuis, from its righter way.
Farewell my Friends, I need not bid you go;
When Fortune flies, you freely will doe so.
Worship the rising, not the setting Sun.
The House is falling; Vermin quickly run.
Bees do from off the wither'd floures make haste;
The reason is, Because th'ave lost their taste.
Farewell the treasures of my tempting store,
Which of all Idols, least I did adore:
Haste to some Ideots Coffer, and hee'l bee
Thy slave, as I have master been to thee.
Heaven knowes, of all the Suiters that I had,
I least priz'd thee, as counting none so bad.
Last; To my Foes farewell: for such I have,
Who do in multitudes wait for my grave;
Mongst which I can't beleeve but some there be
That hate my vices only, and not me:
Let them passe o're my same without a blot,
And let the Vulgar scratch they know not what.
Let them besmeare me by the chattering notes
(Poor silly hearts)which echo through their throtes;
I'le passe it o're, and pray (with patience too)
Father forgive; they know not what they do.
Yet O: I could have woo'd my treacherous Fate
T'have let me died without the publique hate.

London printed, 1641.

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