Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

Elegies upon the Author.

TO THE MEMORIE OF MY EVER DESIRED FRIEND D^r. DONNE:

TO have liv'd eminent, in a degree Beyond our lofty'st flights, that is, like Thee, Or t'have had too much merit, is not safe; For, such excesses finde no Epitaph. At common graves we have Poetique eyes Can melt themselves in easie Elegies, Each quill can drop his tributary verse, And pin it, like the Hatchments, to the Hearse: But at Thine, Poeme, or Inscription (Rich soule of wit, and language) we have none. Indeed a silence does that tombe befit, Where is no Herald left to blazon it. Widow'd invention justly doth forbeare To come abroad, knowing Thou art not here, Late her great Patron; Whose Prerogative Maintain'd, and cloth'd her so, as none alive Must now presume, to keepe her at thy rate, Though he the Indies for her dowre estate.

Or else that awfull fire, which once did burne In thy cleare Braine, now falne into thy Urne Lives there, to fright rude Empiricks from thence, Which might prophane thee by their Ignorance. Who ever writes of Thee, and in a stile Unworthy such a Theme, does but revile Thy precious Dust, and wake a learned Spirit Which may revenge his Rapes upon thy Merit. For, all a low pitch't phansie can devise, Will prove, at best, but Hallow'd Injuries. Thou, like the dying Swanne, didst lately sing Thy Mournfull Dirge, in audience of the King; When pale lookes, and faint accents of thy breath, Presented so, to life, that peece of death, That it was fear'd, and prophesi'd by all, Thou thither cam'st to preach thy Funerall. O! had'st Thou in an Elegiacke Knell Rung out unto the world thine owne farewell, And in thy High Victorious Numbers beate The solemne measure of thy griev'd Retreat; Thou might'st the Poets service now have mist As well, as then thou did'st prevent the Priest; And never to the world beholding bee So much, as for an Epitaph for thee. I doe not like the office. Nor is 't fit Thou, who did'st lend our Age such summes of wit, Should'st now re-borrow from her bankrupt Mine, That Ore to Bury Thee, which once was Thine. Rather still leave us in thy debt; And know (Exalted Soule) more glory 't is to owe

Unto thy Hearse, what we can never pay, Then, with embased Coine those Rites defray. Commit we then Thee to Thy selfe: Nor blame Our drooping loves, which thus to thy owne Fame Leave Thee Executour. Since, but thine owne, No pen could doe Thee Justice, nor Bayes Crowne Thy vast desert; Save that, wee nothing can Depute, to be thy Ashes Guardian. So Jewellers no Art, or Metall trust To forme the Diamond, but the Diamonds dust,

H. K.

To the deceased Author, Upon the Promiscuous printing of his Poems, the Looser sort, with the Religious.

WHen thy Loose raptures, Donne, shall meet with Those That doe confine Tuning, unto the Duller line, And sing not, but in Sanctified Prose; How will they, with sharper eyes, The Fore-skinne of thy phansie circumcise? And feare, thy wantonnesse should now, begin Example, that hath ceased to be Sin?

And that Feare fannes their Heat; whilst knowing eyes Will not admire At this Strange Fire, That here is mingled with thy Sacrifice: But dare reade even thy Wanton Story, As thy Confession, not thy Glory. And will so envie Both to future times, That they would buy thy Goodnesse, with thy Crimes.

Tho: Browne

On the death of D^r DONNE.

I Cannot blame those men, that knew thee well, Yet dare not helpe the world, to ring thy knell In tunefull Elegies; there's not language knowne Fit for thy mention, but 'twas first thy owne; The Epitaphs thou writst, have so bereft Our tongue of wit, there is not phansie left Enough to weepe thee; what henceforth we see Of Art or Nature, must result from thee. There may perchance some busie gathering friend Steale from thy owne workes, and that, varied, lend, Which thou bestow'st on others, to thy Hearse, And so thou shalt live still in thine owne verse; Hee that shall venture farther, may commit A pitied errour, shew his zeale, not wit. Fate hath done mankinde wrong; vertue may aime Reward of conscience, never can, of fame, Since her great trumpet's broke, could onely give Faith to the world, command it to beleeve; Hee then must write, that world define thy parts: Here lyes the best Divinitie, All the Arts.

Edw. Hyde.

On Doctor Donne, By D^r C. B. of O.

HEe that would write an Epitaph for thee, And do it well, must first beginne to be Such as thou wert; for, none can truly know Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv'd so; He must have wit to spare and to hurle downe: Enough, to keepe the gallants of the towne. He must have learning plenty; both the Lawes, Civill, and Common, to judge any cause; Divinity great store, above the rest; Not of the last Edition, but the best. Hee must have language, travaile, all the Arts; Judgement to use; or else he wants thy parts. He must have friends the highest, able to do; Such as Mecoenas, and Augustus too. He must have such a sicknesse, such a death; Or else his vaine descriptions come beneath; Who then shall write an Epitaph for thee▪ He must be dead first, let'it alone for mee.

An Elegie upon the incomparable D^r DONNE.

ALl is not well when such a one as I Dare peepe abroad, and write an Elegie; When smaller Starres appeare, and give their light, Phoebus is gone to bed: Were it not night, And the world witlesse now that DONNE is dead, You sooner should have broke, then seene my head. Dead did I say? Forgive this Injury I doe him, and his worthes Infinity, To say he is but dead; I dare averre It better may be term'd a Massacre, Then Sleepe or Death; See how the Muses mourne Upon their oaten Reeds, and from his Vrne Threaten the World with this Calamity, They shall have Ballads, but no Poetry.

Language lyes speechlesse; and Divinity, Lost such a Trump as even to Extasie Could charme the Soule, and had an Influence To teach best judgements, and please dullest Sense. The Court, the Church, the Vniversitie, Lost Chaplaine, Deane, and Doctor, All these, Three.

It was his Merit, that his Funerall Could cause a losse so great and generall.

If there be any Spirit can answer give Of such as hence depart, to such as live: Speake, Doth his body there vermiculate, Crumble to dust, and feele the lawes of Fate? Me thinkes, Corruption, Wormes, what else is foule Should spare the Temple of so faire a Soule. I could beleeve they doe; but that I know What inconvenience might hereafter grow: Succeeding ages would Idolatrize, And as his Numbers, so his Reliques prize.

If that Philosopher, which did avow The world to be but Mores, was living now: He would affirme that th'Atomes of his mould Were they in severall bodies blended, would Produce new worlds of Travellers, Divines, Of Linguists, Poets: sith these severall Lines In him concentred were, and flowing thence Might fill againe the worlds Circumference. I could beleeve this too; and yet my faith Not want a President: The Phoenix hath (And such was He) a power to animate Her ashes, and herselfe perpetuate. But, busie Soule, thou dost not well to pry Into these Secrets; Griefe, and Iealousie, The more they know, the further still advance,

And finde no way so safe as Ignorance. Let this suffice thee, that his Soule which flew A pitch of all admir'd, known but of few, (Save those of purer mould) is now translated From Earth to Heavên, and there Constellated. For, if each Priest of God shine as a Starre, His Glory is as his Gifts, 'bove others farre.

HEN. VALENTINE.

An Elegie upon D^r Donne.

IS Donne, great Donne deceas'd? then England say Thou'hast lost a man where language chose to stay And shew it's gracefull power. I would not praise That and his vast wit (which in these vaine dayes Make many proud) but as they serv'd to unlock That Cabinet, his minde: where such a stock Of knoweledge was repos'd, as all lament (Or should) this generall cause of discontent. And I rejoyce I am not so severe, But (as I write a line) to weepe a teare For his decease; Such sad extremities May make such men as I write Elegies. And wonder not; for, when a generall losse Falls on a nation, and they slight the crosse, God hath rais'd Prophets to awaken them From stupifaction; witnesse my milde pen, Not us'd to upbraid the world, though now it must Freely and boldly, for, the cause is just. Dull age, Oh I would spare thee, but th'art worse, Thou art not onely dull, but hast a curse Of black ingratitude; if not, couldst thou Part with miraculous Donne, and make no vow For thee and thine, successively to pay A sad remembrance to his dying day? Did his youth scatter Poetrie, wherein Was all Philosophie? Was every sinne,

Character'd in his Satyres? made so foule That some have fear'd their shapes, & kept their soule Freer by reading verse? Did he give dayes Past marble monuments, to those, whose praise He would perpetuate? Did hee (I feare The dull will doubt:) these at his twentieth yeare? But, more matur'd: Did his full soule conceive, And in harmonious-holy-numbers weave A Crowme of sacred sonets, fit to adorne A dying Martyrs brow: or, to be worne On that blest head of Mary Magdalen: After she wip'd Christs feet, but not till then? Did hee (fit for such penitents as shee And hee to use) leave us a Litany? Which all devout men love, and sure, it shall, As times grow better, grow more classicall. Did he write Hymnes, for piety and wit Equall to those great grave Prudentius writ? Spake he all Languages? knew he all Lawes? The grounds and use of Physicke; but because 'Twas mercenary wav'd it? Went to see That blessed place of Christs nativity? Did he returne and preach him? preach him so As none but hee did, or could do? They know (Such as were blest to heare him know) 'tis truth. Did he confirme thy age? convert thy youth? Did he these wonders? And is this deare losse Mourn'd by so few? (few for so great a crosse.) But sure the silent are ambitious all To be Close Mourners at his Funerall;

If not; In common pitty they forbare By repetitions to renew our care; Or, knowing, griefe conceiv'd, conceal'd, consumes Man irreparably, (as poyson'd fumes Do waste the braine) make silence a fafe way To'inlarge the Soule from these walls, mud and clay, (Materialls of this body) to remaine With Donne in heaven, where no promiscuous paine Lessens the joy wee have, for, with him, all Are satisfyed with joyes essentiall. My thoughts, Dwell on this Ioy, and do not call Griefe backe, by thinking of his Funerall; Forget he lov'd mee; Waste not my sad yeares; (Which haste to Davids seventy) fill'd with feares And sorrow for his death;) Forget his parts, Which finde a living grave in good mens hearts; And, (for, my first is daily paid for sinne) Forget to pay my second sigh for him: Forget his powerfull preaching; and forget I am his Convert. Oh my frailtie! let My flesh be no more heard, it will obtrude This lethargie: so should my gratitude, My vowes of gratitude should so be broke; Which can no more be, then Donnes vertues spoke By any but himselfe; for which cause, I Write no Encomium, but an Elegie.

IZ. WA.

An Elegie upon the death of the Deane of Pauls, D^r. Iohn Donne: By M^r. Tho: Carie.

CAn we not force from widdowed Poetry, Now thou art dead (Great DONNE) one Elegie To crowne thy Hearse? Why yet dare we not trust Though with unkneaded dowe-bak't prose thy dust, Such as the uncisor'd Churchman from the flower Of fading Rhetorique, short liv'd as his houre, Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay Upon thy Ashes, on the funerall day? Have we no voice, no tune? Did'st thou dispense Through all our language, both the words and sense? 'Tis a sad truth; The Pulpit may her plaine, And sober Christian precepts still retaine, Doctrines it may, and wholesome Uses frame, Grave Homilies, and Lectures, But the flame Of thy brave Soule, that shot such heat and light, As burnt our earth, and made our darknesse bright, Committed holy Rapes upon our Will, Did through the eye the melting heart distill; And the deepe knowledge of darke truths so teach, As sense might judge, what phansie could not reach;

Must be desir'd for ever. So the fire, That fills with spirit and heat the Delphique quire, Which kindled first by thy Promethean breath, Glow'd here a while, lies quench't now in thy death; The Muses garden with Pedantique weedes O'rspred, was purg'd by thee; The lazie seeds Of servile imitation throwne away; And fresh invention planted, Thou didst pay The debts of our penurious bankrupt age; Licentious thefts, that make poëtique rage A Mimique fury, when our soules must bee Possest, or with Anacreons Extasie, Or Pindars, not their owne; The subtle cheat Of slie Exchanges, and the jugling feat Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong By ours was done the Greeke, or Latine tongue, Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd Us a Mine Of rich and pregnant phansie, drawne a line Of masculine expression, which had good Old Orpheus seene, Or all the ancient Brood Our superstitious fooles admire, and hold Their lead more precious, then thy burnish't Gold, Thou hadst beene their Exchequer, and no more They each in others dust, had rak'd for Ore. Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time, And the blinde fate of language, whose tun'd chime More charmes the outward sense; Yet thou maist claime From so great disadvantage greater fame, Since to the awe of thy imperious wit Our stubborne language bends, made only fit

With her tough-thick-rib'd hoopes to gird about Thy Giant phansie, which had prov'd too stout For their soft melting Phrases. As in time They had the start, so did they cull the prime Buds of invention many a hundred yeare, And left the rifled fields, besides the feare To touch their Harvest, yet from those bare lands Of what is purely thine, thy only hands (And that thy smallest worke) have gleaned more Then all those times, and tongues could reape before; But thou art gone, and thy strict lawes will be Too hard for Libertines in Poetrie. They will repeale the goodly exil'd traine Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just raigne Were banish'd nobler Poems, now, with these The silenc'd tales o'th'Metamorphoses Shall stuffe their lines, and swell the windy Page, Till Verse refin'd by thee, in this last Age, Turne ballad rime, Or those old Idolls bee Ador'd againe, with new apostasie; Oh, pardon mee, that breake with untun'd verse The reverend silence that attends thy herse, Whose awfull solemne murmures were to thee More then these faint lines, A loud Elegie, That did proclaime in a dumbe eloquence The death of all the Arts, whose influence Growne feeble, in these panting numbers lies Gasping short winded Accents, and so dies: So doth the swiftly turning wheele not stand In th'instant we withdraw the moving hand,

But some small time maintaine a faint weake course By vertue of the first impulsive force: And so whil'st I cast on thy funerall pile Thy crowne of Bayes, Oh, let it crack a while, And spit disdaine, till the devouring flashes Suck all the moysture up, then turne to ashes. I will not draw the envy to engrosse All thy perfections, or weepe all our losse; Those are too numerous for an Elegie, And this too great, to be express'd by mee. Though every pen should share a distinct part, Yet art thou Theme enough to tyre all Art; Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice I on thy Tombe this Epitaph incise.

Here lies a King, that rul'd as hee thought fit The universall Monarchy of wit; Here lie two Flamens, and both those, the best, Apollo's first, at last, the true Gods Priest.

An Elegie on D^r. DONNE: By Sir Lucius Carie.

POets attend, the Elegie I sing Both of a doubly-named Priest, and King: In stead of Coates, and Pennons, bring your Verse, For you must bee chiefe mourners at his Hearse, A Tombe your Muse must to his Fame supply, No other Monuments can never die; And as he was a two-fold Priest; in youth, Apollo's; afterwards, the voice of Truth, Gods Conduit-pipe for grace, who chose him for His extraordinary Embassador, So let his Liegiers with the Poets joyne, Both having shares, both must in griefe combine: Whil'st Johnson forceth with his Elegie Teares from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye, (Like Moses at whose stroke the waters gusht From forth the Rock, and like a Torrent rusht.) Let Lawd his funerall Sermon preach, and shew Those vertues, dull eyes were not apt to know, Nor leave that Piercing Theme, till it appeares To be good friday, by the Churches Teares; Yet make not griefe too long oppresse our Powers, Least that his funerall Sermon should prove ours. Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence, With which he did the bread of life dispense,

Preacher and Orator discharg'd both parts With pleasure for our sense, health for our hearts, And the first such (Though a long studied Art Tell us our soule is all in every part,) None was so marble, but whil'st him he heares, His Soule so long dwelt only in his eares. And from thence (with the fiercenesse of a flood Bearing downe vice) victual'd with that blest food Their hearts; His seed in none could faile to grow, Fertile he found them all, or made them so: No Druggist of the Soule bestow'd on all So Catholiquely a curing Cordiall. Nor only in the Pulpit dwelt his store, His words work'd much, but his example more, That preach't on worky dayes, His Poetrie It selfe was oftentimes divinity, Those Anthemes (almost second Psalmes) he writ To make us know the Crosse, and value it, (Although we owe that reverence to that name Wee should not need warmth from an under flame.) Creates a fire in us, so neare extreme That we would die, for, and upon this theme. Next, his so pious Litany, which none can But count Divine, except a Puritan, And that but for the name, nor this, nor those Want any thing of Sermons, but the prose. Experience makes us see, that many a one Owes to his Countrey his Religion; And in another, would as strongly grow, Had but his Nurse and Mother taught him so,

Not hee the ballast on his Judgement hung; Nor did his preconceit doe either wrong; He labour'd to exclude what ever sinne By time or carelessenesse had entred in; Winnow'd the chaffe from wheat, but yet was loath A too hot zeale should force him, burne them both; Nor would allow of that so ignorant gall, Which to save blotting often would blot all; Nor did those barbarous opinions owne, To thinke the Organs sinne, and faction, none; Nor was there expectation to gaine grace From forth his Sermons only, but his face; So Primitive a looke, such gravitie With humblenesse, and both with Pietie; So milde was Moses countenance, when he prai'd For them whose Satanisme his power gain said; And such his gravitie, when all Gods band Receiv' his word (through him) at second hand; Which joyn'd, did flames of more devotion move Then ever Argive Hellens could of love. Now to conclude, I must my reason bring, Where fore I call'd him in his title King, That Kingdome the Philosophers beleev'd To excell Alexanders, nor were griev'd By feare of losse (that being such a Prey No stronger then ones selfe can force away) The Kingdome of ones selfe, this he enjoy'd, And his authoritie so well employ'd, That never any could before become So Great a Monarch, in so small a roome;

He conquer'd rebell passions, rul'd them so, As under-spheares by the first Mover goe, Banish't so farre their working, that we can But know he had some, for we knew him man. Then let his last excuse his first extremes, His age saw visions, though his youth dream'd dreams.

On D^r. DONNES death: By M^r. Mayne of Christ-Church in Oxford.

WHo shall presume to mourn thee, Donne, unlesse He could his teares in thy expressions dresse, And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearse, To weepe lines, learned, as thy Anniverse, A Poëme of that worth, whose every teare Deserves the title of a severall yeare. Indeed so farre above its Reader, good, That wee are thought wits, when 'tis understood, There that blest maid to die, who now should grieve? After thy sorrow, 'twere her losse to live; And her faire vertues in anothers line, Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine. Hadst thou beene shallower, and not writ so high, Or left some new way for our pennes, or eye, To shed a funerall teare, perchance thy Tombe Had not beene speechlesse, or our Muses dumbe; But now wee dare not write, but must conceale Thy Epitaph, lest we be thought to steale,

For, who hath read thee, and discernes thy worth, That will not say, thy carelesse houres brought forth Fancies beyond our studies, and thy play Was happier, then our serious time of day? So learned was thy chance; thy haste had wit, And matter from thy pen flow'd rashly fit, What was thy recreation turnes our braine, Our rack and palenesse, is thy weakest straine. And when we most come neere thee, 'tis our blisse To imitate thee, where thou dost amisse, Here light your muse, you that do onely thinke, And write, and are just Poëts, as you drinke, In whose weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow, Just as your recknings rise, that wee may know In your whole carriage of your worke, that here This flash you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere, This is to tap your Muse, which running long Writes flat, and takes our eare not halfe so strong; Poore Suburbe wits, who, if you want your cup, Or if a Lord recover, are blowne up. Could you but reach this height, you should not need To make, each meale, a project ere you feed, Nor walke in reliques, clothes so old and bare, As if left off to you from Ennius were, Nor should your love, in verse, call Mistresse, those, Who are mine hostesse, or your whores in prose; From this Muse learne to Court, whose power could move A Cloystred coldnesse, or a Vestall love, And would convey such errands to their eare,

That Ladies knew no oddes to grant and heare; But I do wrong thee, Donne, and this low praise Is written onely for thy yonger dayes. I am not growne up, for thy riper parts, Then should I praise thee, through the Tongues, and Arts, And have that deepe Divinity, to know, What mysteries did from thy preaching flow, Who with thy words could charme thy audience, That at thy sermons, eare was all our sense; Yet have I seene thee in the pulpit stand, Where wee might take notes, from thy looke, and hand; And from thy speaking action beare away More Sermon, then some teachers use to say. Such was thy carriage, and thy gesture such, As could divide the heart, and conscience touch. Thy motion did confute, and wee might see An errour vanquish'd by delivery. Not like our Sonnes of Zeale, who to reforme Their hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit storme, And beate the cushion into worse estate, Then if they did conclude it reprobate, Who can out pray the glasse, then lay about Till all Predestination be runne out. And from the point such tedious uses draw, Their repetitions would make Gospell, Law. No, In such temper would thy Sermons flow, So well did Doctrine, and thy language show, And had that holy feare, as, hearing thee, The Court would mend, and a good Christian bee.

And Ladies though unhansome, out of grace, Would heare thee, in their unbought lookes, & face▪ More I could write, but let this crowne thine Urne, Wee cannot hope the like, till thou returne.

Ʋpon M^r J. Donne, and his Poems.

VVHo dares say thou art dead, when he doth see (Unburied yet) this living part of thee? This part that to thy beeing gives fresh flame, And though th'art Donne, yet will preserve thy name. Thy flesh (whose channels left their crimsen hew, And whey-like ranne at last in a pale blew) May shew thee mortall, a dead palsie may Seise on't, and quickly turne it into clay; Which like the Indian earth, shall rise refin'd: But this great Spirit thou hast left behinde, This Soule of Verse (in it's first pure estate) Shall live, for all the World to imitate▪ But not come neer, for in thy Fancies flight Thou dost not stoope unto the vulgar sight, But, hovering highly in the aire of Wit, Hold'st such a pitch, that few can follow it; Admire they may. Each object that the Spring (Or a more piercing influence) doth bring

T'adorne Earths face, thou sweetly did'st contrive To beauties elements, and thence derive Unspotted Lillies white; which thou did'st set Hand in hand, with the veine-like Violet, Making them soft, and warme, and by thy power, Could'st give both life, and sense, unto a flower. The Cheries thou hast made to speake, will bee Sweeter unto the taste, then from the tree. And (spight of winter stormes) amidst the snow Thou oft hast made the blushing Rose to grow. The Sea-nimphs, that the watry cavernes keepe, Have sent their Pearles and Rubies from the deepe To deck thy love, and plac'd by thee, they drew More lustre to them, then where first they grew. All minerals (that Earths full wombe doth hold Promiscuously) thou couldst convert to gold, And with thy flaming raptures so refine, That it was much more pure then in the Mine. The lights that guild the night, if thou did'st say, They looke like eyes, those did out-shine the day; For there would be more vertue in such spells, Then in Meridians, or crosse Parallels: What ever was of worth in this great Frame, That Art could comprehend, or Wit could name, It was thy theme for Beauty; thou didst see, Woman, was this faire Worlds Epitomie. Thy nimble Satyres too, and every straine (With nervy strength) that issued from thy brain, Will lose the glory of their owne cleare bayes,

If they admit of any others praise. But thy diviner Poëms (whose cleare fire Purges all drosse away) shall by a Quire Of Cherubims, with heavenly Notes be set (Where flesh and blood could ne'r attaine to yet) There purest Spirits sing such sacred Layes, In Panegyrique Alleluiaes.

Arth. Wilson.

In memory of Doctor Donne: By M^r R. B.

DOnne dead? 'Tis here reported true, though I Ne'r yet so much desir'd to heare a lye, 'Tis too too true, for so wee finde it still, Good newes are often false, but seldome, ill: But must poore fame tell us his fatall day, And shall we know his death, the common way, Mee thinkes some Comet bright should have foretold The death of such a man, for though of old 'Tis held, that Comets Princes death foretell, Why should not his, have needed one as well? Who was the Prince of wits, 'mongst whom he reign'd, High as a Prince, and as great State maintain'd? Yet wants he not his signe, for wee have seene A dearth, the like to which hath never beene, Treading on harvests heeles, which doth presage The death of wit and learning, which this age Shall finde, now he is gone; for though there bee Much graine in shew, none brought it forth as he, Or men are misers; or if true want raises The dearth, then more that dearth Donnes plenty praises. Of learning, languages, of eloquence, And Poësie, (past rauishing of sense,) He had a magazine, wherein such store Was laid up, as might hundreds serve of poore.

But he is gone, O how will his desire Torture all those that warm'd them by his fire? Mee thinkes I see him in the pulpit standing, Not eares, or eyes, but all mens hearts commanding, Where wee that heard him, to our selves did faine Golden Chrysostome was alive againe; And never were we weari'd, till we saw His houre (and but an houre) to end did draw. How did he shame the doctrine-men, and use, With helps to boot, for men to beare th'abuse Of their tir'd patience, and endure th'expence Of time, O spent in hearkning to non-sense, With markes also, enough whereby to know, The speaker is a zealous dunce, or so. 'Tis true, they quitted him, to their poore power, They humm'd against him; And with face most sowre: Call'd him a strong lin'd man, a Macaroon, And no way fit to speake to clouted shoone, As fine words [truly] as you would desire, But [verily,] but a bad edifier. Thus did these beetles slight in him that good, They could not see, and much lesse understood. But we may say, when we compare the stuffe Both brought; He was a candle, they the snuffe. Well, Wisedome's of her children justifi'd, Let therefore these poore fellowes stand aside; Nor, though of learning he deserv'd so highly, Would I his booke should save him; Rather slily I should advise his Clergie not to pray, Though of the learn'dst sort; Me thinkes that they

Of the same trade, are Judges not so fit, There's no such emulation as of wit. Of such, the Envy might as much perchance Wrong him, and more, then th'others ignorance. It was his Fate (I know't) to be envy'd As much by Clerkes, as lay men magnifi'd; And why? but 'cause he came late in the day, And yet his Penny earn'd, and had as they. No more of this, least some should say, that I Am strai'd to Satyre, meaning Elegie. No, no, had DONNE need to be judg'd or try'd, A Jury I would summon on his side, That had no sides, nor factions, past the touch Of all exceptions, freed from Passion, such As nor to feare nor fratter, e'r were bred, These would I bring, though called from the dead: Southampton, Hambleton, Pēbrooke, Dorsets Earles, Huntingdon, Bedfords Countesses (the Pearles Once of each sexe.) If these suffice not, I Ten decem tales have of Standers by: All which, for DONNE, would such a verdict give, As can belong to none, that now doth live. But what doe I? A diminution 'tis To speake of him in verse, so short of his, Whereof he was the master; All indeed Compar'd with him, pip'd on an Oaten reed. O that you had but one 'mongst all your brothers Could write for him, as he hath done for others: (Poets I speake to) When I see't, I'll say, My eye-sight betters, as my yeares decay,

Meane time a quarrell I shall ever have Against these doughty keepers from the grave, Who use, it seemes their old Authoritie, When (Verses men immortall make) they cry: Which had it been a Recipe true tri'd, Probatum esset, DONNE had never dy'd. For mee, if e'r I had least sparke at all Of that which they Poetique fire doe call, Here I confesse it fetched from his hearth, Which is gone out, now he is gone to earth. This only a poore flash, a lightning is Before my Muses death, as after his. Farewell (faire soule) and deigne receive from mee This Type of that devotion I owe thee, From whom (while living) as by voice and penne I learned more, then from a thousand men: So by thy death, am of one doubt releas'd, And now beleeve that miracles are ceas'd.

Epitaph.

HEere lies Deane Donne; Enough; Those words Shew him as fully, as if all the stone His Church of Pauls contains, were through inscrib'd alone Or all the walkers there, to speake him, brib'd. None can mistake him, for one such as Hee DONNE, Deane, or Man, more none shall ever see.

Not man? No, though unto a Sunne each eye Were turn'd, the whole earth so to overspie, A bold brave word; Yet such brave Spirits as knew His Spirit, will say, it is lesse bold then true.

Epitaph upon D^r. DONNE, By Endy: Porter.

THis decent Urne a sad inscription weares, Of Donnes departure from us, to the spheares; And the dumbe stone with silence seemes to tell The changes of this life, wherein is well Exprest, A cause to make all joy to cease, And never let our sorrowes more take ease; For now it is impossible to finde One fraught with vertues, to inrich a minde; But why should death, with a promiscuous hand At one rude stroke impoverish a land? Thou strict Attorney, unto stricter Fate, Didst thou confiscate his life out of hate To his rare Parts? Or didst thou throw thy dart, With envious hand, at some Plebeyan heart; And he with pious vertue stept betweene To save that stroke, and so was kill'd unseene By thee? O 'twas his goodnesse so to doe, Which humane kindnesse never reacht unto. Thus the hard lawes of death were satisfi'd, And he left us like Orphan friends, and di'de. Now from the Pulpit to the peoples eares, Whose speech shall send repentant sighes, and teares? Or tell mee, if a purer Virgin die, Who shall hereafter write her Elegie?

Poets be silent, let your numbers sleepe, For he is gone that did all phansie keepe; Time hath no Soule, but his exalted verse; Which with amazements, we may now reherse.

FINIS

Notes

• La Corona.