Two elegies, on the late death of our soueraigne Queene Anne With epitaphes. Written by Patrick Hannay Mr. of Arts.

The first Elegie.

AS doth a Mother, who before her eyes, Her Ages hope, her onely Sonne espies, Butcher'd, & bathing still in bloody strands, Rauisht with sudden griefe amazed stands▪ Nor weepes, nor sighes, nor lets one teare distill, But (with fixt eye) still gazeth on her ill: But when with time her smothred griefe forth vents, She wastes her eyes in teares, her breath in plaints. So we astonisht could not tell our woe; Who doe grieue most, least signe of griefe doe show. Yet time to those, in time, a time affords, To weepe and waile, and show their woe in wards▪ Time grant vs now this time, least of her praise Our of spring hearing, and when her swift dayes Had run their course, they heare none of our plaints, Doe either thinke some Poets pen her paints, Or that they are of the same stones all sprung, Which backward Pyrrha and Ducalyon flung. So that will seeme no fable, but a story, If we doe leaue no witnesse that we're sorry,

Each senslesse thing shall vs vpbraide to them, And as lesse sensible (then they) condemne. Since in each obiect offerd to the eye, Signes of sad sorrow settled there we see, The Heauens (though grac't with her) for vs are grieued, And weepe in showers for that we are bereaued Of her: in, and for whom the World was blest, In whom her kinds perfection did consist. Aquarius seemes to haue a solemne feast, And that each other signes his houshold guest. Not one of them now influence downe powres, But what distils in liquid weeping showers. The Skies of Clowds now make them mourning weeds, And generall darknesse all the world ore spreads: What? hath the Sunne for a new Phaeton Abandoned the Heauens, and beamy throne? Is the cause theirs? or doth it touch vs nie? (Since with their sorrow we so sympathie:) No, its because our Cynthia left this spheare, The world wears blacke, because she moues not here, Her influence that made it freshly flourish, Leaues it to fade, and will no more it nourish. Leaues it? hath left▪ How can it then subsist? Can that be sayd to be, vvhich disposest Of soule, vvants vigor? this Queene was the soule, Whose faculties worlds frailties did controule;

Corrected the ill humors, and mantain'd In it, a wholesome concord, vvhile she raign'd: But now (she gone) the world seemes out of frame, Subord'nate passions now as Princes clame Signorie ore the soule, vvhich doe torment The whole with anguish; make the heart to faint, Whose sad infection generall's so spred, Griefes Character on euery brow is read. Our eyes so drop (vver't not God frees those fears) The world might dread a new deludge of teares. Dread? (thus distrest) we rather should desire With the worlds dissolutions to expire Our latest woes, 'twere better haue no beeing, Then liue in woe, so as we are still dying. Leaue foolish passion, dares thou thus repine? Gainst vvhat's enacted by the powers diuine, Humbly submit, yet passion were a word, Vsles, a nothing's name, speech should afford▪ No place for it, if it should not now show Its beeing by our grieuings in this woe: Yet the wo's short, which on each soule hath seaz'd, It and the cause can ne're be equaliz'd. I will not blaze her birth, descent or State, Her Princely Progenie, her royall mate: They're knowne best, and greatest, yet these are But accidentall honours▪ but this starre

With propper beames vvas so resplendent here, Others (though bright) yet when she did appeare, Did lose their luster: she honour'd her place, Her place not her: she Queene, was Queen's sole grace. 'Twas she the Antique Poets so admird, When vvith prophetique furie they inspird, Did faine the heauenly powers, they did see, (As in a dreame) that such a one should be: And for each seuerall grace, she should containe, One Dietie they did for that ordaine, Not one for all, for that too much had beene, To faine her like, vvhose like vvas neuer seene. Nor is their number equall to her merits, For she a farre off was shew'd to those spirits, Now had they liu'd her vertues to haue seene; The Goddesses sure numberlesse had beene, But's vvell they did not, for then she should be (Though giltlesse) yet cause of Idolatrie, For they who honoured her shade before, Seeing her substance needs must it adore. The Morallists did all of her deuine, When they made euery vertue foeminine; And but they knew that such a one should be, Doubtlesse with them vertue should haue been HE. Peruse all stories are compil'd by Man, Or Poets fictions since the world began:

You shall not finde (true or imaginarie) Like worth in one, vvhose all's in nought doth vary. Nay, take the abiects in these bookes reuil'd For basest parts, so vicious and defil'd, As they seeme Natures monsters, made in scorne, As foiles, her other faire workes to adorne, (Contrar's oppos'd doe others best set forth) They serue not all, to parralell her worth. They are deceiu'd, vvho say the world decayes, And still growes vvorse and vvorse, as old with dayes: For then this Age could neuer that haue showne, Which vvas long since to Salomon vnknowne, A woman: but had he liued in our times, He might haue found one, so deuoid of crimes, That her owne merits (if merits could saue) Might iustly (as of due) saluation craue. I rather thinke the worlds first Infancie, Growing more perfect vvith Antiquitie (As young lings doe) traueld till now at height, Big of perfection, brought this birth to light: This second to that Maiden-Mother-Daughter, She onely vvas before, this onely after: For on this Grace and Nature spent such store, As after her we need expect none more, And those who read her praise when we are gone, Would thinke we but describ'd a worthy one,

Not that there was one such, but that she here Left part of her, which and its seed shall beare Successiue witnesse, to all doubtfull ages, Of her rare vertues, which in those deare pledges Still liue: they'le say our praise came short, we dull With speech defectiue, could not to the full Set forth her worth: vvhich she at death did giue, Others may goods not goodnesse of spring leaue. But she bequeth'd her goodnes, for her merit, Obtain'd her issue should that wealth inherit, Which we possesse in them, vvhile they doe prease (As vsurers) that stock still to encrease: Onely ambitious to augment that store, Robbing the world, which either is but poore: Or seemes so, set by them, beggars may boast, But they alone haue all that wealth ingrost: And though that God the vvorlds gold hath refinde, And tooke the try'd, He left this vaine behinde, Pittying the drosse the luster should obscure, Of her bright soule, vvhile flesh did it immure. Yet did He not vvith it of all bereaue vs, But vvith her of-spring, happinesse did leaue vs. For her preferment, why then should we tosse Our soules vvith torment? or grieue that our losse Hath Heauen inricht? or 'cause we held her deare, Wish we her punisht, to be liuing here?

We rather should reioyce she thus did leaue vs, And nought but Heauen alone of her could reaue vs. O! since that Cedar fell so right at last, Which way it standing lean'd, may well be ghest. And since the End doth crowne the actions still, How liued she, vvho dying, dy'd so well! For askt, if she did willing hence depart, Sayd, (rapt vvith heauenly ioy) WITH ALL MY HART. Though flesh be fraile, yet hers so voyd of feare, (For death did not in his owne shape appeare) Did entertaine so kindly its owne foe, (Who came to Court, but vnwares kild her so) As she esteem'd it onely one hard thrust, At that strait gate by vvhich to life we must: Faith, Hope, and Loue possest her heart and minde, Leauing no place for fearefull thoughs to finde: Troupes of vvhite Angels did her bed impaile, To tend the soules flight from the fleshy gaile, It to conduct vnto that heauenly throne, Which Christ prepar'd, vvith glore to crowne her on. O! how my flesh-clog'd soule would scale the sky, And leaue that deare companion here to ly: To see her entertaind, vvith glory crownd, While troupes of Angels her arriuall sound To that new kingdome: they all God doe praise For her translation, and their voyces raise,

In signe of Ioy, but yet that Ioy comes short Of vvhat they make, for most to them resort, For, for the greater sinner, Christ hath sayd, That doth repent, the greater ioy is made: Yet that's made vp in glore, for she so farre Doth those exceed, as one another starre: What may we thinke vnto her soule is shone, When from her baser-part such vertue's flowne; As a sad reuerent feare their senses pierce, Who sighing see her sorrow-suted-Hearse: What would they do, if their vaild soule could spy Her sitting crownd aboue the starrie skie: Sure they would doe (nay in their hearts they doe) Euen at the thought thereof, with reuerence bow. But leaue to speake, nay, not so much as thinke, Least of those Ioyes which nere in heart could sinke. Lets not enuy'er, but inueigh gainst our Fate, That we behinde her, are staid here so late: And lets not mourne for her, that she's hence, But for our selues, that we are kept from thenee Whither she's gone: yet let no teare ore-flow, (Sorrow soone ceaseth that's disburdned so) Let them straine inward, if they le needs distill, And with their drops thy hearts sad center fill; And when its full, it can no more containe, Let the caske breake, and drowne thee in that maine.