Pleasant dialogues and dramma's, selected out of Lucian, Erasmus, Textor, Ovid, &c. With sundry emblems extracted from the most elegant Iacobus Catsius. As also certaine elegies, epitaphs, and epithalamions or nuptiall songs; anagrams and acrosticks; with divers speeches (upon severall occasions) spoken to their most excellent Majesties, King Charles, and Queene Mary. With other fancies translated from Beza, Bucanan, and sundry Italian poets. By Thomas Heywood

A Funerall Elegie upon the death of the thrice noble Gentleman Sir George Saint Poole of Lincolne-shire my Country-man.

IT is a maxime, neither birth nor state, Honour nor goodnesse can divert our fate. If these, or more, that did in him accrew (For these with his gifts valewd were but few) Could doe't; St. Poole had liv'd to Englands good, Since all these did nobilitate his blood.

Antiquity; which though it cannot save From death, yet helpes to decorate the grave, Heralds his gentry, and doth highly advance His pedegree from the St. Pooles of France, Which, from the Norman Innovation till His expiration hath beene eminent still. That was his least, though some extoll it most. Of that which is not ours why should we boast? That's our best noblenesse which our vertues win, Not that, to which w' are borne, and claime by kin.

He was possest of both, and in full measure, Did in his bosome many vertues treasure, Which on the earth hee did but put to lone, He now in heaven receives them ten for one. Vpheld he hath, and husbanded that fame Which from his ancient Predecessors came. Being much in him augmented: his revenue Grac't, and ennobled by that faire retenue.

He kept about him still not like this age, Changing his traine, to a Foot-boy or a Page. Free hospitality exil'd the Reame, He tooke in charge, which like a plenteous streame On his full tables flow'd (now a strange thing) It rather seem'd a torrent than a spring,

His hand was ever open, but before All others, to the vertuous and the poore; Not as most men are bounteous now; to those That either need not, or with cunning glose. They that were nearest bosom'd, knew, his heart, Beyond all favour still preferd desert.

Religious zeale with which he was inspir'd Bove common measure, made him both admir'd, And lov'd: besides upon that honour'd place Where he had voice, alwayes the poore mans case He would first heare, and howsoe re the rest That sate with him were swaid, favour'd th'opprest.

In all moralities, as courtesie, Bounty, love, generous affability, And other of like kind, each way so rare, He hath left few, that may with him compare. Of Arts, a Patron to the learned, still A knowne Moecena's, and to all of skill A favourer, witnesse that annuall fee, Which (Oxford) in his death he bequeath'd thee.

But wherefore should my duller Muse aspire, To expresse what I better should admire, Which rather may extenuate, then with praise Condigne, and worthy his high vertues raise. Then, with the Country who his death deplore, With these, whom he still patroniz'd, the poore, The wrong'd, who misse his justice, with the weale, Which will soone want him, with the men of zeale, And most religious; with the nobler spirits With whom he was companion, Lords and Knights,

With his Allyes and friends; and with his traine (Of servants, who have most cause to complaine The losse of such a Master, in's best yeares Snatcht from the earth) my Muse concludes in teares.