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

Funerall ELEGIES and EPITAPHS.

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.

A Funerall Elegie upon a vertuous Maide, who dyed the very day on which shee should have beene married.

O Hymen change thy saffron weeds, To habit black and sable: Change joyfull Acts, to Funerall deeds, Since nothing's firme or stable. My bridals are to burials turn'd, My day of mirth to sorrow: Show me the man who most hath mourn'd? From him my griefe Ile borrow. In stead of love and second life A dead corps I imbraced: Receiv'd a Coffin for a wife, With hearbs and flowers inchaced. Her beauty better had becom'd A Bride-bed than a grave: But envious fates her dayes have sum'd And crost what I did crave. All lovers that Have truely lov'd, Beare part in my laments: 'Mongst thousands scarcely one hath prov'd My tragick discontents. Heaven mourne her death in stormy clouds, Seas, weepe for her in brine. Thou earth which now her body shrouds, Lament though she be thine. That musick which with merry Tones Should to a bridall sound, Sigh out my griefe and passionate grones, Since she is toomb'd in ground.

An Epitaph upon the death of Sir Philip Woodhouse Knight Baronet.

••rom valiant John this Philip Woodhouse springs ••ee (of the Chamber to the greatest Kings ••enry the fift) who'at famous Agincourt ••oon that eternis'd Motto, Frappe fort, ••natcht from a noble Frenchman, when by force •••• the mid-field, he beat him from his horse, ••nd brought him prisoner, for which warlike deed, As Souldiers still deserve their valours meed) ••ll Heraldry hath to his Crest allow'd •• Hand and Club extended from a cloud. This John had issue Edward: Edward then Thomas: and Thomas, Roger: He agen Thomas, and Thomas, Roger, who was father To this Sir Philip, Him, whose dust we gather, ••o mixe with his brave Ancestors, the last ••f sixe successive Knights whose fates are cast; ••hus was he borne, thus lineally descended, ••or whom this pious Sacred is commended. Ag'd sixty one, Knighted in Spaine, and hee ••f Baronets in ranck the fortieth three, ••y order and precedence, here now sleepes, ••or whom this monumentall Marble weepes. Reader, who e're thou beest, conceive this done By the due office of a gratefull sonne.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 Epitaph upon one Mr. Robert Honywood and his Mother, and of their numerous Issue.

••••crease and multiply God said: to thee ••o doubt he spake O Honywood: for we ••now, thou as Sire and Grandsire, hast to Heaven ••dded, of soules one hundred twenty seven, ••••d yet thy mother did thee farre surmount ••hree hundred sixty seven, her age could count.

Sacrum Amoris. Perpetuitati memoriae Katharinae Skip: obijt Anno salutis mille simo Sexcentesimo Tricesimo. A••tatis suae, Vicesimo nono.

Can foure weake lines comprise her vertues? no, Not volumes can, here lyes beneath this stone, All that her sex since Eve could learne or know, (Alas) where shall they harbour now shee's gone?

Of Mr. Thomas Skipp her husband since deceased, and buried in the same Tombe, whose Statue is plac't in a circle of Bookes, for the great love he bore to learning.

What stronger circle can Art-magick find Wherein a Scholers spirit can be confind, Then this of Bookes? next how he spent his time, Scorning earths droffe to looke on things sublime. So long thy love to learning shall be read, Whilst fame shall last, or Statues for the dead.

An Epitaph upon a worthy Gentlewoman whose name was Patience.

Impatience, why from Patience shouldst thou grow? Or why such sorrow raise from sweet content? From pleasures spring, why should displeasure flow? Or our late joyes turne to such sad lament? But that we see, as time to death is hasting, Nothing on earth is permanent and lasting Saving Impatience, sorrow and displeasure, Laments and strange disasters that still fall, The losse of solace, comfort and of treasure, And of these nam'd this losse includeth all. A losse indeed this Grizels losse implyes, Since here with her all womens patience lyes.

An Epitaph upon a vertuous young Gentlewoman, who after seven yeares marriage expired.

Well borne, well bred, brought up with cost and care, Sweet Infant, hopefull child, and virgin chaste. Marriage which makes up women, made her rare, Matron and maide, with all choise vertues grac't, Loving and lov'd of all (her husband chiefe) Liv'd to our great joy, dyde to all our griefe.

Vpon a Toomb-stone which covereth the body of a worthy Citizen, on which is ingraven a white hand pointing to a Starre.

Pure Heart, white hand, one shadowed, th'other seene, ••oints to a Starre, to show what both have beene. The Heart devout: in life a constant giver, The Hand that gift, as ready to deliver, •• such alternate goodnesse, both agreeing, ••s seldome to be matcht when they had being. The Heart bequeath'd, the Hand did still bestow, ••oth reape in Heaven, what they on earth did sow.

Funerall Elegie upon the death of Mistris Mary Littleboyes, Daughter to Master George Littleboyes of Ashburnham in Sussex, Esquire.

••e was a virgin tall, as towards Heaven growing, ••ho had she by Emergent Venus stood, ••er dewy locks about her shoulders flowing, ••nd Cupid viewde them both at once) He woo'd Not able to distinguish one from th' other) ••ave leapt into her lap, there toyde and plaid, ••••d (though a maide) mistooke her for his mother. ••faire she was; But thus all beauties fade. •• the choice vertues, morall and divine, ••hat ever grac't the sex, compris'd in one,

Did in her faire brest mutually combine, And where shall they find harbour now shee's gone? Whom heaven did love, who merited mans praise, Modest, wise, pious, charitable, chaste, Whose vertues did in number passe her dayes, Now (woe the while) in darknesse sleepes her last. Well borne, well bred, brought up with cost and care, Of singular parts; the sole admir'd 'mongst many, In all her gracefull carriage, choise and rare. But what of these? we see death spares not any. Besides all other rich decorements she So sweetly sung, her voice did rapture breed, No spring-tide bird to her compar'd might be, Who Orpheus did, and Thamiras exceed. And what's of rare remarke; even all that day, (The saddest to her friends that ever came) When she (sweet soule) upon her death-bed lay, She to choise musicall notes her voice did frame. Her Funerall Dirge the dying Swan so sings, Then Angels waited to make up the Guire, And beare her soule on their celestiall wings, Vnto that place shee living did desire. Were all the pens of Poets joyn'd in one, Dipt in like Inke, and sworne, to write her true; Let them spend all their spirits on her alone, Yet can they not ascribe to her her due. Apollo write thy selfe, for this doth aske No humane skill, to give her merited praise. Thy Daphne dead, now take in hand this taske, Do't as it ought, and ever weare thy bayes.

The Inscription upon her Tombe-stone lying in Clerkenwell Church.

Hereunder lyes a Casket, that containd A life unspotted, and a soule unstaind, A virgin chaste, beyond example faire,

••or outward gifts remark't, for inward, rare, Of natures pieces, one the prime and choice, ••o nurturd, that for needle, booke and voice ••re was unpeer'd: matchles in mind and face, ••nd all the vertues that her sex most grace. ••ho after twenty yeares scarce fully expird, ••rriv'd at that safe port she most desird: •• life, to friends and parents fresh joyes bringing: •• death; to God sweet Halelujaes singing.

Obijt Die Mart. 8. Anno Aetat. 20. An. salutis. 1636.