An Italians dead bodie, stucke with English flowers elegies, on the death of Sir Oratio Pallauicino.

Noctuluctus, or his Night-mourning.

1

RIch tapird-Sanctuarie of the blest, Pallace of Ruth, made all of teares and rest; Day of deepe Students▪ dead Night, nurse of death, Who breathlesse seed'st on nothing but our breath, To thy deepe shades, and desolatione, I consecrate my dying liuing mone.

2

You dreadfull Furies▪ visions of the night, With ghastly howling, all approach my sight: And palish Ghosts, with sable Tapers stand, To lend sad lights to my more sadder hand.

Foxes come barke, and Night-Rauens belch in grones, And Screetch-owles hollowe times confusiones.

3

Or I will furnish vp a Funerall bed, Strew'd with the bones and reli••ques of the dead: Redoubling Ecchoes shall like passing bells, Chiming the dismall accent▪ of their knells, Reuiue the dead, or make the liuing die, In Ruth, and terror of deathes torturie.

4

Here liues imprisoned sorrow, cloath'd in blacke, A dolefull hearse, fit for a dead mans backe: Natures faire red, clad in pale sheetes of Ruth, Expressing in dumbe shew, a serious truth. A Funerall solemniz'd in sad cheere, Where eies be mourners, and where legs the beere.

5

But ah my Muse, my Muse can but lament, With haire disheueld, words, and teares half spent, This dead quick-spirit, wits strange Cameleon, Which any authors colour could put on, And not in one sole tongue his thoughts dissūder. But like to Scaliger our ages woonder, The learneds Sun, wrapt in whose admiration, The rarest wits are fir'd in euery Nation,

6

Whose happie wit with gracious iudgemēt ioyn'd, Could giue a pasport unto words new coynd: In his owne shop, who could adopt the strange: Engraft the wilde, enrich with mutuall change His powerfull stile▪ yet sanz respect of sweetes, Death folded vp his earth in earthen sheetes.

7

O had I eyes to weepe griefes great'st excesse, Or words expressing more then words expresse,

Each line should be a Historie of woe, And euery accent as a dead mans throe.

8

But teares shall serue for Inke, for paper stones, Eyes pens, for letters drops, for subiect mones, For Epitaph these Threnes. Entomb'd here lies, (In graue of memorie digd with weeding eies) Wits strange Cameleon, dead quick-sprited Roman, Most like himselfe, else almost like to no man: Arts various-varnish, enricht so with th' Italian, French, Latine, Spanish, Dutch, and Nubian That Rome, Rheyn, Rhone, Greece, Spain, & Italy May all plead right in his Natiuity.

9

Ye liuing spirits then, if any liue, Whom like extreames, do like affections giue, Shun, shun this cruell light, and end your thrall, In these soft shades of sable Funerall.

Omnis vt vmbra. Io: May: