An elegie vpon my deare brother, the Ionathan of my heart, Mr. Iohn Wheeler, sonne to Sir Edmond Wheeler of Riding Court neare Windsor, in the County of Buckingham, deceased
About this Item
Title
An elegie vpon my deare brother, the Ionathan of my heart, Mr. Iohn Wheeler, sonne to Sir Edmond Wheeler of Riding Court neare Windsor, in the County of Buckingham, deceased
Author
Quarles, Francis, 1592-1644.
Publication
London :: Printed by T[homas] C[otes] for N. Alsop, and T. Nicholes; and are to be sold at the Angell in Popes head Alley,
1637.
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Subject terms
Wheeler, John, -- Mr -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
Link to this Item
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A10255.0001.001
Cite this Item
"An elegie vpon my deare brother, the Ionathan of my heart, Mr. Iohn Wheeler, sonne to Sir Edmond Wheeler of Riding Court neare Windsor, in the County of Buckingham, deceased." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A10255.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 30, 2024.
Pages
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An Elegie.
1
AWay, those Ioyes; away, those full delights,The late vnbenders of my thoughtfull minde;Which fedde my Time with sweeter dayes and nightsThen were, at first, allotted to Mankinde:Goe seeke out those that feast;Leave me to sadnesse: Sorrow is the GuestWhich I must entertaine, and billet in my brest.
2
BReake not the Peace of my compos'd ResolvesRebellious fancy; cease to make resortInto my setled Browes, whose thought revolvesBusinesse of great import:Invention, rest; till Servile Bribes enticeSome Bards corrupted Pen, to set a priceOn some unworthy Lord, or paint his noble vice.
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COme then, my Genius; Let the needlesse CareOf quaint expressions passe:The mourners garbe is not to crispe the hayre,And true bread teares consult not with the Glasse:Lick not thy lines, nor scanne their carelesse feete,Vnmeasur'd Griefe and Measures seldome meete:Neglected wrincles best beseeme the Winding-sheete.
4
DRaw neere you gentle heart, draw neere,Whilst I bedable my suffused eyes;You shall not spend a teare;You are my Guests, and these my Obsequies.No neede to begge a droppe; my dearest SimAnd I will fill the Cisterne to the Brim:Then let me beg my bread, if I beg teares for Him.
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Ev'n Him, to whose sweet Memorie I oweThis sad Memoriall of my deare Affection;Whereby (who ever please to reade) may knoweThe perfect President of youths Perfection:But, ah, these too supicious times! Alas,It will surpasseA good Beleevers Faith, to tell but what hee was.
6
FOr me; let scorne and slight Opinion fillMy undervalu'd Rymes with disrepute;Let every tongue deride my bafsled Quill,And let my lines consume like Summer fruit,When I turne Vices Advocate; or whenAffection, or base by-respects of Men,Shall falsify the just Geometry of my Pen.
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7
GOodnes, and vettue, and heroick worth,Sweetnesse of Nature, seconded with Arts;A noble brest, and Birth;Compleatnes both of Person, and of Parts:Must be our Theame: We charge the mouth of FameTo blow her louder Trumpet, and proclameHis Merits, whom we monrne, and glorifie his Name.
8
HE was an early Spring, and beautifiedWith all that Flora's bounty could bestow;Life-breathing Zephyr tooke a prideTo see his Buds sprout forth, and flowers growe;The Nymph Pomona feard the Lord of TimeMistooke his Tropick, to show fruit in primeBefore the Time of fruit, and in so cold a Clime.
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Injurious Sisters, tell me why you madeHis Twine so small, yet spun so short a twine?Thread had beene the Glory of your Trade,Had you spun strong as well as fine:But ah! what strength is able to withstandThe direfull stroke of your imperious hand,Which prayers can not entreat, nor power countermand?
10
Now, Readers, know, he was a Marke too fayreFor Death to misse; His ripenesse did inviteHer over-daynty Palate not to spareMy lifes delight:He was the flowre of youth; the Ioy of Art;A faithfull Partner of a faithfull heart:The very Soule of love, and friendships Counterpart.
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11
LEarning divine and morall did enrichHis wealthy Soule with her abundant store:There was no Excellence, in whichHe was not halfe a Master, if not more:Sometimes, the busy Quadrant, now and then,Appelles Pencill, and Appollo's PenImployd his skinfull hand: He studyed Bookes and Men.
12
MVsick, the language of th'eternall Quire,Breath'd in his soule celestiall straynes,And fild his Spirits with Seraphick fyre,Whose gentle flames calcin'd his ravisht brynes;And made him ripe for heav'n: He did departMore then a Scholler in that sacred Art,His fancy, singers, voyce, perform'd a Masters part.
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13
NOble were all his Actions, strict and just,Quicke, but advis'd; and milde, yet full of spirit:His heart was buxom, tender, full of Trust;Prudently simple, free to men of merit:His Resolutions weighd, reserv'd and strong,His silence studious, sweet his tongue;Lesse ready to require, then to conceive a wrong.
14
O, but those firme Indentures, sweetly pastBetwixt his soule and mine,(Thy bands, ô Hymen, are not halfe so fast;Ours are too strong for death; death cancells thine)O, how they vrge my frailty! How they threshMy wounded Soule, and tribulate my flesh!And all my teares being sqent, they spueeze out teares afresh.
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15
PAssion usurpes the kingdome of my Soule:My heart is full and it must vent, or breake:Peace, Iudgement, peace; O, shall I not condoleSo deare a losse? Give losers leave to speake.Thou knowest my teares are justShall, shall they not embalme the precious dustOf my true bosome friend? They shall, they will, they must.
16
QVench not those flames which your owne breath hath blowneIn my Affection;O, limit not those Bon-fires which are growneBeyond your reach; love burnes without direction:Nor tell me, what I know, that he sits crown'dWith endlesse Ioy: My sorrow does propoundThe joyes that I have lost, not those which he hath found.
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17
REason must stoope, and Iudgement strike her sayle:His Ioyes befoole the wisedome of a Pen;Fancy must flagge, and language must turne taile;No, these are heights for Angels, not for men:Alas the stormes of passionThat burst from natures Clowds, have dispensationTo ease themselves by vent, & vent by lamentation.
18
SO vaine, so fraile, so poore a thing is Man!A weather cocke, that's turnd with every blast;His Griefes are Armefulls; and his mirth a span;His Ioyes soone crost, or pastHis best delights are sauc'd with doubts and feares:If had; we plunge in Care: If lost; in teares:Let goe, or hold, they bite; We hold a Wolfe by th'eares.
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19
TIme, shake thy Glasse, and let thy Minits flye,Switcht on with Angels, till thy Sand be spent;Till then, their's nothing certaine, but to dye;Or worse, to droyle in feares, or discontent:Thy best of all thy Sweets are but a Snare;Thy Honours, blasts of Ayre;Thy wealth, but golden Trash; and trifles, full of care.
20
VNdresse thy selfe, my Soule, and dissinvestThy thoughts of all these Ragges of flesh and blood;Returne thee to thy Rest;O, there be Monsters lurke in Natures flood:Close up thy springs; thy bankes are to the brim:Weepe for thy selfe; my Soule, thou canst not swimIn the dead Sea of teares; O, weepe no more for Him.
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21
WAnder no more in the distracted PathOf Sense: The teares are lost which Passion vent;O, rather seeke the Pleasures that he hath,Whose death thine eyes lament;He lives in joy; Thou show'st a weeping eye;He sits in Glory; Thou sittst downe to cry;Thou either lou'dst him not, or giv'st his joyes the Lye.
22
YOu, that are Partners in so great a losse,Strive to be partners in so great a gaine;Pry not too much into his Dust, his Drosse;The hopes of Comfort there, are lesse then vaine.Cast up your better eyes,And view that Palace, where his Glory lyes,Where Time cannot suppresse, where Death cannot surprize.
FINIS.
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