Teares on the death of Meliades

TEARES ON THE DEATH of Meliades.

O Heauens, then is it trew that thou art gone, And left this wofull Ile her losse to mone, Meliades, bright day-Starre of the West, A Comet blazing terrour to the East: And neither that thy Spirit so heauenly wise, Nor Bodie [though of earth] more pure then Skies, Nor royall Stemme, nor thy sweete tender Age, Of cruell Destinies could quench the rage? O fading hopes! O short-while-lasting joy Of earth-borne man, that one houre can destroy! Then euen of Vertues spoyles Death Trophees reares, As if he gloried most in many teares. Forc'd be hard Fates, doe Heauens neglect our cryes? Are Starres set onely to act Tragedies? And let them doe their worst, since thou art gone; Raise whome they lift to Thrones, enthron'd dethrone, Staine Princely Bowres with blood, and euen to Gange, In Cypresse sad, glad Hymens torches change. Ah thou hath left to liue, and in the time, When scarse thou blossom'd in thy pleasant Prime. So falls by Northen blast a virgin Rose, At halfe that doth her bashfull bosome close: So a sweete Flourish languishing decayes, That late did blush when kist by Phoebus rayes. So Phoebus mounting the Meridians hight, Choak't by pale Phoebe, faints vnto our sight: Astonish'd Nature sullen stands to see The Life of all this All, so chang'd to be,

In gloomie gownes the Starres about deplore, The Sea with murmuring mountaines beates the shore, Blacke Darkenesse reeles o're all, in thousand shoures The weeping Aire on Earth her sorrow poures, That in a palsey, quakes to see so soone Her Louer set, and Night burst forth ere Noone. If Heauen alas ordaind thee yong to die, Why was't not where thou mightst thy valour trie? And to the wondring world at least set forth Some litle sparke of thy exspected worth? Meliades, O that by Isters streames Mong sounding trumpets, fierie twinckling gleames Of warme vermilion swords, and cannons roare, Balls thicke as raine powr'd by the Caspian shore; Mong broken speares, mong ringing helmes & shieldes, Huge heapes of slaughtred bodies long the fieldes, In Turkish blood made red like Marses starre, Thou ended had thy life and Christian warre! Or as braue Burbon, thou had made olde Rome Queene of the world, thy triumph and thy tombe. So Heauens faire face to comming worlds which reedes, A booke had beene of thy illustrous deedes. So to their nephewes aged Syres had told The high exploits perform'd by thee of olde; Townes raz'd, and rais'd, victorious, vanquish'd bands, Fierce Tyrants flying, foyl'd, kild by thy hands. And in deare Arras, Virgins faire had wrought The Bayes and Trophees to thy countrie brought: While some great Homer imping wings to fame, Deafe Nilus dwellers had made heare thy name.

That thou did not attaine these honours spheares, Through lacke of power it was not, but of yeares. A brauer youth, pale Troy with trembling walls Did never see, nor she whose name appalls Both Titans golden bowres, in bloodie fights Mustring on Marses field, such Mars-like knights. The Heauens had brought thee to the highest hight Of wit and courage, showing all their might When they thee fram'd. Ayme that what is braue On earth, they as their owne so soone should craue! Meliades sweete courtly Nymphes deplore, From ruddy Hesp'rus rising to Aurore. When Forth thy nurse, Forth where thou first did passe Thy tender dayes, [who smylde oft on her glasse, To see thee gaze] Meandring with her streames, Heard thou had left this round, from Phoebus beames She sought to flie, but forced to returne By neighbour brookes, she gaue her selfe to mourne: And as she rush't her Cyclades among, She seem'd to plaine, that Heauen had done her wrong. With a hoarse plaint, Cleyd downe her steppie rockes, And Tweid through her greene mountaines cled with flocks, Did wound the Ocean, murmuring thy death; The Ocean that roar'd about the earth, And to the Mauritanian Atlas told; Who shrunke through griefe, & down his white haires rold Huge streames of teares, which changed were in floods, Wherewith he drown'd the neighbour plaines & woods. The lesser brookes as they did bubling goe, Did keepe a consort vnto publicke woe.

The Shepheards left their flockes, with downe cast eyes Sdaining to looke vp to the angrie Skyes: Some brake their pipes, and some in sweete-sad layes Made senslesse things amazed at thy praise. His reed Alexis hang vpon a tree, And with his teares made Doven great to be. Meliades sweete courtly Nymphes deplore From ruddy Hesp'rus rising to Aurore. Chast Maids which haunt faire Aganippe Well, And you in Tempes sacred shade who dwell, Let fall your harpes, cease tunes of joy to sing, Discheueled make all Parnassus ring With Antheames sad, thy Musicke Phoebus turne In dolefull plaints, whilst Ioy it selfe doth mourne. Dead is thy Darling who decor'd thy Bayes, Who oft was wont to cherish thy sweete layes, And to a trumpet raise thy amorous stile, That flotting Delos enuied might this Ile. You Acidalian Archers breake your Bowes, Your brādons quench, with teares blot Beauties snowes, And bid your weeping Mother yet againe A second Adons death, nay Marses plaine. His Eyes once were your darts, nay euen his Name, Where euer heard, did euery heart inflame. Tagus did court his loue with Golden streames, Rheine with his Townes, faire Seine with all she claimes. But ah (poore Louers) Death them did betray, And not suspected made their Hopes, his Pray! Tagus bewailes his losse with Golden streames, Rheine with his Townes, faire Seine with all she claimes.

Meliades sweete courtly Nymphes deplore From ruddy Hesp'rus rising to Aurore. Faire Meades amidst whose grassie velvet springs White, golden, azure flowres which once were kings, In mourning blacke, their shining colours dye, Bowe downe their heades, whiles sighing Zephyrs flye. Queene of the fieldes, whose blushes staines the Morne Sweete Rose, a Princes death in purple mourne. O Hyacinthes for ay your Al keepe still, Nay, with moe markes of woe your leaues now fill. Your greene lockes Forrests cut, in weeping Mirres, The deadly Cypresse, and inke-dropping Firres, Your Palmes and Mirtles turne; from shadowes darke Wing'd Syreins waile, and you sad Echoes marke The lamentable accents of their mone, And plaine that braue Meliades is gone. Stay Skye thy turning course, and now become A stately Arche, vnto the Earth his tombe; Ouer which ay the watrie Iris keepe, And soft-eyed Pleiades which still doe weepe, Meliades sweete courtly Nymphes deplore From ruddy Hesp'rus rising to Aurore. Deare Ghost forgiue these our vntimely teares, By which our louing mind, though w〈…〉〈…〉ares. Our losse, not thine [when we complaine] we weepe, The glistring walls of Heauen for thee doe keepe, Beyond the Planets wheeles, boue highest source Of Spheares, that turnes the lower in his course. Where Sunne doth neuer set, nor vgly Night

Euer appeares in mourning garments dight: Where Boreas stormie trumpet doth not sound, Nor clowdes in lightnings bursting, minds astound. From cares cold climates farre, and hote Desire, Where Time's exild, and Ages ne're expire: Mong purest spirits enuironed with beames, Thou thinks all things below, t'haue bene but dreames; And joyes to looke downe to the azur'd barres Of Heauen, poudred with troupes of streaming starres: And in their turning Temples, to behold In siluer robe the Moone, the Sunne in gold, Like yong eye-speaking louers in a dance, With majestie, by turnes retire, aduance. Thou wonders th'Earth to see hang like a ball Closd in the gha••••••ly Cloister of this All: And that poore m•••• should proue so madly fond, To tosse themselues for a small foote of ground. Nay, that they euen dare braue the pow'rs aboue, From this base stage of change, that cannot moue. All worldly pompe, and pride thou seest arise Like smoake thats scattred in the emptie skies. Other Hills and Forrests, other sumptuous Towres Amaz'd thou finds excelling our poore Bowres; Courts voyd of flatterie, of malice Minds, Pleasures which last, not such as reason blinds. More sweeter songs thou heares and carrollings, Whilst Heauens do dance, and quire of Angells sings, Then moldie minds could faine, euen our annoy [If it approach that place] is chang'd in joy. Rest blessed spirit, rest, satiat with the sight

Of him whose beames (though dazeling) doe delight, Life of all liues, Cause of each other cause, The Spheare and Center where the mind doth pause: Narcyssus of himselfe, himselfe the Well, Louer, and Beautie that doth all excell. Rest happie Ghost, and wonder in that Glasse, Where seene is all that shall be, is, or was, While shall be, is, or was, doe passe away, And nothing be, but an Eternall day. For euer rest, thy praise Fame may enroule, In golden Annales, while about the Pole The slow Boötes turnes, or Sunne doth rise With scarlet scarfe to cheare the mourning Skies. The Virgins to thy tombe may garlands beare Of flowres, and with each flowre let fall a teare. Meliades sweete courtly Nymphes deplore From ruddy Hesp'rus rising to Aurore.

W. Dr.

FINIS.