Poems, with a maske by Thomas Carew ... ; the songs were set in musick by Mr. Henry Lawes ...

An Elegie on the La: PEN: sent to my Mistress out of France.

LEt him, who from his tyrant Mistress did This day receive his cruell doom, forbid His eyes to weep that loss, and let him here Open those floud-gates, to bedeaw this beer; So shall those drops, which else would be but brine, Be turn'd to Manna, falling on her shrine. Let him, who banisht far from her dear sight Whom his soul loves, doth in that absence write, Or lines of passion, or some powerfull charms, To vent his own grief, or unlock her arms, Take off his pen, and in sad verse bemone This generall sorrow, and forget his own; So many those Verses live, which else mustdye: For though the Muses give eternity, When they embalm with verse, yet she could give Life unto that Muse, by which others live. Oh pardon me (fair soul) that boldly have Dropt though but one tear, on thy silent grave; And writ on that earth, which such honour had, To cloath that flesh wherein thy self was clad. And pardon me (sweet Saint) whom I adore, That I this tribute pay out of the store

Of lines, and tears, thats only due to thee; Oh, doe not think it new Idolatry; Though you are only soveraign of this Land, Yet universall losses may command A subsidie from every private eye, And press each pen to write, so to supply, And feed the common grief; if this excuse Prevail not, take these tears to your own use, As shed for you; for when I saw her dye, I then did think on your mortality; For since nor vertue, witt, nor beauty, could Preserve from Death's hand, this their heavenly mould, Where they were framed all, and where they dwelt, I then knew you must dye too, and did melt Into these tears: but thinking on that day, And when the gods resolv'd to take away A Saint from us, I that did know what dearth There was of such good souls upon the earth, Began to fear lest Death, their Officer, Might have mistook, and taken thee for her; So had'st thou rob'd us of that happiness Which she in heaven, and I in thee possess. But what can heaven to her glory adde? The prayses she hath dead, living she had. To say she's now an Angell, is no more Praise than she had, for shee was one before;

Which of the Saints can shew more votaries Than shee had here? even those that did despise The Angels, and may her now she is one, Did, whilst she liv'd, with pure devotion Adore, and worship her; her vertues had All honour here, for this world was too bad To hate, or envy her; these cannot rise So high, as to repine at Deities: But now she's 'mongst her fellow Saints, they may Be good enough to envy her, this way There's loss i'th' change 'twixt heav'n and earth, if she Should leave her servants here below, to be Hated of her competitors above; But sure her matchlesse goodness needs must move Those blest soules to admire her excellence; By this meanes only can her journey hence To heaven prove gain, if as she was but here, Worship'd by men, she be by Angels there. But I must weep no more over this urn My teares to their own chanell must return; And having ended these sad obsequies, My Muse must back to her old exercise, To tell the story of my martyrdome. But oh thou Idoll of my soul, become Once pitiful, that she may change her stile, Dry up her blubbred eyes, and learn to smile.

Rest then blest soul; for as ghosts fly away, When the shrill Cock proclames the infant-day; So must I hence, for loe I see from farre, The minions of the Muses coming are, Each of them bringing to thy sacred Herse, In either eye a tear, each hand a Verse.