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

In answer to an Elegiacall Letter upon the death of the King of Sweden from Aurelan Townsend, inviting me to write on that subject.

WHy dost thou sound my dear Aurelian, In so shrill accents, from thy Barbican, A loud allarum to my drowsic eys, Bidding them wake in tears and Elegies For might Sweden's fall? Alas! how may My Lyrique feet, that of the smooth soft way Of love, and Beauty, only know the tread, In dancing paces celebrate the dead Victorious King, or his Majestick Hearse Prophane with th'humble touch of their low verse? Virgill, nor Lucan, no nor Tasso move Than both, not Donne, worth all that went before, With the united labour of their wit Could a just Poem to this subject fit; His actions were too mighty to be rais'd Higher by Verse, let him in prose be prays'd, In modest faithfull story, which his deeds Shall turn to Poems: when the next Age reads Of Frankfort, Leipsigh, Worsburgh, of the Rhyne, The Leek, the Danube, Tilly, Wallestein, Bavaria, Dapenbeim, Lutzenfield, where He Gain'd after death a posthume Victory,

They'l think his Acts things rather feign'd than don Like our Romances of the Knight o'th'Sun. Leave we him then to the grave Chronicler, Who though to Annals he can not refer His too-briefe story, yet his Iournals may Stand by the Caesars years, and every day Cut into minutes, each shall more contain Of great designement than an Emperours raign; And (since 'twas but his Church-yard) let him have For his owne ashes now no narrower Grave Than the whol German Continents vast womb, Whilst all her Cities doe but make his Tomb. Let us to supreme providence commit The fate of Monarchs, which first thought it fit To rend the Empire from the Austrian grasp And next from Swedens, even when he did clasp Within his dying armes the Soveraignty Of all those Provinces, that men might see The Divine wisedome would not leave that Land Subject to any one Kings sole command. Then let the Germans fear, if Caesar shall, Or the Vnited Princes, rise, and fall, But let us that in myrtle bowers sit Vnder secure shades use the benefit Of peace and plenty, which the blessed hand Of our good King gives this obdurate Land,

Let us of Revels sing, and let thy breath (Which fill'd Fames trumpet with Gustavus death, Blowing his name to heaven) gently inspire Thy past'rall pipe, till all our swains admire Thy song and subject, whilst they both comprise The beauties of the SHEPHERDS PARADISE; For who like thee (whose loose discourse is farre Moreneat and polisht than our Poems are, Whose very gate's more gracefull than our dance) In sweetly flowing numbers may advance The glorious night; When not to act foul rapes, Like birds, or beasts, but in their Angel-shapes A troop of Deities came down to guide Our steerless barkes in passions swelling tide By vetrues Card, and brought us from above A pattern of their own celestiall love, Nor lay it in dark sullen precepts drown'd, But with rich fancy, and clear Action crown'd Through a mysterious fable (that was drawn Like a transparant veyl of purest Lawn Before their dazelling beauties) the divine Venus, did with her heavenly Cupid shine. The stories curious web, the Masculine stile, The subt le sense, did Time and sleep beguile, Pinnion'd and charm'd they stood to gaze upon Th' Angellike formes, gestures, and motion.

To hear those ravishing sounds that did dispence Knowledge and pleasure, to the soul and sense, It fill'd us with amazement to behold Love made all spirit, his corporeall mold Dissected into Atomes melt away To empty ayr, and from the gross allay Of mixtures, & and compounding Accidents Refind to immateriall Elements. But when the Queen of Beauty did inspire The ayr with perfumes, and our hearts with fire, Breathing from her celestiall Organ sweet Harmonious notes, our souls fell at her feet, And did with humble reverend duty, more Her rare perfections, than high state adore. These harmeless pastimes let my Townesend sing To rurall times; not that thy Muse wants wing To soare a loftier pitch, for she hath made A noble flight, and plac'd th'Heroique shade Above the reach of our faint flagging ryme; But these are subjects proper to our clyme. Torueyes, Masques, Theaters better become Our Halcyon dayes; what though the German Drum Bellow for freedome and revenge? the noyse Concernes not us, nor should divert our joyes; Nor ought the thunder of their Carabins Drown the sweet Ayres of our tun'd Violins;

Beleeve me friend, if their prevailing powers Gain them a calm security like ours, They'l hang their Armes upon the Olive bough. And dance, and revell then, as we doe now,