The Belides or Eulogie and elegie, of that truly honourable John Lord Harrington Baron of Exton, who was elevated hence the 27th of Febr. 1613. vvanting then tvvo moneths of 22. yeares old. By G.T.
About this Item
- Title
- The Belides or Eulogie and elegie, of that truly honourable John Lord Harrington Baron of Exton, who was elevated hence the 27th of Febr. 1613. vvanting then tvvo moneths of 22. yeares old. By G.T.
- Author
- G. T. (George Tooke), 1595-1675.
- Publication
- London :: [s.n.],
- printed 1647.
- Rights/Permissions
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To the extent possible under law, the Text Creation Partnership has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to this keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above, according to the terms of the CC0 1.0 Public Domain Dedication (http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/). This waiver does not extend to any page images or other supplementary files associated with this work, which may be protected by copyright or other license restrictions. Please go to http://www.textcreationpartnership.org/ for more information.
- Subject terms
- Harington of Exton, John Harington, -- Baron, d. 1613 -- Early works to 1800.
- Fairfax, William, d. 1621 -- Early works to 1800.
- Cite this Item
-
"The Belides or Eulogie and elegie, of that truly honourable John Lord Harrington Baron of Exton, who was elevated hence the 27th of Febr. 1613. vvanting then tvvo moneths of 22. yeares old. By G.T." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A62938.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 20, 2024.
Pages
Page 103
Loves labor lost.
ALas how often by some Rillets side,
With heavy bosome have I trod the Meads,
And finding them with grass and Christial beads
So trimly cluster'd, thus began to chide:
Yee want nor dew to fledge your verdant quills,
Nor western wind to fanne the Summers heate:
Shoots not the Soyle from yon superiour hills,
To make your clovers fragrant, and compleat?
With store of soveraigne blooms are ye not drest,
And studded thick? or does not many a Swan,
And many a Nayad, that even ravish can
With pretious modulations, speake you blest?
But then what makes such store of Willough here?
Why foster yee this badge of discontent?
Me thinks you should some nobler Pendant weare,
The Palme, fat Olive, or the Laurell Gent':
I say, since happy, and so highly blest,
Me thinks ye should converse with plants of grace;
And like a Lady tricking up her face,
With Pearles and Rubies be, not pebles drest.
Fie, fie, dismisse this Livery forlorne,
Confine it to some craggy mountaine top,
Or barren Desart, where it may be worne
With more propriety; or since my hope
In Seas of sad dispaire is toss'd and torne,
And dayly drencht with many a rigid billow,
Passe it to me; give me your wofull VVillough.