Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

On D^r. DONNES death: By M^r. Mayne of Christ-Church in Oxford.

WHo shall presume to mourn thee, Donne, unlesse He could his teares in thy expressions dresse, And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearse, To weepe lines, learned, as thy Anniverse, A Poëme of that worth, whose every teare Deserves the title of a severall yeare. Indeed so farre above its Reader, good, That wee are thought wits, when 'tis understood, There that blest maid to die, who now should grieve? After thy sorrow, 'twere her losse to live; And her faire vertues in anothers line, Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine. Hadst thou beene shallower, and not writ so high, Or left some new way for our pennes, or eye, To shed a funerall teare, perchance thy Tombe Had not beene speechlesse, or our Muses dumbe; But now wee dare not write, but must conceale Thy Epitaph, lest we be thought to steale,

For, who hath read thee, and discernes thy worth, That will not say, thy carelesse houres brought forth Fancies beyond our studies, and thy play Was happier, then our serious time of day? So learned was thy chance; thy haste had wit, And matter from thy pen flow'd rashly fit, What was thy recreation turnes our braine, Our rack and palenesse, is thy weakest straine. And when we most come neere thee, 'tis our blisse To imitate thee, where thou dost amisse, Here light your muse, you that do onely thinke, And write, and are just Poëts, as you drinke, In whose weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow, Just as your recknings rise, that wee may know In your whole carriage of your worke, that here This flash you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere, This is to tap your Muse, which running long Writes flat, and takes our eare not halfe so strong; Poore Suburbe wits, who, if you want your cup, Or if a Lord recover, are blowne up. Could you but reach this height, you should not need To make, each meale, a project ere you feed, Nor walke in reliques, clothes so old and bare, As if left off to you from Ennius were, Nor should your love, in verse, call Mistresse, those, Who are mine hostesse, or your whores in prose; From this Muse learne to Court, whose power could move A Cloystred coldnesse, or a Vestall love, And would convey such errands to their eare,

That Ladies knew no oddes to grant and heare; But I do wrong thee, Donne, and this low praise Is written onely for thy yonger dayes. I am not growne up, for thy riper parts, Then should I praise thee, through the Tongues, and Arts, And have that deepe Divinity, to know, What mysteries did from thy preaching flow, Who with thy words could charme thy audience, That at thy sermons, eare was all our sense; Yet have I seene thee in the pulpit stand, Where wee might take notes, from thy looke, and hand; And from thy speaking action beare away More Sermon, then some teachers use to say. Such was thy carriage, and thy gesture such, As could divide the heart, and conscience touch. Thy motion did confute, and wee might see An errour vanquish'd by delivery. Not like our Sonnes of Zeale, who to reforme Their hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit storme, And beate the cushion into worse estate, Then if they did conclude it reprobate, Who can out pray the glasse, then lay about Till all Predestination be runne out. And from the point such tedious uses draw, Their repetitions would make Gospell, Law. No, In such temper would thy Sermons flow, So well did Doctrine, and thy language show, And had that holy feare, as, hearing thee, The Court would mend, and a good Christian bee.

And Ladies though unhansome, out of grace, Would heare thee, in their unbought lookes, & face▪ More I could write, but let this crowne thine Urne, Wee cannot hope the like, till thou returne.