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

An Anatomy of the World.

The first Anniversary.

WHen that rich Soule which to her heaven is gone, Who all do celebrate, who know they have one, (For who is sure he hath a Soule, unlesse It see, and judge, and follow worthinesse, And by deeds praise it? hee who doth not this, May lodge an immate soule, but'tis not his.) When that Queene ended here her progresse time, And, as t'her standing house to heaven did climbe,

Where loath to make the Saints attend her long, She's now a part both of the Quire, and Song. This World, in that great earthquake languished; For in a common bath of teares it bled, Which drew the strongest vitall spirits out: But succour'd then with a perplexed doubt, Whether the world did lose, or gaine in this, (Because since now no other way there is, But goodnesse, to see her, whom all would see, All must endeavour to be good as shee.) This great consumption to a fever turn'd, And so the world had fits; it joy'd, it mourn'd; And, as men thinke, that Agues physick are, And th'Ague being spent, give over care. So thou sicke World, mistak'st thy selfe to bee Well, when alas, thou'rt in a Lethargie. Her death did wound and tame thee than, and than Thou might'st have better spar'd the Sunne, or man. That wound was deep, but 'tis more misery, That thou hast lost thy sense and memory. 'Twas heavy then to heare thy voyce of mone, But this is worse, that thou art speechlesse growne. Thou hast forgot thy name thou hadst; thou wast Nothing but shee, and her thou hast o'rpast. For as a child kept from the Fount, untill A prince, expected long, come to fulfill The ceremonies, thou unnam'd had'st laid, Had not her comming, thee her palace made: Her name defin'd thee, gave thee forme, and frame, And thou forgett'st to celebrate thy name.

Some moneths she hath beene dead (but being dead, Measures of times are all determined) But long she'ath beene away, long, long, yet none Offers to tell us who it is that's gone. But as in states doubtfull of future heires, When sicknesse without remedie empaires The present Prince, they're loth it should be said, The Prince doth languish, or the Prince is dead: So mankinde feeling now a generall thaw, A strong example gone, equall to law; The Cyment which did faithfully compact, And glue all vertues, now resolv'd, and slack'd, Thought it some blasphemy to say sh'was dead, Or that our weaknesse was discovered In that confession; therefore spoke no more Then tongues, the Soule being gone, the losse deplore. But though it be too late to succour thee, Sicke World, yea, dead, yea putrified, since shee Thy'intrinsique balme, and thy preservative, Can never be renew'd, thou never live, I (since no man can make thee live) will try, What wee may gaine by thy Anatomy. Her death hath taught us dearely, that thou art Corrupt and mortall in thy purest part. Let no man say, the world it selfe being dead, 'Tis labour lost to have discovered The worlds infirmities, since there is none Alive to study this dissection; For there's a kinde of World remaining still, Though shee which did inanimate and fill

The world, be gone, yet in this last long night, Her Ghost doth walke, that is, a glimmering light, A faint weake love of vertue, and of good, Reflects from her, on them which understood Her worth; and though she have shut in all day, The twilight of her memory doth stay; Which, from the carcasse of the old world, free, Creates a new world, and new creatures bee Produc'd: the matter and the stuffe of this, Her vertue, and the forme our practice is: And thought to be thus elemented, arme These creatures, from homeborne intrinsique harme, (For all assum'd unto this dignitie, So many weedlesse Paradises bee, Which of themselves produce no venemous sinne, Except some forraine Serpent bring it in) Yet because outward stormes the strongest breake, And strength it selfe by confidence growes weake, This new world may be safer, being told * 1.1 The dangers and diseases of the old: For with due temper men doe then forgoe, Or covet things, when they their true worth know. * 1.2 There is no health; Physitians say that wee, At best, enjoy but a neutralitie. And can there bee worse sicknesse, then to know That we are never well, nor can be so? Wee are borne ruinous: poore mothers cry, That children come not right, nor orderly; Except they headlong come and fall upon An ominous precipitation.

How witty's ruine, how importunate Upon mankinde? it labour'd to frustrate Even Gods purpose; and made woman, sent For mans reliefe, cause of his languishment. They were to good ends, and they are so still, But accessory, and principall in ill; For that first marriage was our funerall: One woman at one blow, then kill'd us all, And singly, one by one, they kill us now. We doe delightfully our selves allow To that consumption; and profusely blinde, Wee kill our selves to propagate our kinde. And yet we do not that; we are not men: There is not now that mankinde, which was then, When as, the Sunne and man did seeme to strive, * 1.3 (Joynt tenants of the world) who should survive. When, Stagge, and Raven, and the long-liv'd tree, Compar'd with man, dy'd in minoritie, When, if a slow pac'd starre had stolne away From the observers marking, he might stay Two or three hundred yeares to see't againe, And then make up his observation plaine; When, as the age was long, the sise was great; Mans growth confess'd, and recompenc'd the meat; So spacious and large, that every Soule Did a faire Kingdome, and large Realme controule: And when the very stature, thus erect, Did that soule a good way towards heaven direct. Where is this mankinde now? who lives to age, Fit to be made Methusalem his page?

Alas, we scarce live long enough to try Whether a true made clocke run right, or lie. Old Gransires talke of yesterday with sorrow: And for our children wee reserve to morrow. So short is life, that every pesant strives, In a torne house, or field, to have three lives. And as in lasting, so in length is man, * 1.4 Contracted to an inch, who was a spanne; For had a man at first in forrests stray'd, Or shipwrack'd in the Sea, one would have laid A wager, that an Elephant, or Whale, That met him, would not hastily assaile A thing so equall to him: now alas, The Fairies, and the Pigmies well may passe As credible; mankinde decayes so soone, We'are scarce our Fathers shadowes cast at noone: Onely death ads t'our length: nor are wee growne In stature to be men, till we are none. But this were light, did our lesse volume hold All the old Text; or had wee chang'd to gold Their silver, or dispos'd into lesse glasse Spirits of vertue, which then scatter'd was. But 'tis not so: w'are not retir'd, but dampt; And as our bodies so our mindes are crampt: 'Tis shrinking, not close weaving that hath thus, In minde, and body both bedwarfed us. Wee seeme ambitious, Gods whole worke t'undoe; Of nothing hee made us, and we strive too, To bring our selves to nothing backe; and wee Doe what wee can, to do't so soone as hee.

With new diseases on our selves wee warre, And with new Physicke, a worse Engin farre. Thus man, this worlds Vice-Emperour, in whom All faculties, all graces are at home; And if in other creatures they appeare, They're but mans Ministers, and Legats there, To worke on their rebellions, and reduce Them to Civility, and to mans use. This man, whom God did wooe, and loth t'attend Till man came up, did downe to man descend, This man so great, that all that is, is his, Oh what a trifle, and poore thing he is! If man were any thing; he's nothing now: Helpe, or at least some time to wast, allow T'his other wants, yet when he did depart With her whom we lament, hee lost his heart. She, of whom th'Ancients seem'd to prophesie, When they call'd vertues by the name of shee; Shee in whom vertue was so much refin'd, That for allay unto so pure a minde Shee tooke the weaker Sex: shee that could drive The poysonous tincture, and the staine of Eve, Out of her thought, and deeds; and purifie All, by a true religious Alchymie; She▪ she is dead; shee's dead: when thou knowest this, Thou knowest how poore a trifling thing man is. And learn'st thus much by our Anatomie, The heart being perish'd, no part can be free. And that except thou feed (not banquet) on The supernaturall food, Religion:

Thy better growth growes withered, and scant; Be more then man, or thou'rt lesse then an Ant. Then as mankinde, so is the worlds whole frame Quite out of joynt, almost created lame: For, before God had made up al the rest, Corruption entred, and deprav'd the best: It seis'd the Angells, and then first of all The world did in her cradle take a fall, And turn'd her braines, and tooke a generall maime, Wronging each joynt of th'universall frame. The noblest part, man, felt it first; and than * 1.5 Both beasts and plants, curst in the curse of man, So did the world from the first houre decay, That evening was beginning of the day, And now the Springs and Sommers which we see, Like sonnes of women after fiftie bee. And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, The Element of fire is quite put out; The Sun is lost, and th'earth, and no mans wit Can well direct him where to looke for it. And freely men confesse that this world's spent, When in the Planets, and the firmament They seeke so many new; they see that this Is crumbled out againe to his Atomies. 'Tis all in peeces, all coherence gone; All just supply, and all Relation: Prince, Subject, Father, Sonne, are things forgot, For every man alone thinkes he hath got To be a Phoenix, and that then can bee None of that kinde, of which he is, but hee.

This is the worlds condition now, and now She that should all parts to reunion bow, She that had all Magnetique force alone, To draw, and fasten sundred parts in one; She whom wise nature had invented then When she observ'd that every sort of men Did in their voyage in this worlds Sea stray, And needed a new compasse for their way; She that was best, and first originall Of all faire copies, and the generall Steward to Fate; she whose rich eyes, and breast, Guilt the West-Indies, and perfum'd the East, Whose having breath'd in this world, did bestow Spice on those Iles, and bad them still smell so, And that rich Indie which doth gold interre, Is but as single money coyn'd from her: She to whom this world must it selfe refer, As Suburbs, or the Microcosme of her, Shee, shee is dead; shee's dead: when thou knowest this Thou knowest how lame a criple this world is. And learn'st thus much by our Anatomy, That this worlds generall sicknesse doth not lie In any humour, or one certaine part; But as thou sawest it rotten at the heart, Thou seest a Hectique feaver hath got hold Of the whole substance, not to be contrould, And that thou hast but one way, not t'admit The worlds infection, to be none of it. For the worlds subtilst immateriall parts Feele this consuming wound, and ages darts.

For the worlds beauty is decai'd, or gone, * 1.6 Beauty, that's colour, and proportion. We thinke the heavens enjoy their Sphericall Their round proportion embracing all, But yet their various and perplexed course, Observ'd in divers ages, doth enforce Men to finde out so many Eccentrique parts, Such divers downe right lines, such overthwarts, As disproportion that pure forme: It teares The Firmament in eight and forty sheires, And in these Constellations then arise New starres, and old doe vanish from our eyes: As though heav'n suffered earthquakes, peace or war, When new Towers rise, and old demolish't are. They have impal'd within a Zodiake The free-borne Sun, and keepe twelve Signes awake To watch his steps; the Goat and Crab controule, And fright him backe, who else to either Pole (Did not these tropiques fetter him) might runne: For his course is not round; nor can the Sunne Perfit a Circle, or maintaine his way One inch direct; but where he rose to day He comes no more, but with a couzening line, Steales by that point, and so is Serpentine: And seeming weary with his reeling thus, He meanes to sleepe, being now falne nearer us. So, of the Starres which boast that they doe runne In Circle still, none ends where he begun. All their proportion's lame, it sinkes, it swels. For of Meridians, and Parallels,

Man hath weav'd out a net, and this net throwne Upon the Heavens, and now they are his owne. Loth to goe up the hill, or labour thus To goe to heaven, we make heaven come to us. We spur, we reine the starres, and in their race They're diversly content t'obey our peace. But keepes the earth her round proportion still? Doth not a Tenarus or higher hill Rise so high like a Rocke, that one might thinke The floating Moone would shipwrack there & sinke? Seas are so deepe, that Whales being strucke to day, Perchance to morrow scarse at middle way Of their wish'd journies end, the bottome, die. And men, to sound depths, so much line untie, As one might justly thinke, that there would rise At end thereof, one of th'Antipodies: If under all, a vault infernall bee, (Which sure is spacious, except that we Invent another torment, that there must Millions into a straight hot roome be thrust) Then solidnesse, and roundnesse have no place. Are these but warts, and pockholes in the face Of th'earth; Thinke so: but yet confesse, in this The worlds proportion disfigured is; * 1.7 That those two legges whereon it doth rely, Reward and punishment are bent awry. And, Oh, it can no more be questioned, That beauties best, proportion, is dead, Since even griefe it selfe, which now alone Is left us, is without proportion.

Shee by whose lines proportion should bee Examin'd, measure of all Symmetree, Whom had that Ancient seen, who thought soules mad•• Of Harmony, he would at next have said That Harmony was shee, and thence infer That soules were but Resultances from her, And did from her into our bodies goe, As to our eyes, the formes from objects flow: Shee, who if those great Doctors truly said That the Arke to mans proportion was made, Had been a type for that, as that might be A type of her in this, that contrary Both Elements and Passions liv'd at peace In her, who caus'd all Civill war to cease. Shee, after whom, what forme soe'r we see, Is discord, and rude incongruitie; She, she is dead, she's dead; when thou know'st this, Thou knowest how ugly a monster this world is: And learn'st thus much by our Anatomie, That here is nothing to enamour thee: And that, not only faults in inward parts, Corruptions in our braines, or in our hearts, Poysoning the fountaines, whence our actions spring, Endanger us: but that if every thing Be not done fitly'and in proportion, To satisfie wise, and good lookers on, (Since most men be such as most thinke they bee) They're lothsome too, by this deformitie. For good, and well, must in our actions meet; Wicked is not much worse then indiscreet.

But beauties other second Element, Colour, and lustre now, is as neere spent. And had the world his just proportion, Were it a ring still, yet the stone is gone. As a compassionate Turcoyse which doth tell By looking pale, the wearer is not well, As gold falls sicke being stung with Mercury, All the worlds parts of such complexion bee. When nature was most busie, the first weeke, Swadling the new borne earth, God seem'd to like That she should sport her selfe sometimes, and play, To mingle, and vary colours every day: And then, as though shee could not make enough, Himselfe his various Rainbow did allow, Sight is the noblest sense of any one, Yet sight hath only colour to feed on, And colour is decai'd: summers robe growes Duskie, and like an oft dyed garment showes. Our blushing red, which us'd in cheekes to spred, Is inward sunke, and only our soules are red. Perchance the world might have recovered, If she whom we lament had not beene dead: But shee, in whom all white, and red, and blew (Beauties ingredients) voluntary grew, As in an unvext Paradise; from whom Did all things verdure, and their lustre come, Whose composition was miraculous, Being all colour, all diaphanous, (For Ayre, and Fire but thick grosse bodies were, And liveliest stones but drowsie, and pale to her,)

She, she is dead; shee's dead: when thou know'st this, Thou knowest howwan a Ghost this our world is: And learn'st thus much by our Anatomie, That it should more affright, then pleasure thee. And that, since all faire colour then did sinke, 'Tis now but wicked vanitie, to thinke * 1.8 To colour vicious deeds with good pretence, Or with bought colors to illude mens sense. Nor in ought more this worlds decay appeares, Then that her influence the heav'n forbeares, Or that the Elements doe not feele this, The father, or the mother barren is. The cloudes conceive not raine, or doe not powre, In the due birth time, downe the balmy showre; Th'ayre doth not motherly sit on the earth, To hatch her seasons, and give all things birth; Spring-times were common cradles, but are tombes; And false-conceptions fill the generall wombes; Th'ayre showes such Meteors, as none can see, Not only what they meane, but what they bee; Earth such new wormes, as would have troubled much Th'Aegyptian Mages to have made more such. What Artist now dares boast that he can bring Heaven hither, or constellate any thing, So as the influence of those starres may bee Imprison'd in an Hearbe, or Charme or Tree, And doe by touch, all which those stars could doe? The art is lost, and correspondence too. For heaven gives little, and the earth takes lesse, And man least knowes their trade and purposes.

If this commerce twixt heaven and earth were not Embarr'd, and all this traffique quite forgot, She, for whose losse we have lamented thus, Would worke more fully, and pow'rfully on us: Since herbes, and roots, by dying lose not all, But they, yea ashes too, are medicinall, Death could not quench her vertue so, but that It would be (if not follow'd) wondred at: And all the world would be one dying swan, To sing her funerall praise, and vanish than. But as some Serpents poyson hurteth not, Except it be from the live Serpent shot, So doth her vertue need her here, to fit That unto us; shee working more then it. But shee, in whom to such maturity Vertue was growne, past growth, that it must die; She, from whose influence all impression came, But by receivers impotencies, lame, Who, though she could not transubstantiate All states to gold, yet guilded every state, So that some Princes have some temperance; Some Counsellers some purpose to advance The common profit; and some people have, Some stay, no more then Kings should give, to crave; Some women have some taciturnity, Some nunneries some graines of chastitie. She that did thus much, and much more could doe, But that our age was Iron, and rustie too, Shee, she is dead, she's dead; when thou knowst this, Thou knowst how drie a Cinder this world is.

And learn'st thus much by our Anatomy, That 'tis in vaine to dew, or mollifie It with thy teares, or sweat, or blood: nothing Is worth our travaile, griefe, or perishing, But those rich joyes, which did possesse her heart, Of which she's now partaker, and a part. * 1.9 But as in cutting up a man that's dead, The body will not last out, to have read On every part, and therefore men direct Their speech to parts, that are of most effect; So the worlds carcasse would not last, if I Were punctuall in this Anatomy; Nor smels it well to hearers, if one tell Them their disease, who faine would think thy're well. Here therefore be the end: and, blessed maid, Of whom is meant what ever hath been said, Or shall be spoken well by any tongue, Whose name refines course lines, and makes prose song, Accept this tribute, and his first yeares rent, Who till his darke short tapers end be spent, As oft as thy feast sees this widowed earth, Will yearely celebrate thy second birth, That is, thy death; for though the soule of man Be got when man is made, 'tis borne but than When man doth die; our body's as the wombe, And, as a Mid-wife, death directs it home. And you her creatures, whom she workes upon, And have your last, and best concoction From her example, and her vertue, if you In reverence to her, do thinke it due,

That no one should her praises thus rehearse, As matter fit for Chronicle, not verse; Vouchsafe to call to minde that God did make A last, and lasting'st peece, a song. He spake To Moses to deliver unto all, That song, because hee knew they would let fall The Law, the Prophets, and the History, But keepe the song still in their memory: Such an opinion, in due measure, made Me this great office boldly to invade: Nor could incomprehensiblenesse deterre Mee, from thus trying to emprison her, Which when I saw that a strict grave could doe, I saw not why verse might not do so too. Verse hath a middle nature, heaven keepes Soules, The Grave keepes bodies, Verse the Fame enroules.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The sicknes of the World
• * 1.2

  Impossibili∣ty of health
• * 1.3

  Shortnesse of life.
• * 1.4

  Smalnesse of stature.
• * 1.5

  Decay of nature in other parts.
• * 1.6

  Disformity of parts.
• * 1.7

  Disorder in the world.
• * 1.8

  Weaknesse in the want of corre∣spondence of heaven and earth.
• * 1.9

  Conclusion.