Poems &c. written by Mr. Ed. Waller ... ; and printed by a copy of his own hand-writing ; all the lyrick poems in this booke were set by Mr. Henry Lawes ...

Thirsis. Galatea.

AS lately I on silver Thames did ride, Sad Galatea on the bank I spide; Such was her look, as sorrow taught to shine, And thus she grac'd me with a voice divine:

Gal.

You that can tune your sounding strings so well Of Ladies beauties, and of Love to tell, Once change your note, and let your Lute report The justest grief that ever touch'd the Court.

Th.

Faire Nymph, I have in your delights no share, Nor ought to be concerned in your care; Yet would I sing, if I your sorrows knew, And to my ayd invoke no Muse but you.

Gal.

Heare then, and let your song augment our grief, Which is so great as not to wish relief; Shee that had all which Nature gives or Chance, Whom Fortune joyn'd with Vertue to advance To all the joyes this Island could afford, The greatest Mistris, and the kindest Lord; Who with the royall mixt her noble blood, And in high grace with Gloriana stood, Her bounty, sweetness, beauty, goodness such, That none ere thought her happiness too much, So well inclin'd her favours to conser, And kind to all as heaven had been to her.

The virgins part, the mother and the wife So well she acted in this span of life, That though few years (too few, alas!) she told Shee seem'd in all things, but in beauty, old. As unripe fruit, whose verdant stalk does cleave Close to the tree, which grieves no lesse to leave The smiling pendant which adorns her so, And untill Autumne on the bough should grow: So seem'd her youthfull Soul not eas'ly forc'd, Or from so fair, so sweet a seat divorc'd; Her Fate at once did hasty seem and slow, At once too cruell and unwilling too.

Th.

Under how hard a law are Mortalls born! Whom now we envie, we anon must mourn: What heaven sets highest, and seems most to prize, Is soon removed from our wondring eyes.

But since the Sisters did so soon untwine So faire a thread, I'll strive to peece the line: Vouchsafe (sad Nymph) to let me know the Dame, And to the Muses I'll commend her name: Make the wide Countrey echo to your moan, The list'ning trees and salvage mountains groan; What rocks not moved, when the death is sung Of one so good, so lovely, and so young?

Gal.

'Twas Hamilton, whom I had nam'd before, But naming her, griefe lets me say no more.