Teares on the death of Moeliades:

TEARES ON THE DEATH of MOELIADES.

O Heauens! then is it true that Thou art gone, And left this woefull Ile her Losse to mone, Moeliades, bright Day-starre of the West, A Comet blazing Terrour to the East: And neither that thy Spirit so heauenly wise Nor Bodie (though of Earth) more pure then Skies, Nor royall Stemme, nor thy sweet tender Age, Of cruell Destinies could quensh the Rage? O fading Hopes! O short-while-lasting Ioy, Of Earth-borne man, that one Houre can destroy! Then euen of Vertues Spoyles Death Trophees reares, As if he gloried most in many Teares. Forc'd by hard Fates, doe Heauens neglect our Cryes? Are Starres set only to act Tragedies? And let them doe their Worst since thou art gone, Raise whom they list to Thrones, enthron'd dethrone, Staine Princely Bowres with Blood, and euen to Gange, In Cypresse sad, glad Hymens Torches change. Ah thou hast left to liue, and in the Time, When scarse thou blossom'd in thy pleasant Prime. So falls by Northern Blast a virgin Rose, At halfe that doth her bashfull Bosome close: So a sweet Flourish languishing decayes, That late did blush when kist by Phoebus Rayes.

So Phoebus mounting the Meridians hight, Choak't by pale Phoebe, faints vnto our Sight, Astonish'd Nature sullen stands to see, The Life of all this All, so chang'd to be, In gloomie Gownes the Starres about deplore, The Sea with murmuring Mountaines beates the Shore, Blacke Darkenesse reeles o're all, in thousand Showres The weeping Aire, on Earth her sorrow povres, That in a Palsey, quakes to see so soone Her Louer set, and Night burst forth ere Noone.

If Heauen (alas) ordain'd thee yong to die, Why was't not where thou mightst thy Valour trie? And to the wondring World at least set forth Some litle Sparke of thy exspected Worth? Moeliades, O that by Isters Streames, Mong sounding Trumpets, fierie twinkling Gleames Of warme vermilion Swords, and Cannons Roare, Balls thicke as Raine pour'd by the Caspian Shore, Mong broken Speares, mong ringing Helmes & Shields, Huge heapes of slaughtred Bodies long the Fields, In Turkish blood made red like Marses Starre, Thou ended had thy Life, and Christian Warre: Or as braue Burbon thou had made old Rome, Queene of the World, thy Triumph, and thy Tombe. So Heauens fair Face to Th'vnborne World which reeds, A Booke had beene of thy illustrous Deeds. So to their Nephewes aged Syres had tolde The high Exploits perform'd by thee of olde; Townes raz'd, and rais'd, victorious, vanquish'd Bands, Fierce Tyrants flying, foyl'd, kill'd by thy Hands.

And in deare Arras, Virgins faire had wrought The Bayes and Trophees to thy Countrie brought: While some New Homer imping Wings to Fame, Deafe Nilus dwellers had made heare thy Name. That thou did not attaine these Honours Spheares, Through want of Worth it was not, but of Yeares. A Youth more braue, pale Troy with trembling Walls Did neuer soe, nor She whose Name appalls Both Titans golden Bowres, in bloody Fights, Mustring on Marses Field, such Marse like Knights. The Heauens had brought thee to the highest Hight, Of Wit and Courage, shewing all their Might When they thee fram'd. Ay me that what is braue On Earth, they as their owne so soone should craue. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore, From Thule, to Hydaspes pearlie Shore.

When Forth thy Nurse, Forth where thou first did passe Thy tender Dayes (who smylde oft on her Glasse, To see thee gaze) Meandring with her Streames, Heard thou had left this Round, from Phoebus Beames She sought to slie, but forced to returne By Neighbour Brookes, She gaue her selfe to mourne: And as She rush't her Cyclades among. She seem'd to plaine, that Heauen had done her wrong. With a hoarse plaint, Cleyd down her steeppie rockes, And Tweid through her greene Mountaines clad with flocks, Did wound the Ocean murmuring thy death, The Ocean that roard about the Earth, And to the Mauritanian Atlas tolde, Who shrunke through griefe, and down his white haires rold

Huge Streames of teares, which changed were in Floods Wherewith he drown'd the neighbour Plains & Woods. The lesser Brookes as they did bubling goe, Did keepe a Consort vnto publicke Woe. The Shepheards left their Flocks with downe-cast Eyes, Sdaining to looke vp to the angrie Skies: Some brake their Pipes, and some in sweet-sad Layes, Made senselesse things amazed at thy Praise. His Reed Alexis hang vpon a Tree, And with his Teares made Doven great to be. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore From Thule, to Hydaspes pearelie Shore.

Chast Maides which haunt faire Aganippe Well, And you in Tempes sacred Shade who dwell, Let fall your Harpes, cease Tunes of Ioy to sing, Discheueled make all Parnassus ring With Antheames sad, thy Musicke Phoebus turne In dolefull plaints, whilst Ioy it selfe doth mourne. Dead is thy Darling who decor'd thy Bayes, Who oft was wont to cherish thy sweet Layes, And to a Trumpet raise thy amorous Stile, That floting Delos enuied might this Ile. You Acidalian Archers breake your Bowes, Your Brādons quench, with teares blot Beauties Snowes, And bid your weeping Mother yet againe A second Adons death, nay Marses plaine. His Eyes once were your Darts, nay euen his Name, Where euer heard, did euery Heart inflame. Tagus did court his Loue, with Golden Streames, Rhein with his Townes, faire Seine with all she claimes.

But ah (poore I ouers) Death them did betray, And not suspected made their Hopes his Prey! Tagus bewailes his Losse, with Golden Streames, Rhein with his Townes, faire Scine with all She claimes. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore, From Thule, to Hydaspes pearlie Shore.

Eye-pleasing Meads whose painted Plaine forth brings, White, golden, azure Flowres, which once were Kings, In mourning Blacke, their shyning Colours Dye, Bow down their Heads, whiles sighing Zephyrs flye. Queene of the Fields, whose Blush, maks blush the Morne Sweet Rose, a Princes Death in Purple mourne. O Hyacinthes for ay, your AI keepe still, Nay, with moe markes of Woe your Leaues now fill. And you O Flowre of Helens teares that's borne, Into these liquid Pearles againe you turne. Your greene Lockes Forrests cut, in weeping Mirres, The deadly Cypresse, and Inke-dropping Firres, Your Palmes and Mirtles change; from Shadowes darke Wing'd Syrens waile, and you sad Echoes marke The lamentable Accents of their Mone, And plaine that braue Moeliades is gone. Stay Skye thy turning Course, and now become A stately Arche, vnto the Earth his Tombe: Ouer which ay the watrie Iris keepe, And sad Electras Sisters which still weepe, Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore, From Thule, to Hydaspes pearlie Shore.

Deare Ghost forgiue these our vntimely Teares, By which our louing Mind, though weake appeares

Our Losse not Thine (when we complaine) we weepe, For Thee the glistring Walls of Heauen doe keepe, Beyond the Planets Wheeles, boue highest Source Of Spheares, that turnes the lower in his Course. Where Sunne doth neuer set, nor vgly Night Euer appeares in mourning Garments dight: Where Borcas stormie Trumpet doth not sound, Nor Cloudes in Lightnings bursting, Minds astound. From Cares cold Climates farre, and hote Desire, Where Time's exild, and Ages ne're expire: Mong purest Spirits enuironed with Beames, Thou thinks all things below, t'haue bene but Dreames; And ioyes to looke downe to the azur'd Barres Of Heauen, powdred with Troupes of streaming Starres: And in their turning Temples to behold, In siluer Robe the Moone, the Sunne in Golde, Like yong Eye-speaking Louers in a Dance, With Majestie by Turnes retire, aduance. Thou wonders Earth to see hang like a Ball, Clos'd in the ghaistly Cloyster of this All: And that poore Men should proue so madly fond, To tosse themselues for a small Foot of Ground. Nay, that they euen dare braue the Powers aboue, From this base Stage of Change, that cannot moue. All worldly Pompe, and Pride thou seest arise Like Smoake that's scattred in the emptie Skies. Other Hills and Forrests other sumptuous Towres, Amaz'd thou finds excelling our poore Bowres, Courts voyde of Flatterie, of Malice Mindes, Pleasure which lasts, not such as Reason blinds.

More sweeter Songs thou heares and Carrolings, Whilst Heauens do dance, and Quire of Angells sings, Then moldie Mindes could faine, euen our Annoy (If it approach that Place) is chang'd in Ioy.

Rest blessed Spirit, rest saciat with the Sight Of Him whose Beames (though dazeling) do delight, Life of all liues, Cause of each other cause, The Spheare and Center where the Mind doth pause: Narcyssus of himselfe, himselfe the Well, Louer, and Beautie that doth all excell. Rest happie Ghost, and wonder in that Glasse, Where seene is all that shall he, is, or was, While shall be, is, or was, doe passe away, And nothing be, but an Eternall Day. For euer rest, thy Praise Fame may enroule, In golden Annales, while about the Pole, The slow Boötes turnes, or Sunne doth ryse With scarlet Scarfe to cheare the mourning Skies. The Virgins to thy Tombe may Garlands beare Of Flowres, and with each Flowre let fall a Teare. Moeliades sweet courtly Nymphes deplore From Thule to Hydaspes pearlie Shore.

FINIS.

WILLIAM DRVMMOND.