L.A. Seneca the philosopher, his booke of consolation to Marcia. Translated into an English poem

L. A. SENECA OF CONSOLATION TO MARCIA.

Cap. 1

BVt that I knew thee Marcia to be, As from their faults, from Womens weaknesse free; And that thy manners argue thou wert sent, To re-inforce some ancient president, I nothing had against thy griefe attempted, Since from the like, even men are not exempted. Nor could I hope the time now so unfit, The fault so great, and thou the Judge of it, That any reason could thy will importune, To be appeas'd, and to forgive thy fortune; But thy knowne courage, and the large extent Of thy try'd vertues, made me confident. 'Tis manifest how in thy Fathers case, Thou shew'dst thy selfe, who in thy love had place, As ample as thy Children then alive, Save that thou would'st not he should them survive,

And yet that's doubtfull too, great piety Against things fit, reserves a liberty: Thy Fathers death, as much as in thee lay, Thou hinderd'st, when thou saw'st no other way, For him t'escape the shamefull servitude, Which through Sejanus hate had soone ensude, Thou favour'dst not his purpose, but content To yeeld thy selfe, and privately lament; Swallow'dst thy groanes, yet never hadst the art, In cheerefull lookes to hide a wofull heart: And this thou didst, when throgh the wretched times, 'Twas goodnesse to forbeare unnaturall crimes; But when an alteration made truth seeme Somewhat more safe, thou didst indeed redeeme Thy Sire from death, by publishing the wit, Which valiantly with his owne blood he writ: Well maist thou therefore thy great merits boast, For Romes Records, whereof most part were lost: Posterity that to his endlesse glory, May freely read an uncorrupted story, Shall render thankes, which he shall likewise give, For that through thee his memory shall live, And flourish here, whil'st any of our heires Shall be desirous to revolve th'affaires Of their fore-fathers, or shall seeke t'inherit The knowledge of a perfect Roman spirit. Whilst any shall require to know a man, Free in thought, word, and action, who even then, When all mens neckes so slavishly did beare Sejanus yoke, was wholly void of feare. It had been dammage to the publike weale, T'have suffer'd wilfull envie to conceale.

A worke with two such eminencies fraught, Both Eloquence and free revealed thought. Hee's read, and in mens hands and hearts abides, Where boldly he times menacings derides: But those vile miscreants of whom there needs No memory, but for their damned deeds, Shall nere obtaine of any tongue to be Hereafter nam'd, though to their infamie. These acts of thine forbad me to looke backe Upon thy Sexe, to weigh what that might lacke; Or to respect thy lookes, where griefe doth rest, And is thereof, as at the first, possest: Behold how plainely I intend to deale, That doe not on thy passions closely steale, But have reviv'd old woes, would'st thou be sure This may be heal'd, th'hast seene as great a cure. Let others then deceitfull med'cines borrow, I am resolv'd to skirmish with thy sorrow, And if thou'lt heare me speake, to make thee know How to dry up those teares, that now more flow From custome then from reason, which I meant, And gladly would performe with thy consent, But if thou shalt in wilfulnesse persist, Ile do't perforce though thou thy selfe resist, Although thou hast determin'd to imbrace, And hug thy sorrow in thy dead sonnes place. But what good can there from our labour rise? All meanes have been assay'd, thy friends, allies, And others whose authority might threat Thy disobedience, have been knowne t'intreat, For Learnings cause, and for thy fathers sake, Yet none could profit longer than they spake.

Yea time it selfe, Natures best remedy, That heales all woes, hath lost his force in thee. Three yeeres are now expir'd, and yet at length, Thy griefe decayes no jot, but gathers strength: Custome hath so prevail'd, that now 'tis growne, To make thee thinke it shame to cease thy moane: For as all vices entering our brest Take root, if they at first be not supprest; So this and such like wilfull discontent, Raging against it selfe, findes nourishment In its owne bane, sorrow that knowes no measure, Becomes the wretched creatures deadly pleasure. I therefore could have wisht, I had begun This cure betimes, it had been easely done; A wound yet greene, the Surgeon may be bold To seare it and to search it, but growne old, And to an ulcer bred, he must be faine To do't with more advice and greater paine; I cannot, as I might have done at first, Heale up thy griefe with ease, it must be burst.

Cap. 2

I Know that such as to advise intend, Begin with Precepts, with Examples end, I must invert this order, for there's need, That diversly with divers we proceed; Reason prevailes with some, others must heare Of famous persons, that their mindes may reare, To things of splendour, therefore Ile produce Two maine examples proper for our use, And both of thine owne Sexe and of this age; The first's of one that unto sorrowes rage, Expos'd her selfe; the second's of another,

Who in a greater losse did wisely smother Her passions, not permitting them to sway, But soone reduc'd her thoughts into the way. These were no meaner pers'nages in life, Then great Augustus sister and his wife; Both lost their sonnes young and of faire renowne, Equall in hope t'have worne th'imperiall Crowne: Octavia lost Marcellus, Caesars joy, Whom as a helpe he had begun t'imploy In state affaires, he was a Youth of rare Conceit and Judgement, and past all compare, Weighing his yeeres and fortunes for his gift, Of continence and well-beseeming thrift: Patient of toyle, to no delights betray'd, Able to beare what ere his Vncle laid, (Or as I may so say without the guilt Of flattery) upon his shoulders built, Whose choife was not with partiall conceit, For sure he was a base for any weight. So deepely did the Mother apprehend This Princes death, that she would never lend An eare to any comfort, but was all Her life time such as at his Funerall; Griefe did enthrall her thoughts, which Ile not say She durst not, but refus'd to disobey; Accounting it a second deprivation, To cease from her resolved lamentation, No picture ever of her dearest Sonne Would she behold, but his remembrance shun, Envy'ng all Mothers, and was most offended With Livia, to whom she saw descended, The happinesse she lookt t'have cal'd her owne,

Her whole desire was still to be alone, Flying the light, and minding not the layes That were composed in Marcellus praise. And carelesse of all publike rites, would hate The too much glory of his Brothers state, Whereof toth end she might her selfe deprive, Shee seemed then to be interr'd alive. Nor could her Daughters bringing to her sight, Their Children daily, change her mournefull plight, Who deem'd her selfe, to their reproach bereft, Although she saw them all in safety left.

Cap. 3

SO one after this was Livia's patience try'd, By the like fatall blow, for Drusus dy'd, A famous Captaine then, and like to be Inheritor of Caesars dignitie; Who with successefull fortune did invade The heart of Germanie, and there display'd The Roman Ensignes, where the Roman name Was hardly knowne, so freely was his fame Acknowledg'd by his very enemies, That they admir'd his daring enterprise, And in his sicknesse mutuall greetings sent, Scarse wishing that was most expedient: And at his death caus'd for his Countries sake, Came people from all quarters to partake Of Funerall Duties, who in great remorse, Did Triumph-like to Rome conduct the Coarse. His Mother, as each tender Parent wishes, Had not the meanes to enjoy his latest kisses; But waiting on the Body many a mile, Was as she went by every flaming pile,

So often put in mind of her dead Sonne, Yet she when once the obsequies were done, Him and her sorrow buried in one Grave, And wept no more than decencie might crave, Or then became great Caesars Majestie, And therefore ceased not to magnifie The Acts of Drusus, wheresoere she came, And willingly to speake and heare his name. Whereas none could make mention of the other, But it begat new sorrow in the Mother. Choose then by which Example thou'lt be led, If by the first, esteeme thy selfe but dead; All Children will avoid thee, and thy sight As ominous, all Mothers will affright; No solace will seeme fit, thou'lt hate the Sunne, And curse thy yeeres that will no faster runne, And which is worst, and most against thy mind, Knowne in the better part, the world may find, And by thy carriage plainly will descry, Thou wouldst no longer live, yet canst not dye. But if this famous Queene thou'lt imitate, Thou shalt not dwell in woe, nor macerate Thy selfe with cares, 'tis madnesse to increase Our owne regret and hinder our owne peace; That temper which in thee hath erst beene knowne, Thou'lt keepe, for modesty in griefe is showne; And even the Youth himselfe worthy of rest, By glad remembrance thou wilt make more blest.

Cap. 4

I Will not by more powerfull presidents, Attempt to make thee beare humane events, Inhumanely, to dry a Mothers eyes,

Vpon the day of her sonnes obsequies; Ile put the case, the question is we see, Whether that griefe should great or endlesse be; I make no doubt but thou do'st most approve Livia's example, whom thou well didst love. Shee calls thee to her counsels, who at first, When sorrowes raging fury was at worst, Was willing for her comfort to conferre, With Learned Arêus the Philosopher, Which she confest afforded much reliefe, More than the Roman people, whom her griefe, Would have dejected, more than Caesars state Which teares of friends ought not to aggravate, Crazed already with that fatall blow, More than Tiberius, whose deserts did show, That in that great and generall distresse, Shee was in nothing but in number lesse. Thus Arêus began (as I suppose) And with his due observer thus did close: Vnto this day (for what I ere could see) Who still have kept thy Husband company, And not your publique businesses alone, But even your priuate consultations knowne: Thou hast endeavour'd (Livia) to commit Nothing that justly might be thought unfit, And not in great things onely, but in small, Th'hast taken care, to doe no act at all, That the bold censurer of Princes, Fame, Should need to give thee pardon for the same; And sure I thinke that no one thing doth grace, Such as are set in high and publique place, More, than to give free pardon unto many,

And yet themselves not aske the same of any: Wherefore observe herein thy wonted guise, Doe naught thou'dst wish undone, or otherwise.

Cap. 5

NExt I intreat thee that thou wouldst not be, Harsh to those friends that come to visit thee, Who as thou seest are doubtfull what to doe, Whether to speake of Drusus, yea or no, Least silence should deprive him of his due, Or mention of him, griefe in thee renue. Wee when wee meet, his memory retaine, But before thee in silence deepe remaine. Thus want'st thou great contentment, thy Sonnes praise, Which doubtlesse thou wouldst with thy hazard raise, If so thou might'st to all eternitie, Wherefore permit, or rather call to thee, Such as are willing to repeat his Name, And open thou thine eares to heare the same, And doe not thinke it irkesome, like to those, That all advice part of their ill suppose. Th'hast hitherto the other part intended, And in the worst thy fortune apprehended; Not looking on the pleasures of thy Sonne, His life, his love, his studies well begunne. Thy thought insists on death, the last of things, Whereto, as that were not enough it brings All that it can collect, as if thereby, Thou wouldst be famous for thy misery.

Cap. 6

THinke with thy selfe that courage is not showne, In actions of prosperity alone, Nor can we well discerne a Pilots skill, When winds blow faire, or when the Seas are still;

It is adversity that must expresse A constancie of minde, and not successe. Stoope not therefore, but beare thy selfe upright, And though at first the noyse may thee affright, Endure whatever fortune hath design'd, Shee's nere o're-matcht but by an equall mind. Hee shew'd her then her Sonne that did survive, And all her dead Sonnes Children yet alive. Behold thine owne case Marcia; Arêus came To comfort thee, though in another name: And that I may not flatter thee, admit Thy losse so great, that none can equall it; If teares can Fate o're-come, let's all consent To spend the day in mournefull languishment; Let anguish all night long deny us rest, And let our hands assault our wounded brest, Let furie seize our face, and let all kind Of cruelty be us'd that griefe can find: But if no sorrow can the dead recall, If fate be ever fixt, not mov'd at all, And Death what once it gets, doth still retaine, Let passions cease as altogether vaine; And let's be wise, not suffering our sense, To be transported with this violence: It is a shame to see a Pilot quit His necessary charge, and to remit His floating ship unto the Tempests rage, Not daring in the storme himselfe t'ingage; Whereas he praise deserves that holds the helme, And ship-wrackt, strives till Seas him overwhelme.

Cap. 9

BUt it is naturall, when deare friends dye, To mourne I yeeld, if done with modesty; And not then only, but when urgent reason Requires their absence from us for a season; The firmest thoughts at parting will relent, And with a kind of griefe the same resent: But now opinion hath suggested more Then Nature ere requir'd of us before; Behold the passions of bruit beasts, how strong And violent they are, yet last not long. The Cow but for a time is heard to low, And Mares to neigh, and wander to and fro, Wild Beasts pursuing the vast Woods about The foot-steps of their young, to find them out, Doe oft review their spoiled Dens in rage, But in short time their wrath doth quite asswage. Birds haunt their empty nests in dolefull plight, Yet soone appeas'd, resume their wonted flight. No creature so bewailes his young ones losse, As man, who even nourisheth his crosse, Lamenting not according to the ill He feeleth, but according to his will. And that it may appeare thus to inthrall Our selves to griefe, not to be naturall; First, Women are more subject to such passions Than men, the wild and barbarous Nations More than the civill, th'ignorant and rude More than such as with learning are endu'd, Whilst Nature holds the selfe-same force in all, That which is various is not naturall: Fire burnes all people at all times alike Both men and women, irons force doth strike,

And cut all bodies of like mixture, why? Nature can never change her property. Want, losse of Children grievously affect This, or that man, whil'st some the same neglect: As custome and opinion make them seeme, More or lesse terrible, so men them deeme.

Cap. 8

YEa further what is naturall abides, But time consumes all sadnesse, and provides A remedy by sorrow-healing age, Against the most perverse unbridled rage. Thy griefe continues great, growne hard of late, Not furious as at first, but obstinate; Yet that by slow degrees an end shall find, All businesse will at present ease thy mind. Now thou dost watch that naught might thee relieve, But whether thou command'st thy selfe to grieve, Or whether onely thou permit'st the same, Is that which more or lesse augments thy blame. How much more would it to thine honour tend, Rather to give, than to receive an end? Rather to quit thy sorrow, than to stay, Vntill against thy will it we are away.

Cap. 9

WHence comes it then, if not from Natures will, That we so grievously bewaile our ill? The reason is, we never doe present Mischances to our thoughts before th'event, And as it were exempted from such crosses, No warning take by others frequent losses. How many Funerals passe by our doore? Yet we on death thinke not a jot the more.

While others Children goe unto the grave, We thinke what honours, riches, ours shall have. How many rich men have we seene grow poore, Yet thinke of no decay of our owne store? Needs must we therefore tumble to the ground, What strikes us unawares doth most confound: Mishaps fall lightly on us, when our care Foreseeing them hath taught us to prepare. But would'st thou know thy danger, that the Dart That wounds another, might have pierc't thy heart? As one unarm'd approaching neere a wall, Whence shot and stones in great abundance fall, Expect a wound, and when the Arrowes flye Before thee and behind thee, boldly cry, Fortune I am prepar'd, and though I see Thou hitst another, yet thou aim'dst at me. Who is there, that his owne hath lookt upon, As a thing perishing and quickly gone? Who is there, that before-hand was content To thinke of want, of death, or banishment? Or who is he, that having been advis'd What may befall, hath not the same despis'd, And wisht it on his foe, or on the head Of him perhaps that so admonished: But strucken once, will then cry out alas, I never thought it would have come to passe; As if one could be safe against what may, And doth to many happen every day. It is a Verse that Publius Name advanceth, That may to all that unto one man chanceth. One hath his Children lost, thine slaine may be, This mans condemn'd, thine innocence not free.

This errour doth our misery procure, Enduring what we thought not to endure: Whereas the fore-sight of a future blow, Doth mitigate the force of present woe.

Cap. 10

THese goods of fortune that about us shine, As Children, Honours, Riches, and a fine And noble Wife, faire Palaces, and store Of Suitors, that attend us at our doore, With all things else that are from fortune sent, Are ornaments not given us, but lent, Our Scene therewith is for the time adorn'd, Then to the owners backe they are return'd: Some stay a day, some more, few to the end, We cannot boast them ours, what others lend; The use is ours during the owners will, What's borrow'd for uncertaine time must still Be ready without strife to be repay'd, No debtor should his creditor upbray'd, We must our Parents then so love, and those Who by the Law of Nature we suppose Will out-live us, as of their lives increase, We had no promise of the shortest lease: And all these humane things must so receive, As at the instant we the same should leave: Let's not deferre, but take our present pleasure Of Parents, Children, and of worldly treasure, For Death's at hand, and nothings in our power, To hold (a day were too much time) an houre, There is a sudden change of all delight, Our life is not a passage but a flight. Know then if thou beway lest thy Sonnes death,

The fault was in the time that gave him breath, 'Twas then decree'd, on those conditions he Came forth thy wombe, and first was given thee. Into her Kingdome Fortune all men brings, To suffer worthy and unworthy things, When they all kind of misery endure, Some feele the fire for punishment or cure, To some she makes the Sea become their graves, And having struggled with the raging waves, She doth not drive them to the shore at last, But into some Sea-Monsters belly cast, Others with sicknesse wasted she doth hold, Long between life and death, and uncontrol'd, Using her wretched vassals at her pleasure, In punishments and favours keepes no measure. What need we then the parts of life lament, When as the whole in misery is spent; New unexpected mischiefs on us seize, Before that we old sorrowes can appease, Thou therefore must thy passions still inure, T'endure those things that thou canst least endure: And equally thy constant thoughts divide 'Twixt present ill, and that which may betide.

Cap. 11

WHence then proceeds this strange oblivion Of thine and all the worlds condition? Thou mortall art, and mortals hast brought forth; How couldst thou hope, a body fram'd of earth Subject to chance, to sicknesse and to paine, Could solid, and eternall things containe. Thy Sonne's departed, hastned to that end, To which all those that now survive him bend:

Even all those troopes that wrangle at the barre, That fill the Theaters, that prostrate are In Temples, death at sundry times doth strike, The honour'd and despis'd she maketh like. Apollo's Oracle thou must fulfill, Know thine owne selfe it is the chiefest skill. What's man? a vessell broken with a knock, Notable to endure a common shock: By nature weake, on others aide depending, And in his chiefest strength himselfe defending Against a Savage Beast, becomes her prey, His body is compos'd of mire and clay, Though nere so neat, and comely to behold, Impatient of toyle, of heat, or cold, Whom very ease and rest consumes, and whom The sustenance he takes doth overcome, Dying as well with surfeit as with want, Whose soule suspitious of her guard can scant Be woo'd to stay, but oft leapes out for feare, When as a suddaine noyse doth strike the eare. Why doe we wonder at the death of one? When as the same can be escapt by none: There needs no great adoe, the smell, the taste, Watching, and wearinesse, mans life doth waste; Humours and meates that doe maintaine his breath, Become at length the causes of his death, Where ere he goes, his weaknesse he may find, In change of Aire, of Water, and of Wind Not us'd unto, in every thing appeares The frailty of his life begun in teares. And yet what Tumults doth this vile wretch move? What thoughts he harbours in him, farre above

His seely reach, and how doth he devise To Childrens Children perpetuities: And while hee's busi'd in his vaine pretence, Death unexpected comes and takes him hence, And that which we call age, is at the most The course of some few yeeres, that swiftly post.

Cap. 12

TEll me (O Marcia) if at least there be A reason of the griefe which troubles thee, Whether the same thy dammage doe respect, Or most on thy deceased sonne reflect; Is it that thou no pleasure yet hast gain'd, Or that thou might'st, if he had still remain'd? If't be confest none hitherto t'have had, Thy losse then doubtlesse is not halfe so bad. Men have those things more willingly forsaken, Wherein they have but little pleasure taken. But if thou say'st th'hadst joy in him before, Give thankes for that, grudge not t'have had no more. His very education was gaines, Sufficient for all thy care and paines, Vnlesse thou't say that those which nourish whelps And little Birds, with all such flattering helps Of divers minds, doe in the touch, or sight, Or fawning of mute creatures take delight, And that our childrens education, Is not sufficient fruit thereof alone. Then though his labour, diligence, and wit Did not redound unto thy benefit, Yet certainely some fruit from hence doth grow, T'have had him once, and to have lov'd him so. But he might have increa'st in yeeres, and worth,

'Tis better yet than not t'have brought him forth, For were it in our choise, whether that we Would not at all or not long happy be, We should desire, rather than none, t'accept A benefit that could not long be kept: Doubtlesse thou wouldst not wish t'have had a Son, Whose ill conditions and lewd courses run, Would have but made him beare the empty name, Rather than thine that so adorn'd the same. A young man quickly wise, and soone devout, A husband, and a father soone, and out Of knowledge of his worth, soone made a Priest, And in all good things else as quickly blest. No great felicity can long remaine, Men may perhaps a Common good retaine, The Gods, who length of dayes to him deny'd, With ages full perfection that supply'd. Nor canst thou say, that thou alone by Fate Art thus design'd to be unfortunate; Looke round about, and thou shalt easely find In every place examples of this kind; Captaines, and Princes, yea as Poets write, The Gods themselves are not exempted quite; Which they the rather would have us beleeve, That we with such partakers lesse might grieve. Looke round I say, and see if thou canst spy A house afflicted with such misery, That doth-not find a kind of ease, to know Another plunged in a greater woe. Though I of thee have no such ill conceit To thinke that others woes should thine abate, To heare of many mourners is at best

But envious comfort to a mournefull brest, Yet some I will repeat, not to th'intent To shew that this to man is incident, For that were folly, but to shew how some By bearing, have afflictions overcome. And herein Lucius Sylla shall be first, Who lost his Sonne, which did not slacke his thirst Of vengeance to his foes, nor any way His fury to the Citizens allay; But after his great losse as fully bore The Sir-name Happy, as he did before, And on mens ruines building his successe, Their hatred his despis'd, and scorn'd no lesse The very env••e of the Gods, whose crime It was that Sylla to that height did clime. Yet here I will not censure but let passe As yet a thing uniudg'd what Sylla was, Although his foes confesse to his renowne He both tooke up Armes well, and laid them downe: I onely prove the same not ill to be, That may concurre with great felicity. And therefore let not Greece too much admire Her Xenophon, who at the holy fire And as he was about his Sacrifice, Of his Sonnes death received sure advise, Who onely bidding then the musicke cease, And taking from his head the Crowne, made peace With all his rising passions instantly, And so accomplisht the solemnity.

Cap. 13

OUr owne high Priest Puluillus did the same, To whom the tidings of his Sonnes death came,

Even in the midst of that most solemne state, When he the Capitoll did consecrate, Whereof he tooke no notice, but went on, Chanting the Hymne of Consecration, And without signe of griefe devoutly pray'd To Iupiter the Common-wealth to aide. Could'st thou conceive that sorrow like t'abide, Which he at first assault so well did hide? He worthy was to be so highly imploy'd, And worthy of the Priest-hood he enjoy'd, Who in a constant zeale did not forbeare To serve the Gods, yea when they angry were: Yet comming home he mourn'd, and teares let fall, And having done the rites of Funerall, Vnto the Capitoll againe return'd, With chearefull looks as though he had not mourn'd. Paulus Emilius, when he captive led King Perseus in such Triumph, buried The Sonnes that wholly he rely'd upon, When all the rest were in adoption; What they were whom he kept thou may'st suppose, When Scipio himselfe was one of those Were given away, it was no small regret, To see him in his empty Chariot set: Yet he discours'd, and thankt the Gods that gave Him his desire, who oftentimes would crave, That if perchance they should some ill pretend After so great a Victory to send, It rather might upon himselfe redound, Than any way the Common-wealth to wound. How bravely did he beare that stroke of Fate, Who did his Childrens deaths congratulate:

No stranger chance could any man betide, He lost his comforts and his helpes beside; Yet notwithstanding Perseus never had The happinesse, to see Emilius sad.

Cap. 14

WHat should I need to urge a multitude Of presidents, by fortune so pursude? As if it were not harder farre to name Them, upon whom misfortunes never came. Survey the Consulls, Lucius Bibulus And Caius Caesar have been dealt with thus; Two colleagues that were enemies profest, Yet both by Fortune equally opprest. Lucius a man for honesty commended Rather than valour, had two Sonnes that ended Their lives at once, and that which to be borne Was worse than death, they both were made a scorne To an Aegyptian Souldier who them slew, Yet he, who all that yeere himfelfe with-drew To shun his fellowes envie, did for all The newes of such a double Funerall Come forth the next day, and with cheerefull face Perform'd the publike duties of his place: He might bewaile one day his two sonnes fate, That did a yeere lament the Consulate. Caesar, when he all Britanie ore-ran With armes not bounded by the Ocean, Heard of his Daughters death, whereon he knew A publike dammage was most like t'ensue, For he on Pompey quickly cast his eyes His Sonne in Law, who would have no man rise Beside himselfe, although so neere of kin,

That he might looke to have his share therein; Yet Caesar that high charge perform'd againe. Within three dayes, and did his griefe restraine, As soone as he, the glory of our Rome, Was wont all other things to overcome.

Cap. 15

WHat should I other Caesars deaths rehearse, 'Gainst whom the fates the rather have bin fierce, To give the world a wholsome document, Since they, who from the race of Gods were sent To propagate the same, could not command Their owne, though others lives were in their hand. Divine Augustus having beene depriv'd Of Children and of Nephews too, reviv'd Th'extinguisht name of Caesar, with a Sonne Receiv'd into it by adoption: Yet he endur'd it constantly, as one That had his future interest fore-knowne, And by his owne example would maintaine, That no man should against the Gods complaine. Tiberius lost both him that he begat, And him that he adopted, yet thereat Unmov'd, he o're the Corps of his dead Sonne, Pronounc't the Funerall Oration, Where but a vaile as then was requisite, Did hide the Body from the High Priests sight, And though the people round about him wept, Yet he his countenance unclouded kept; Letting Sejanus that stood next him know, How easely he could any friend forgoe. Thou seest how all these famous men have far'd, Whom Fate for no respect of worth hath spar'd, Which like a tempest with impetuous blast,

Flies round the World and all things down doth cast, And aske but any man the reason why, The answer is, that all are borne to dye.

Cap. 16

YEt here perchance thou'lt tell me, I forget I comfort now a woman, since I set Before thee mens examples, but let none Imagine Nature hath lesse favour showne To women, or their vertues more restrain'd, In whom like power to goodnesse is contain'd: And who, beleeve me, can through custome beare Of griefe, and labour, equally their share. Where speake I this (good Gods) but in that place Where Brutus and Lucretia the race Of Tyrants did expell? for as we know That we our liberty to Brutus owe, So we for Brutus are to Lucrece bound, By whom so great a benefit wee found. Where speake I? but where Claelia the force Of foe and flood contemning, rid her Horse Through Tiber, for which bold attempt each Pen Rankes her amongst the valiantest of men: Whose Statue fixed in the sacred street, Where frequently the Roman people meet, Our young men in their Coaches doth upbraid, When they on horse-backe there behold a Maid. But if examples thou desir'st to have Of women, that their Childrens deaths with brave And constant minds have borne, we may find store, And need not beg the same from doore to doore. One family had two Cornelia's, The first the Daughter of great Scipio was, The Gracchi••s Mother, who twelve Children bore,

And all againe did backe to Fate restore: Often of them Rome little notice tooke, And therefore she their losse might easely brooke, But Titus, and his Brother Caius, then If not accounted good, yet famous men, She both saw slaine, and for a grave at last, Beheld their bodies into Tiber cast; Telling all those that thought her in distresse, And seem'd to pitty her unhappinesse, That she unhappy never could be thought, That had into the world the Gracchi brought. The other saw her Livius Drusus dead, A young man of great hope, that followed The Gracchi's steps, who having then propounded Some controverted Lawes, to death was wounded In his owne house, the actor never knowne, Yet she with the same mind that he had showne In stout defence of those his Lawes, endur'd The unrevenged murther so procur'd. Now Marcia thou maist reconciled be To Fortune, if that she no worse by thee Than by the house of Scipio hath done, And spar'd no more the Caesars than thy Sonne. This life doth various accidents produce, And granteth peace to none, nor scarce a truce. Thou hadst foure Children Marcia, Shots that fall Amongst a thicke troope, hardly can misse all; And therefore t'were more strange that thou so many, Should'st long enjoy without the losse of any. But thou perhaps dost Fortune most accuse, In that she did not onely take but chuse; It can by no meanes be accounted wrong,

To share with death, to whom they all belong, Two daughters with their children are alive, Nor yet did fortune utterly deprive Thee of that Sonne that thou dost so deplore, (Having forgotten him that dyed before,) For he two daughters also left behind That should bring him, not sorrow to thy mind, Which thou great pleasures, or great paines maist make, Accordingly as thou the same shalt take. The husband-man, when any trees he findes Torne by the rootes, or split with sudden winds, Some grafts thereof doth instantly replant, And with advantage soone supply's their want, For time, whom all these humane things obey, Is swift as well in growth as in decay: Place thou those daughters in Metellius stead, And let two joyes be from one sorrow bred. It is the nature of all mortalls, most To Covet what they utterly have lost, And with such earnestnes the same t'effect, As what they present have, they quite neglect. Behold how fortune hath to thee extended Her favour, though she seem'd to be offended, Who doth, beside those daughters that yet live, The comfort of so many Nephews give.

Cap. 17

COnsider likewise Marcia, that if all According unto merit should befall, No evill ever good-men should betide, But now both good and bad alike divide. And though it grievous be, to have him dye, On whom his parents might so much relye,

Yet it is humane, thou and all mankind Art certainely to all these things design'd, To suffer losse, to dye, to hope, to feare, To grieve and to be grieved, to appeare Desirous, and yet fearefull to depart, And not to know in what estate thou art. If any man before-hand should propound To one that were for Syracusa bound The good and evill that from thence arise, And thus, before he went, should him advise: These rare things shalt thou find, first thou shalt see That Iland severed from Italy, By such a narrow sea, as by consent Of all, is thought t'have beene the continent, Through which the sea with sudden breach did flow, And ever since the land divided so. Then thou by knowne Charybdis gulfe must saile, Which while the winds forbeare their southerne gale, Continues calme, but otherwise hath power The greatest vessells wholly to devoure: Next shalt thou see the cleere and famous spring Of Arethusa, whereof Poets sing, Which either there begins, or passage makes Beneath the Sea, and not thereof partakes: And then thou shalt the safest harbour gaine That nature ere did make or art obtaine For ships to ride in, where it shall be showne, Where all the power of Athens was o'rethrowne, And where were many thousand captives shut In one vast prison out of maine rocks cut. Thou shalt arrive at Syracuse at length, A citty of large circuit and great strength.

Where winter is so temperat, that no day, Without some sun-shine ere doth passe away: But when th'ast found all this, thou shalt be sure A hot contagious summer to endure, That with diseases will the land annoy, And that mild winters Benefit destroy: There shalt thou Dionysius behold Who having law and equity controld, The County's freedome under foot doth tread, And though he have divinest Plato read, Yet to the height of Tyranny aspires, And after a base exile life desires. Some he will burne, and some to death will scourge, Others when no occasion him doth urge He will behead, and overgrowne with vice He male and female will to lust entice, And 'mongst those bruitish sinnes that men should loath, Hee'le active be at once and passive both. Th'ast heard what may invite, what may deter, And therefore with thy serious thoughts conferre, Whether thou wilt resolve to goe or stay: If after all this warning any say, He will adventure, let him beare the blame That undertooke advisedly the same. Thus nature doth to every one declare, If thou bring'st children, know, some may be faire, Some foule, and some, if that thou many have, Their countrey may betray as well as save. Despaire not but thy children may attaine To so great worth, as may mens tongues restraine From obloquy, yet likewise thinke they may Be such as will a curse upon thee lay.

I see no cause but thee they should out-live, Yet be prepar'd them unto death to give In child-hood, youth, or age, for there appeares Small difference here in concerning yeeres, Since parents seldome go but with moist-eyes To any of their childrens obsequies. When thou hast all these things before thee laid, Thou no way canst the heavenly powers upbraid, If thou wilt then bring children, for behold How they before-hand did the truth unfold.

Cap. 18

With this example therefore we may well The lives of men and women parallell, As thou, intending Syracuse to view, Hast understood what thereon will ensue, So now imagine that before thy birth, I come to tell what thou shalt find on earth. Here nature thee into a cittie brings Common to gods and men, where in all things Contained are, by lawes eternall tide, Where the celestiall bodies doe abide, In their unwearied courfe: there shall thine eyes Behold the starres in their varieties, And see with admiration one great light That fills the world, dividing day and night By dayly motion, by whose annuall race, Winter and Summer have their equall space. Then shalt thou see the Mooue succeed the other, Who by encounters borrowes from her brother Her dimmer light, which sometimes not appearing, And sometimes with full face the sad earth cheering, Is, in increasing and decreases strange,

And every day from what she was doth change. Then shalt thou see five planets that all bend Their courses severally, and do contend With heavens swift motion, these controle the fates Of private people, and of publicke states, Which subject are to good or bad effects According to their different aspects. Then shalt thou see the clouds, the raine, and wonder At oblique lightnings, and heaven-piercing thunder; And when thine eyes are filled with that fight, Behold the earth affordeth new delight, Smooth boundlesse plaines, & high snow-headed mountaines, The falls of rivers, and cleare streaming fountaines, Floods from one source that runne both East & west, And tottring woods with their owne beight opprest. Thicke forrests fraught with beasts, and birds that fly, And warble foorth their differing harmony: Then shalt thou see the divers scituations Of citties, and of farre disjoyned nations, Whereof some for security retire Into the mountaines, some the plaines desire, Others delight neere rivers to remaine, And some to dwell in Fens do not disdaine. Then shalt thou see the plow-man till the land, Preparing harvest with industrious hand, Trees fructifie alone, brookes gently slide Along the moddowes, in their flowry pride, Havens and creeks that all beholders please, And scattered Ilands giving names to Seas. What should I tell of pretious stones, of gold, That swiftest torrents in their sands infold? Of fires in midst of land and sea that shine,

And of the Ocean whose large armes intwine The spacious earth, which that in three parts cuts, And so a barre betwixt the nations puts: Which rageth oft with an unbridled will Within whose waters, that are seldome still, Huge monsters live, that all beleefe exceed, Some are so great and heavy that they need The art of others, some so lightly float, Their course is swifter then the swiftest boat, And some such floods of water from them fling As oftentimes do ships in danger bring. Where thou shalt see adventrous fleets prepar'd To find out lands whereof few ever heard, There being nothing now left unattempted By humane boldnesse, nor art thou exempted, But shalt thy selfe herein have much to doe As a spectator, and an actor too: Thou Arts shalt learne and teach, some liberall, Mechanique some, some Philosophicall To perfect life, but having all this found, Know, that this city likewise will abound With pestilent diseases, that will foule, And quite destroy the body and the soule, Warres, rapines, poysonings hasting so our ends, Ship-wracks, ill ayre, and losse of dearest friends, Death and the same, as much uncertaine, when, As whether easie or with torments, then Bethinke thy selfe if thou on life wilt venture, For here thou must goe out that there dost enter. Thou'lt choose to live, why not? can I suppose Thou seekest that whereof th'art loath to lose Any one part: live therefore as is fit,

And beare thy losse as one prepar'd for it. But here perhaps t'will be objected thus, That none before hand hath consulted us, Our parents, who the worlds condition knew, Consulted were and thence our covenant grew.

Cap. 19

But to returne to consolations now, First let us see what's to be done, then how: We commonly with sorrow much are mov'd Upon the losse of those we dearely lov'd, And yet we find that we can easily beare The absence of our friends, which commeth neere? To death it selfe, because we are thereby Deprived of their help and company: Opinion then our sorrow doth beget, And we our selves a rate upon it set, This remedy we have, let's but conceive That they as absent only tooke their leave, And since we all must follow, tis no more But to suppose that they are gone before. Yet this perchance our griefe doth much augment That children are for our protection sent, But shall I tell, what strange to thee may seeme, That childlesse folkes are now in most esteeme, And fruitfullnesse that usually hath fav'd Old age from ruine, is so much deprav'd, That many their owne children strive to hate, And seeke the meanes to become desolate. But as for thee, thy dammage not so much As thy affection makes thy sorrow such, For he unworthy comfort is to have That parteth with a child as with a slave,

Or that doth thinke of any thing beside, The very person of his Sonne that dy'd. Why doth thy passion then remaine so strong, Because hee's dead, or that he liv'd not long? If that the reason be, because hee's dead, Then sure thou shouldst have ever sorrowed; For thou didst ever know he was to dye: And therefore thinke what he hath gain'd thereby, Since his enthralled bondage now doth cease, And he abideth in eternall peace, Where no vaine feare of poverty affrights him, Nor vainer hope of getting wealth delights him, And where no provocations of lust Do him into unlawfull pleasures thrust: Who neither envies any others good, Or any way by envy is with-stood, Whose eares heare no revilings, and whose eyes Behold no manner of calamities: Who doth no more depend upon events That hourely alter from their first intents, But hath obtain'd a place of that defence, That fraud nor force can ever drive him thence.

Cap. 20

HOw little do men know their miseries That do not death as natures best gift prise: Whether that she felicity include, Or the calamity that them pursu'd

Doth drive away, or whether she do end The irksome troubles that old age attend, Or that the same the flowre of youth doth crop, In the chiefe prime of his expected hope, Or whether tender childhood she recall, Ere that into a worse condition fall: Shee is the end of all, the help of many, The wish of some, not meriting from any More then from these, to whom without request She with the soonest hath her selfe addrest. Shee free's the slave in spight of his sterne lord, Shakes off his chaines, and of her owne accord Releaseth prisoners that committed stand, By cruell tyrants under strickt command. Shee teacheth them that are in banishment (Whose thoughts and eies are on their country bent) Not to be troubled, how, when they are dead Or in what place they shall be buried. She when blind fortune hath divided ill Her gifts, 'tweene those that had by natures will An equall right, doth them againe restore To that equality they had before. Shee it is that could never yet obey, That takes all sence of poverty away, She it is Marcia whom thy father sought, That makes it not a punishment be thought To have beene borne, but helps us in despight Of fortunes threats, to keepe our minds upright. Death is our refuge, though we tortur'd bee In severall kinds, she us at length shall free: Some their heads downe ward are to gibbets ty'd, And some with stretcht out armes are crucify'd,

Where every member sundry engines rent, And some have stak's thrust through their fundament, Yet death's their cure: here enemies invade, There friends insult, yet death at length brings aid, It is not hard to serve, when at one step We weary growne may into freedome leape: Against the injury of life we have A sure and common benefit, a grave. Thinke but what good a timely death hath brought, And how much ill a longer life hath wrought. Had Pompey this great Empire's strength and pride, At Naples of his burning-feaver dy'd, He then the Prince of Rome had sure beene stil'd, Whereas his glorious hopes were all beguil'd By the addition of a little time, And he throwne swifter downe, then he could climbe. He saw his legions lie before him dead, Whose vanguard by grave Senators was led, That did escape, to testifie to all The too long life of him their Generall: His sacred body he did then submit To base Aegyptians that betrayed it, Though had he liv'd, it would have beene a griefe, To thinke how he was forc't to seeke reliefe, That Pompey through the world surnam'd the great, Of any King should life or aid intreat. Had Tully dy'd when he escap't the slaughter Design'd by Catiline, or with his daughter Had left the world, he had great honor wonne, And had not seene so many mischiefes done, Swords sheath'd in mutuall bowells, and their goods By murd'rers shar'd, who therfore sought their bloods:

Nor beene so much unhappy to behold The Consulary spoyles at out-cries fold, When as our state no insolence debar'd, But unto theeves and traitors gave reward, Encouraging all sorts of lewd designes, The Senate having many Catilines. If Cato, when from Cyprus he did bring To Rome the wealth of that deceased King. Had with the same, intended for the pay Of a dire civill warre, beene cast away, This honour had accompanied his end, That none in Cato's presence durst offend, Whereas a little tract of time compel'd Him, that Romes freedome with his owne upheld, To fly from Caesar and to Pompey cleave, And at the length himselfe of life bereave. An early death no dammage then hath sent Upon thy sonne, but rather did prevent The cares that to a longer life belong, And therefore do not thinke de dy'd too yong. For if the life of the most aged man Considered be, what is it but a span? As in an Inne he lodgeth in the world, And in a moment out againe is hurl'd; So swiftly posts our life, and if the story Thou dost but read of cities that most glory In their antiquity, it will appeare, That nothing can be old accounted here. All humane things are fraile, and haue no right To any part of that vast infinite. We say the earth, men, cities, rivers, seas, Whose larger circuit comprehends all these,

Are but a point compar'd with all the rest, Our life, of no part of a poynt's possest Compar'd with time, the world exceeding farre, Whose revolutions thereby measur'd are. Why should our minds then on that thing be bent, Which brought unto the uttermost extent Is little more then nothing? therefore hee Lives long enough that can contented be: For though thy life a hundred yeeres should last, Yet that compar'd with all the time that's past And is to come, would in effect amount No more then to the shortest in account. He dyed not too soone that liv'd the time. Appointed, though he dyed in his prime: Men live not all alike nor beasts, for some Grow weary, when to fourteene yeeres they come, And that which is their last, is mans first age, Wee all of us have our prefixed stage, Which we by no endeavour can exceed, Nor should we grudge at what is so decreed: He had what was allotted him, no chance His life could ere diminish, or advance, Wee all are in this errour, to conceive That we this world are never like to leave But in old crooked age, when as we know We may as well in youth or childhood goe. Our birth is towards death the first degree, And what we live beyond is given free: Fate ply's her worke, and to delude our sense, Makes death steale on us under lifes pretence, For childhood doth our infancy surprise, And youth or childhood, then age quickely hyes,

And such as seeme increases, if well weigh'd, Are dammages that secretly invade.

Cap. 21

BUt thou complainest Marcia that thy Sonne Attained not the yeeres he might have done, Yet knowest not whether the same were fit, Or whether that were not a benefit: For no man is in such assur'd estate But may in time become unfortunate, So fraile are worldly things, and we may boast Least of that part of life that pleaseth most: And therefore death that bringeth certaine rest, Is ever to be wish't for of the best, Because we plainely see that in this vast Confusion, nothing's sure but what is past. Who could assure thee that the beauteous frame Of thy sonnes body, though he kept the same With modesty safe-guarded from the eyes, Of a lewd city fild with luxuries, Should likewise from diseases be secure, And to old age unblemished endure?

Cap. 22

THinke on the spots wherewith the soule is stain'd, How some great wits have not to age retain'd The wayes of vertue in their youth begun, But have into degenerate courses runne: How luxury, which men should ever hate So much the more because it commeth late, Doth oftentimes the hope of youth deface, And gluttony intruding in the place Of temperance well begun, so makes men swerve, That they in age the belly only serve,

When as their chiefest care is but to thinke Continually what they shall eat & drinke. Adde likewise ruines both of sword and fire, Ship-wracks, diseases that strange cures require, Where corrosives pierce live mens bones & marrow, And Surgeons hands their very intralles harrow, Who many times some secret paine to ease, Give remedies as bad as the disease: Then after these, consider banishment, For sure thy Sonne was not more innocent Then was Rutilius; or a prison, hee Then Socrates could hardly wiser be; Or voluntary death; he could not raise His vertues above holy Catoes praise. All which consdered duely, in regard That death must in the end be lifes reward, Thou may'st conclude that nature dealeth best With those to whom she soonest giveth rest: For life so wretched is, that it would scant Accepted be but of the ignorant. And therefore as its best not to be borne, So next to that is quickly to returne; Thinke on the time wherein Sejanus gave To Satrius his mercenary slave, Thy fathers goods, whose free speech him offended, Saying, He was not put, but had ascended Vpon our necks, and when it did appeare That he his statue did intend to reare In Pompeys Theatre, that had of late Beene burnt and now re-built with no lesse state, Cremutius crying out against it, said, The Theatre then truely perished.

For what man could behold Sejanus sit On Pompey's ashes, and not storme at it, Or see the most unworthy souldier crown'd With honour of a Captaine so renown'd? Yet there his image with th'inscription stood, And those fierce doggs nourish't with humane blood, That being gentle unto him alone, Their fury to all others might be showne, At Cordus suddainely began to bay, That he to live must now Sejanus pray, Or of his daughter must to dye crave leave, Inexorable both: he to deceive His daughter did resolve, and with intent His plot to hide, he us'd a bath, and went Into his chamber with pretence to eate. Then sending forth his servants threw some meate Out at the window, to make shew thereby As if he there had supped privately: He fasted so the next day and the third, Whereby a mortall weaknesse he incurr'd: Then thee imbracing thus his mind reveal'd, My dearest daughter, I have nought conceal'd In all my life from thee, save this alone, I now a journey towards death am gone, And haue by this time gotten halfe the way: Thou mee, nor may'st, nor canst, revoke or stay. This said, he caus'd the windowes to be shut, And from that time himselfe in darknesse put: This fact divulg'd through Rome, had great applause, Because the prey was snatcht from th'wolfes jawes, But his accusers by Sejanus sent, To the tribunall of the Consulls went,

Craving that Cordus might be yet with-held From doing what themselves had him compeld, So loath were they who hungerly did gape That in this manner he should them escape: There grew a doubt whether they might by law A man accus'd from such an act with-draw, Whilst this was in dispute on every side, Cordus at home releast himselfe and dy'd. Seeft thou not Marcia, what unlook't for woe In such recourses of ill times do flow? Thou griev'st that fate did one to dye constraine, And yet another scarce could leave obtaine.

Cap. 23

BVt beside this, that future things are still Doubtfull, and never certaine but to ill, The passage is more easie, when the soule Is speedily dismissed from her foule Abode, for she doth then contract lesse slime, And to her station may more lightly clime. Great spirits cannot willingly reside Long in the body, nor those straights abide, But to breake through, and mount aloft, desire, And to their first originall aspire. And therefore learned Plato sayeth well, A wise mans mind on death doth ever dwell, Doth wish, doth will, and thereto in effect In all his actions hath his whole respect. When such grave vertue Marcia thou did'st view In thy yong Sonne, and how he did subdue All his affections, given to no vice, In midst of wealth abhorring avarice, How honour without pride he did possesse,

And recreations without wantonnesse, Couldst thou conceive that he could long remaine? What ere at highest is, goes backe againe; Vertue growne perfect vanisheth away; And fruits that ripen soone, doe soone decay, Fire that burnes cleare, is soone extinguished, That lasteth more that with grosse matter fed Burnes with a thicke smoake, for it best subsisteth With nourishment whose quality resisteth: So wit, that is most delicate and pure, Is ever found a short time to endure; For dissolution followeth apace, When as for future growth there is no place. Fabian reports a monstrous thing in nature, Of a child seene in Rome of a mans stature, But it soone dy'd, as wisemen did presage, His stature had so gained on his age. Decay doth still maturity attend, And things when growth is spent, draw neer their end.

Cap. 24

COunt thy Sons vertues then, and not his yeeres, Though he t'have lived long enough appeares, Who fourteene yeeres was under Tutors bred, And by thy counsell ever governed; Who though he had a houshold of his owne, Vnwilling was to have thee live alone, And being fit the warres to undertake, The same refused wholly for thy sake; For thinke how small a time they are enjoy'd, That often are in forraigne parts imploy'd; How mothers usually that time lament, No lesse then death which in the warres is spent;

And then beleeve he liv'd as long as others That alwaies have beene absent from their mothers. He thus remaining in thy house and sight, To order there his studies tooke delight, Gaining a wit by precepts dayly read, That would his grand-fathers have equalled, Had it not beene with-stood by bash fullnesse, That great worth oft in silence doth suppresse: A youth of rare aspect, who 'mongst so many Men-tempting women, gave no hope to any, But when the lust of some durst him assault, Would blush and thinke his comlinesse a fault. This holinesse of manners was the cause That he, though very yong, with great applause Was made a Priest, by meanes his mother us'd, Though notwithstanding he had beene refus'd, Had not his owne true worth their judgements led, Then do not thou conceive him to be dead, But that his vertues make him so remaine, That thou for him shalt never grieve againe: For all, that can be now, thou hast endur'd, The rest is free from chance, of joy assur'd. And if thy Sonne thou wilt but rightly prise, Then know his image onely buried lyes, And that not very like, whilst he, now eas'd Of all the burdens that him so displeas'd, Is rendred to himselfe, for flesh, and skin, And all the rest that we are wrapped in, Are nothing but the fetters of the soule, And such as doe her faculties controule, Which shee opposing ever strives to bee In endlesse blisse, from all darke errours free;

And therefore 'tis but folly to repayre Unto his Sepulchre, where ashes are, And bones, and that which troubled him, no more Parts of thy Sonne, then were the clothes, he wore: For he went hence intire, staying a while Above us to be purged from the vile Contracted dregs of nature, mounted then And was receiv'd amongst those happy men, The Scipio's, and the Cato's, with the rest That life contemn'd and now in death are blest. Thy father there (O Marcia, though that place Makes all of kinne) his Grandchild doth embrace, And there instructs the new enlightened youth Not by conjecture, but assured truth In all the courses of the starres neere hand, And makes him all those secrets understand: And as a stranger joyeth to find one That in a city where he is not knowne, Will take the paines to lead him up and downe, And shew him all the pleasures of the towne, So glad was he, when he did first arrive (Being of heavenly things inquisitive) Of this well knowne interpreter, that so, He likewise might be shew'd the things below, For 'tis a pleasure to th'infranch is'd mind To view from heaven what it hath left behind. Frame all thy actions then as they were done In sight both of thy father and thy Sonne, Who are not now, as when from hence they went, But every way become more excellent, And be ashamed of these triviall things, To grieve for them, whose change such honor brings,

Who left the world to fixe themselves on high, And there to dwell in endlesse liberty, Where neither Seas, nor hills, nor danger barres Their entercourse, whose wayes are mixt with starres.

Cap. 26

THink therfore now that from that heavenly Tower Thy father speakes, who had with thee like power That thou hadst with thy Sonne, not in that straine Wherein he did of civill warres complaine, Wherein the banishers themselves he sent, With shame into eternall banishment, But with a farre more elevated wit, As he doth now in greater glory sit. Why Daughter doth thy griefe remaine so long? Why dost thou so continue in the wrong? To thinke thy Sonne ill dealt with? who withdrew Himselfe to his forefathers when he grew Weary of life, dost thou not know what blasts Of trouble fortune upon all things casts? How she her favour only doth conferre On those that have conversed least with her? Wilt thou that I those famous Kings repeat, Whose happinesse would have been found compleat, Had timely death, whereof none ere repented, The evills of their future lives prevented? Or Roman captaines, who could nothing lacke, Had some few yeeres of life beene given backe? Or those great men that of their owne accord Expos'd their necks unto the souldiers sword? Thy father and thy grand-father behold He murthered was, I shewing with how bold A mind I writ, did rather then to lye

At others mercy, choose to fast and dye. Why is he in our house so much bewail'd, Whom death in so great measure hath avail'd? We dwell together in a glorious light, And see you compast with a dismall night, Where all your best things base and sordid are, And may not with the least of ours compare. What should I say? heere are no battells fought By land or sea, no mischiefes done or thought? Our Courts are not with clamours fill'd, our dayes Perpetuall are, our hearts, our lives, our wayes Open, and nothing hid within our brest, But all events to us are manifest. I when I liv'd, took pleasure to compose The story of one age, and but of those That in a corner of the world did dwell, Wee the succession of all times can tell, And doe the rise and falls of kingdomes view, The ruines of great cities with the new And uncontrolled courses of the Seas, For know, that if it may thy sorrow ease, To understand the truth of common fate, That nothing shall continue in the state That now it is, time all things shall devoure, And not with men alone, of Fortunes power, (The smallest part alas!) shall pastime make, But the whole world shall of the same partake. Here it shall hills suppresse, there rocks inforce, And supp up Seas, and change the usuall course Of rivers, and dissolving all commerce, The race of man shall utterly disperse: Causing else-where the trembling earth to cleave,

And greedily whole cities to receive Into her bowells, belching out from thence Damps that will breed a generall pestilence. Then shall it both with inundations drowne And with strange fires all mortall things burne down: And when the world that is to be renew'd, Shall thus dissolve, there shall be deadly feud Betweene the starres that with such order shine Which shall their fires to that vast fire resigne. Wee also being blessed soules that claime Aeternity, when God shall please to frame The world anew, must therein have our share, And shall to our first elements repaire. And therefore, Marcia happy is thy Sonne, That know's all this as't were already done.

FINIS.

Notes

• Three or foure lines omitted, repug∣nant to the rest, impugning the immortality of the soule.