A FUNERAL ELEGY
'Tis lost, to trust a Tombe with such a guest,
Or to confine her in a marble chest.
Alas, what's Marble, jeat, or Porphyrie,
Priz'd with the Chrysolite of either eye,
Or with those Pearles, and Rubies, which she was?
Joyne the two Indies in one Tombe, 'tis glass;
And so is all to her materials,
Though every inch were ten Escurials,
Yet she's demolished: can we keep her then
In works of hands, or of the wits of men?
Can these memorials, rags of paper, give
Life to that name, by which name they must live?
Sickly, alas, short-liv'd, aborted be
Those carcass verses, whose soul is not she.
And can she, who no longer would be she,
Being such a Tabernacle, stoop to be
In paper wrapt; or, when shee would not lie
In such a house, dwell in an Elegy?
But 'tis no matter; we may well allow
Verse to live so long as the world will now,
For her death wounded it. The world containes
Princes for armes, and Counsellors for brains,
Lawyers for tongues, Divines for hearts, and more,
The Rich for stomaches, and for backs, the Poor;
The Officers for hands, Merchants for feet,
By which, remote and distant Countries meet.
But those fine spirits which do tune, and set
This Organ, are those pieces which beget
Wonder and love; and these were she; and she
Being spent, the world must needs decrepit be;
For since death will proceed to triumph still,
He can find nothing, after her, to kill,
Except the world itself, so great as she.
Thus brave and confident may Nature be,
Death cannot give her such another blow,
Because she cannot such another show.
But must we say she's dead? may't not be said
That as a sundred clock is piecemeal laid,
Not to be lost, but by the makers hand
Repollish'd, without error then to stand,
Or as the Affrique Niger stream enwombs
Itself into the earth, and after comes
(Having first made a natural bridge, to pass
For many leagues) far greater than it was,
May't not be said, that her grave shall restore
Her, greater, purer, firmer, than before?
Heaven may say this, and joy in't, but can wee
Who live, and lack her, here this vantage see?
What is't to us, alas, if there have been
An Angel made a Thorn, or Cherubim?
We lose by't: and as aged men are glad
Being tasteless grown, to joy in joys they had,
So now the sick starv'd world must feed upon
This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.
Rejoice then Nature, and this World, that you,
Fearing the last fires hastning to subdue
Your force and vigour, ere it were near gone,
Wisely bestow'd and laid it all on one.
One, whose clear body was so pure and thin,
Because it need disguise no thought within.
'Twas but a through-light scarfe, her minde t'inroule;
Or exhalation breath'd out from her Soul.
One, whom all men who durst no more, admir'd:
And whom, who ere had worth enough, desir'd;
As when a Temple's built, Saints emulate
To which of them, it shall be consecrate.
But, as when heaven lookes on us with new eyes,
Those new stars every Artist exercise,
What place they should assign to them they doubt,
Argue,'and agree not, till those stars go out:
So the world studied whose this peace should be,
Till she can be no bodies else, nor she:
But like a Lampe of Balsamum, desir'd
Rather t'adorne, than last, she soone expir'd,
Cloath'd in her virgin white integritie,
For marriage, though it do not stain, doth dye.
To scape th'infirmities which wait upon
Woman, she went away, before sh'was one;
And the worlds busy noise to overcome,
Took so much death, as serv'd for opium;
For though she could not, nor could choose to die,
She'ath yielded to too long an ecstasy:
He which not knowing her said History,
Should come to reade the book of destiny,
How fair, and chaste, humble, and high she'ad been,
Much promis'd, much perform'd, at not fifteen,
And measuring future things, by things before,
Should turne the leaf to read, and read no more,
Would think that either destiny mistook,
Or that some leaves were torn out of the book.
But 'tis not so; Fate did but usher her
To years of reasons use, and then infer
Her destiny to her self, which liberty
She took but for thus much, thus much to die.
Her modesty not suffering her to be
Fellow-Commissioner with Destiny,
She did no more but die; if after her
Any shall live, which dare true good prefer,
Every such person is her deligate,
T'accomplish that which should have been her Fate.
They shall make up that Book and shall have thanks
Of Fate, and her, for filling up their blankes.
For future vertuous deeds are Legacies,
Which from the gift of her example rise;
And 'tis in heav'n part of spiritual mirth,
To see how well the good play her, on earth.
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THE FUNERAL
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
For 'tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do'it; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die.
Whate'er she meant by'it, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,
If into other hands these relics came;
As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
So, 'tis some bravery,
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
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A VALEDICTION: OF WEEPING
Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
For thus they be
Pregnant of thee;
Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more,
When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore.
On a round ball
A workman that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, all;
So doth each tear
Which thee doth wear,
A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,
Till thy tears mix'd with mine do overflow
This world; by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
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