Part 35

Hee that would write an Epitaph for thee, And do it well, must first beginne to be Such as thou wert; for, none can truly know Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv'd so; He must have wit to spare and to hurle downe: 5 Enough, to keepe the gallants of the towne. He must have learning plenty; both the Lawes, Civill, and Common, to judge any cause; Divinity great store, above the rest; Not of the last Edition, but the best. 10 Hee must have language, travaile, all the Arts; Judgement to use; or else he wants thy parts. He must have friends the highest, able to do; Such as _Mecœnas_, and _Augustus_ too. He must have such a sicknesse, such a death; 15 Or else his vaine descriptions come beneath; Who then shall write an Epitaph for thee, He must be dead first, let'it alone for mee.

[On _&c._ _Also in Corbet's Poems 1647_]

_An Elegie upon the incomparable D^{r} DONNE._

All is not well when such a one as I Dare peepe abroad, and write an _Elegie_; When smaller _Starres_ appeare, and give their light, _Phœbus_ is gone to bed: Were it not night, And the world witlesse now that DONNE is dead, 5 You sooner should have broke, then seene my head. Dead did I say? Forgive this _Injury_ I doe him, and his worthes _Infinity_, To say he is but dead; I dare averre It better may be term'd a _Massacre_, 10 Then _Sleepe_ or _Death_; See how the _Muses_ mourne Upon their oaten _Reeds_, and from his _Vrne_ Threaten the World with this _Calamity_, They shall have _Ballads_, but no _Poetry_. _Language_ lyes speechlesse; and _Divinity_, 15 Lost such a _Trump_ as even to _Extasie_ Could charme the Soule, and had an _Influence_ To teach best _judgements_, and please dullest _Sense_. The _Court_, the _Church_, the _Vniversitie_, Lost _Chaplaine_, _Deane_, and _Doctor_, All these, Three. 20 It was his _Merit_, that his _Funerall_ Could cause a losse so _great_ and _generall_.

If there be any Spirit can answer give Of such as hence depart, to such as live: Speake, Doth his body there vermiculate, 25 Crumble to dust, and feele the lawes of Fate? Me thinkes, _Corruption_, _Wormes_, what else is foule Should spare the _Temple_ of so faire a _Soule_. I could beleeve they doe; but that I know What inconvenience might hereafter grow: 30 Succeeding ages would _Idolatrize_, And as his _Numbers_, so his _Reliques_ prize.

If that Philosopher, which did avow The world to be but Motes, was living now: He would affirme that th' _Atomes_ of his mould 35 Were they in severall bodies blended, would Produce new worlds of _Travellers_, _Divines_, Of _Linguists_, _Poets_: sith these severall _lines_ In him concentred were, and flowing thence Might fill againe the worlds _Circumference_. 40 I could beleeve this too; and yet my faith Not want a _President_: The _Phœnix_ hath (And such was He) a power to animate Her ashes, and herselfe perpetuate. But, busie Soule, thou dost not well to pry 45 Into these Secrets; _Griefe_, and _Iealousie_, The more they know, the further still advance, And finde no way so safe as _Ignorance_. Let this suffice thee, that his _Soule_ which flew A pitch of all admir'd, known but of few, 50 (Save those of purer mould) is now translated From Earth to Heaven, and there _Constellated_. For, if each _Priest_ of God shine as a _Starre_, His _Glory_ is as his _Gifts_, 'bove others farre.

HEN. VALENTINE.

_An Elegie upon D^{r}_ Donne.

Is _Donne_, great _Donne_ deceas'd? then England say Thou 'hast lost a man where language chose to stay And shew it's gracefull power. I would not praise That and his vast wit (which in these vaine dayes Make many proud) but as they serv'd to unlock 5 That Cabinet, his minde: where such a stock Of knowledge was repos'd, as all lament (Or should) this generall cause of discontent. And I rejoyce I am not so severe, But (as I write a line) to weepe a teare 10 For his decease; Such sad extremities May make such men as I write _Elegies_. And wonder not; for, when a generall losse Falls on a nation, and they slight the crosse, God hath rais'd _Prophets_ to awaken them 15 From stupifaction; witnesse my milde pen, Not us'd to upbraid the world, though now it must Freely and boldly, for, the cause is just. Dull age, Oh I would spare thee, but th'art worse, Thou art not onely dull, but hast a curse 20 Of black ingratitude; if not, couldst thou Part with _miraculous Donne_, and make no vow For thee and thine, successively to pay A sad remembrance to his dying day? Did his youth scatter _Poetrie_, wherein 25 Was all Philosophie? Was every sinne, Character'd in his _Satyres_? made so foule That some have fear'd their shapes, and kept their soule Freer by reading verse? Did he give _dayes_ Past marble monuments, to those, whose praise 30 He would perpetuate? Did hee (I feare The dull will doubt:) these at his twentieth yeare? But, more matur'd: Did his full soule conceive, And in harmonious-holy-numbers weave [Sidenote: _La Corona._] A _Crowne of sacred sonets_, fit to adorne 35 A dying Martyrs brow: or, to be worne On that blest head of _Mary Magdalen_: After she wip'd Christs feet, but not till then? Did hee (fit for such penitents as shee And hee to use) leave us a _Litany_? 40 Which all devout men love, and sure, it shall, As times grow better, grow more classicall. Did he write _Hymnes_, for piety and wit Equall to those great grave _Prudentius_ writ? Spake he all _Languages_? knew he all _Lawes_? 45 The grounds and use of _Physicke_; but because 'Twas mercenary wav'd it? Went to see That blessed place of _Christs nativity_? Did he returne and preach him? preach him so As none but hee did, or could do? They know 50 (Such as were blest to heare him know) 'tis truth. Did he confirme thy age? convert thy youth? Did he these wonders? And is this deare losse Mourn'd by so few? (few for so great a crosse.) But sure the silent are ambitious all 55 To be _Close Mourners_ at his Funerall; If not; In common pitty they forbare By repetitions to renew our care; Or, knowing, griefe conceiv'd, conceal'd, consumes Man irreparably, (as poyson'd fumes 60 Do waste the braine) make silence a safe way To'inlarge the Soule from these walls, mud and clay, (Materialls of this body) to remaine With _Donne_ in heaven, where no promiscuous paine Lessens the joy wee have, for, with _him_, all 65 Are satisfyed with _joyes essentiall_. My thoughts, Dwell on this _Ioy_, and do not call Griefe backe, by thinking of his Funerall; Forget he lov'd mee; Waste not my sad yeares; (Which haste to _Davids_ seventy, fill'd with feares 70 And sorrow for his death;) Forget his parts, Which finde a living grave in good mens hearts; And, (for, my first is daily paid for sinne) Forget to pay my second sigh for him: Forget his powerfull preaching; and forget 75 I am his _Convert_. Oh my frailtie! let My flesh be no more heard, it will obtrude This lethargie: so should my gratitude, My vowes of gratitude should so be broke; Which can no more be, then _Donnes_ vertues spoke 80 By any but himselfe; for which cause, I Write no _Encomium_, but an _Elegie_.

IZ. WA.

[An Elegie _&c._ _See note_]

[1-3

Our Donne is dead; England should mourne, may say We had a man where language chose to stay And shew her gracefull power _1635-69_ ]

[35 _Crowne_] Crowme _1633_]

An Elegie upon the death of the Deane of Pauls, D^r. Iohn Donne:

By _M^r. Tho: Carie_.

Can we not force from widdowed Poetry, Now thou art dead (Great DONNE) one Elegie To crowne thy Hearse? Why yet dare we not trust Though with unkneaded dowe-bak't prose thy dust, Such as the uncisor'd Churchman from the flower 5 Of fading Rhetorique, short liv'd as his houre, Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay Upon thy Ashes, on the funerall day? Have we no voice, no tune? Did'st thou dispense Through all our language, both the words and sense? 10 'Tis a sad truth: The Pulpit may her plaine, And sober Christian precepts still retaine, Doctrines it may, and wholesome Uses frame, Grave Homilies, and Lectures, But the flame Of thy brave Soule, that shot such heat and light, 15 As burnt our earth, and made our darknesse bright, Committed holy Rapes upon our Will, Did through the eye the melting heart distill; And the deepe knowledge of darke truths so teach, As sense might judge, what phansie could not reach; 20 Must be desir'd for ever. So the fire, That fills with spirit and heat the Delphique quire, Which kindled first by thy Promethean breath, Glow'd here a while, lies quench't now in thy death; The Muses garden with Pedantique weedes 25 O'rspred, was purg'd by thee; The lazie seeds Of servile imitation throwne away; And fresh invention planted, Thou didst pay The debts of our penurious bankrupt age; Licentious thefts, that make poëtique rage 30 A Mimique fury, when our soules must bee Possest, or with Anacreons Extasie, Or Pindars, not their owne; The subtle cheat Of slie Exchanges, and the jugling feat Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong 35 By ours was done the Greeke, or Latine tongue, Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd Us a Mine Of rich and pregnant phansie, drawne a line Of masculine expression, which had good Old Orpheus seene, Or all the ancient Brood 40 Our superstitious fooles admire, and hold Their lead more precious, then thy burnish't Gold, Thou hadst beene their Exchequer, and no more They each in others dust, had rak'd for Ore. Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time, 45 And the blinde fate of language, whose tun'd chime More charmes the outward sense; Yet thou maist claime From so great disadvantage greater fame, Since to the awe of thy imperious wit Our stubborne language bends, made only fit 50 With her tough-thick-rib'd hoopes to gird about Thy Giant phansie, which had prov'd too stout For their soft melting Phrases. As in time They had the start, so did they cull the prime Buds of invention many a hundred yeare, 55 And left the rifled fields, besides the feare To touch their Harvest, yet from those bare lands Of what is purely thine, thy only hands (And that thy smallest worke) have gleaned more Then all those times, and tongues could reape before; 60 But thou art gone, and thy strict lawes will be Too hard for Libertines in Poetrie. They will repeale the goodly exil'd traine Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just raigne Were banish'd nobler Poems, now, with these 65 The silenc'd tales o'th'Metamorphoses Shall stuffe their lines, and swell the windy Page, Till Verse refin'd by thee, in this last Age, Turne ballad rime, Or those old Idolls bee Ador'd againe, with new apostasie; 70 Oh, pardon mee, that breake with untun'd verse The reverend silence that attends thy herse, Whose awfull solemne murmures were to thee More then these faint lines, A loud Elegie, That did proclaime in a dumbe eloquence 75 The death of all the Arts, whose influence Growne feeble, in these panting numbers lies Gasping short winded Accents, and so dies: So doth the swiftly turning wheele not stand In th'instant we withdraw the moving hand, 80 But some small time maintaine a faint weake course By vertue of the first impulsive force: And so whil'st I cast on thy funerall pile Thy crowne of Bayes, Oh, let it crack a while, And spit disdaine, till the devouring flashes 85 Suck all the moysture up, then turne to ashes. I will not draw the envy to engrosse All thy perfections, or weepe all our losse; Those are too numerous for an Elegie, And this too great, to be express'd by mee. 90 Though every pen should share a distinct part, Yet art thou Theme enough to tyre all Art; Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice I on thy Tombe this Epitaph incise.

_Here lies a King, that rul'd as hee thought fit 95 The universall Monarchy of wit; Here lie two Flamens, and both those, the best, Apollo's first, at last, the true Gods Priest_.

[An Elegie _&c._ _Also in Carew's _Poems_ 1640._ _See note_]

_An Elegie on D^r. DONNE: By Sir Lucius Carie._

Poets attend, the Elegie I sing Both of a doubly-named Priest, and King: In stead of Coates, and Pennons, bring your Verse, For you must bee chiefe mourners at his Hearse, A Tombe your Muse must to his Fame supply, 5 No other Monuments can never die; And as he was a two-fold Priest; in youth, Apollo's; afterwards, the voice of Truth, Gods Conduit-pipe for grace, who chose him for His extraordinary Embassador, 10 So let his Liegiers with the Poets joyne, Both having shares, both must in griefe combine: Whil'st Johnson forceth with his Elegie Teares from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye, (Like Moses at whose stroke the waters gusht 15 From forth the Rock, and like a Torrent rusht.) Let Lawd his funerall Sermon preach, and shew Those vertues, dull eyes were not apt to know, Nor leave that Piercing Theme, till it appeares To be goodfriday, by the Churches Teares; 20 Yet make not griefe too long oppresse our Powers, Least that his funerall Sermon should prove ours. Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence, With which he did the bread of life dispense, Preacher and Orator discharg'd both parts 25 With pleasure for our sense, health for our hearts, And the first such (Though a long studied Art Tell us our soule is all in every part,) None was so marble, but whil'st him he heares, His Soule so long dwelt only in his eares. 30 And from thence (with the fiercenesse of a flood Bearing downe vice) victual'd with that blest food Their hearts; His seed in none could faile to grow, Fertile he found them all, or made them so: No Druggist of the Soule bestow'd on all 35 So Catholiquely a curing Cordiall. Nor only in the Pulpit dwelt his store, His words work'd much, but his example more, That preach't on worky dayes, His Poetrie It selfe was oftentimes divinity, 40 Those Anthemes (almost second Psalmes) he writ To make us know the Crosse, and value it, (Although we owe that reverence to that name Wee should not need warmth from an under flame.) Creates a fire in us, so neare extreme 45 That we would die, for, and upon this theme. Next, his so pious Litany, which none can But count Divine, except a Puritan, And that but for the name, nor this, nor those Want any thing of Sermons, but the prose. 50 Experience makes us see, that many a one Owes to his Countrey his Religion; And in another, would as strongly grow, Had but his Nurse and Mother taught him so, Not hee the ballast on his Judgement hung; 55 Nor did his preconceit doe either wrong; He labour'd to exclude what ever sinne By time or carelessenesse had entred in; Winnow'd the chaffe from wheat, but yet was loath A too hot zeale should force him, burne them both; 60 Nor would allow of that so ignorant gall, Which to save blotting often would blot all; Nor did those barbarous opinions owne, To thinke the Organs sinne, and faction, none; Nor was there expectation to gaine grace 65 From forth his Sermons only, but his face; So Primitive a looke, such gravitie With humblenesse, and both with Pietie; So milde was Moses countenance, when he prai'd For them whose Satanisme his power gainsaid; 70 And such his gravitie, when all Gods band Receiv'd his word (through him) at second hand, Which joyn'd, did flames of more devotion move Then ever Argive Hellens could of love. Now to conclude, I must my reason bring, 75 Wherefore I call'd him in his title King, That Kingdome the Philosophers beleev'd To excell Alexanders, nor were griev'd By feare of losse (that being such a Prey No stronger then ones selfe can force away) 80 The Kingdome of ones selfe, this he enjoy'd, And his authoritie so well employ'd, That never any could before become So Great a Monarch, in so small a roome; He conquer'd rebell passions, rul'd them so, 85 As under-spheares by the first Mover goe, Banish't so farre their working, that we can But know he had some, for we knew him man. Then let his last excuse his first extremes, His age saw visions, though his youth dream'd dreams. 90

[72 Receiv'd] Receiv' _1633_]

_On D^{r}._ DONNES _death_:

_By M^{r}._ Mayne _of Christ-Church in Oxford._

Who shall presume to mourn thee, _Donne_, unlesse He could his teares in thy expressions dresse, And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearse, To weepe lines, learned, as thy Anniverse, A Poëme of that worth, whose every teare 5 Deserves the title of a severall yeare. Indeed so farre above its Reader, good, That wee are thought wits, when 'tis understood, There that blest maid to die, who now should grieve? After thy sorrow, 'twere her losse to live; 10 And her faire vertues in anothers line, Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine. Hadst thou beene shallower, and not writ so high, Or left some new way for our pennes, or eye, To shed a funerall teare, perchance thy Tombe 15 Had not beene speechlesse, or our Muses dumbe; But now wee dare not write, but must conceale Thy Epitaph, lest we be thought to steale, For, who hath read thee, and discernes thy worth, That will not say, thy carelesse houres brought forth 20 Fancies beyond our studies, and thy play Was happier, then our serious time of day? So learned was thy chance; thy haste had wit, And matter from thy pen flow'd rashly fit, What was thy recreation turnes our braine, 25 Our rack and palenesse, is thy weakest straine. And when we most come neere thee, 'tis our blisse To imitate thee, where thou dost amisse. Here light your muse, you that do onely thinke, And write, and are just Poëts, as you drinke, 30 In whose weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow, Just as your recknings rise, that wee may know In your whole carriage of your worke, that here This flash you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere, This is to tap your Muse, which running long 35 Writes flat, and takes our eare not halfe so strong; Poore Suburbe wits, who, if you want your cup, Or if a Lord recover, are blowne up. Could you but reach this height, you should not need To make, each meale, a project ere you feed, 40 Nor walke in reliques, clothes so old and bare, As if left off to you from _Ennius_ were, Nor should your love, in verse, call Mistresse, those, Who are mine hostesse, or your whores in prose; From this Muse learne to Court, whose power could move 45 A Cloystred coldnesse, or a Vestall love, And would convey such errands to their eare, That Ladies knew no oddes to grant and heare; But I do wrong thee, _Donne_, and this low praise Is written onely for thy yonger dayes. 50 I am not growne up, for thy riper parts, Then should I praise thee, through the Tongues, and Arts, And have that deepe Divinity, to know, What mysteries did from thy preaching flow, Who with thy words could charme thy audience, 55 That at thy sermons, eare was all our sense; Yet have I seene thee in the pulpit stand, Where wee might take notes, from thy looke, and hand; And from thy speaking action beare away More Sermon, then some teachers use to say. 60 Such was thy carriage, and thy gesture such, As could divide the heart, and conscience touch. Thy motion did confute, and wee might see An errour vanquish'd by delivery. Not like our Sonnes of Zeale, who to reforme 65 Their hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit storme, And beate the cushion into worse estate, Then if they did conclude it reprobate, Who can out pray the glasse, then lay about Till all Predestination be runne out. 70 And from the point such tedious uses draw, Their repetitions would make Gospell, Law. No, In such temper would thy Sermons flow, So well did Doctrine, and thy language show, And had that holy feare, as, hearing thee, 75 The Court would mend, and a good Christian bee. And Ladies though unhansome, out of grace, Would heare thee, in their unbought lookes, and face. More I could write, but let this crowne thine Urne, Wee cannot hope the like, till thou returne. 80

_Upon M^r J. Donne, and his Poems._