An Epicede or Funerall Song.

An Epicede or Funerall Song: on the most disastrous Death, of the high-borne Prince of Men, Henry Prince of Wales, &c. With the Funeralls, and Representation of the Herse of the same high and mighty Prince.

George Chapman

George Chapman's long, ambitious Epicede, describing Henry's illness and death, was entered on the Stationer's Register only four days after the Prince's burial. Chapman had been patronized by Prince Henry.

In the allegorical episode (adapted from Poliziano) the description of Fever reads like some of the more graphic passages in Spenser: "Then from Hels burning whirlepit up she hallde, | The horrid Monster fierce Echidna calde; | That from her Stigian lawes, doth vomit ever, | Quitture, and Venome, yet is empty never: | Then burnt her bloud shot eyes, her Temples yet | Were cold as Ice, her Necke all drownd in swet: | Palenes spred all her breast, her lifes heat stung: | The Minds Interpreter, her scorched tongue, | Flow'd with blew poison: from her yawning Mouth | Rhumes fell like spouts. . ." Sig D1v.

Ruth Wallerstein: "Chapman's grandiose and turgid poem unites metaphysical speculation and literary humanism in a bold 'imitation' of grief for a death. Its two distinct parts are only artificially brought together at the end. The first is an extended metaphysical lamentation, 'a perturbatione,' as Chapman pedantically sidenotes the grief on the state of the world and its renewed fall into bestiality since Henry, the pattern of virtue and reason, has been taken away in his youth, before his virtue has borne fruit.... The second section is the tears of the Muse, an elaborate 'prosopopoeia' describing the descent of the Fever and Henry's dying days, closed by a dirge. This section, as Mr. Schoell has shown, is taken with some few additions from an elegy of Poliziano" Studies in Seventeenth-Century Poetic (1950) 88.

Dennis Kay: "in the final section of the poem (identified by Wallerstein as the 'dirge'), where the obsessional state of the speaker is mimed by the insistent repetition, there appears to be an approximation of Spenser's manner in Astrophel: 'On on sad Traine, as from a crannid rocke | Bee-swarms rob'd of their honey, ceasles flock. | Mourne, mourne, dissected now his cold lims lie | Ah, knit so late with flame, and Maiestie'" Melodious Tears (1990) 202. Kay suggests that the appearance of Archbishop Abbot and Edward Philips (Sig D4) "emphasizes Henry's inheritance of the leadership of the Leicester|Sidney group, and occasional verbal allusions to Spenser are consistent with these other details" (1990) 201.

If ever adverse Influence envi'd
The glory of our Lands, or tooke a pride
To trample on our height; or in the Eye
Strooke all the pomp of Principalitie,
Now it hath done so; Oh, if ever Heaven
Made with the earth his angry reckening even,
Now it hath done so. Ever, ever be
Admir'd, and fear'd, that Triple Majestie
Whose finger could so easily sticke a Fate,
Twixt least Felicity, and greatest state;
Such, as should melt our shore into a Sea,
And dry our Ocean with Calamitie.
Heaven open'd, and but show'd him to our eies,
Then shut againe, and show'd our Miseries.

O God, to what end are thy Graces given?
Onely to show the world, Men fit for Heaven,
Then ravish them, as if too good for Earth?
We know, the most exempt in wealth, power, Birth,
Or any other blessing; should employ
(As to their chiefe end) all things they enjoy,
To make them fit for Heaven; and not pursue
With hearty appetite, the damned crue
Of meerely sensuall and earthye pleasures?
But when one hath done so; shal strait the tresures
Digg'd to, in those deeps, be consum'd by death?
Shall not the rest, that error swalloweth,
Be, by the Patterne of that Master-peece,
Help't to instruct their erring faculties?
When, without cleare example; even the best
(That cannot put by knowledge to the Test
What they are taught) serve like the worst in field?
Is power to force, who will not freely yield,
(Being great assistant, to divine example)
As vaine a Pillar to thy Manly Temple?
When (without perfect knowledge, which scarce one
Of many kingdoms reach) no other stone
Man hath to build one corner of thy Phane,
Save one of these? But when the desperate wane
Of power, and of example to all good,
So spent is, that one cannot turne the flood,
Of goodnes, gainst her ebbe; but both must plie,
And be at full to; or her streame will drie;
Where shall they meete againe, now he is gone
Where both went foot by foot; and both were one?

One that in hope, tooke up to toplesse height
All his great Ancestors; his one saile, freight
With all, all Princes treasures; he like one
Of no importance; no way built upon,
Vanisht without the end, for which he had
Such matchlesse vertues, and was God-like made?
Have thy best workes no better cause t' expresse
Themselves like men, and thy true Images?
To toile in vertues study, to sustaine
(With comfort for her) want, and shame, and paine;
No nobler end in this life, then a death
Timeles, and wretched, wrought with lesse then breath?
And nothing solide, worthy of our soules?
Nothing that Reason, more then Sense extols!
Nothing that may in perfect judgement be
A fit foote for our Crowne eternitie?
All which, thou seem'st to tell us, in this one
Killing discomfort; apt to make our mone
Conclude gainst all things, serious and good;
Our selves, not thy forms, but Chymaeras brood.

Now Princes, dare ye boast your vig'rous states
That Fortunes breath thus builds and ruinates?
Exalt your spirits? trust in flowry youth?
Give reynes to pleasure? all your humors sooth?
Licence in rapine? Powers exempt from lawes?
Contempt of all things, but your own applause?
And think your swindge to any tyranny given,
Will stretch as broad, and last as long as heaven;
When he that curb'd with vertues hand his powre
His youth with continence; his sweet with sowre
Boldnes with pious feare; his pallats height
Applied to health, and not to appetite;
Felt timeles sicknes charge; state, power to flie,
And glutted Death with all his crueltie.
Partiall devourer ever of the best,
With headlong rapture, sparing long the rest
Could not the precious teares his Father shed,
(That are with Kingdomes to be ransomed?)
His Bleeding prayer, upon his knees t' implore,
That if for any sinne of his, Heaven tore
From his most Royall body that chiefe Limme,
It might be ransom'd, for the rest of Him?

Could not the sacred eies thou didst prophane
In his great Mothers teares? The spightful bane
Thou pour'dst upon the cheeks of al the Graces
In his more gracious Sisters? The defaces
(With all the Furies over-flowing Galles)
Cursedly fronting her neere Nuptials?
Could not, O could not, the Almighty ruth
Of all these force thee to forbeare the youth
Of our Incomparable Prince of Men?
Whose Age had made thy Iron Forcke his Pen,
T' eternise what it now doth murder meerely;
And shal have from my soule, my curses yerely.

Tyrant, what knew'st thou, but the barbarous wound
Thou gav'st the son, the Father might confound?
Both liv'd so mixtly, and were joyntly One,
Spirit to spirit cleft. The Humor bred
In one heart, straight was with the other fed;
The bloud of one, the others heart did fire;
The heart and humour, were the Sonne and Sire;
The heart yet, void of humors slender'st part,
May easier live, then humour without heart;
The River needes the helpfull fountaine ever,
More then the Fountaine, the supplyed River.
As th' Iron then, when it hath once put on
The Magnets qualitie, to the vertuous Stone
Is ever drawne, and not the stone to it:
So may the heavens, the sonnes Fate, not admit
To draw the Fathers, till a hundred yeeres
Have drown'd that Issue to him in our teares.

Blest yet, and sacred shall thy memory be,
O-nothing-lesse-then-mortall Deitie.
Thy Graces, like the Sunne, to all men giving;
Fatall to thee in death, but kill me living.
Now, as inverted, like th' Antipodes,
The world (in all things of desert to please)
Is falne on us, with thee: thy ruines lye
On our burst bosomes, as if from the skye
The Day-star, greater then the world were driven
Suncke to the Earth, and left a hole in Heaven;
Throgh which, a second deluge now poures down
On our poore Earth; in which are over-flowne
The seeds of all the sacred Vertues, set
In his Spring-Court; where all the prime spirits met
Of all our Kingdomes; as if from the death,
That in men living; basenes and rapine sheath,
Where they before liv'd, they unwares were come
Into a free, and fresh Elisium;
Casting regenerate, and refined eyes
On him that rais'd them from their graves of vice,
Digg'd in their old grounds, to spring fresh on those
That his divine Ideas did propose,
First to himselfe; and then would forme in them.
Who did not thirst to plant his sonne neer him
As neer the Thames their houses? what one worth
Was there in all our world, that set not forth
All his deserts, to Pilgrime to his favors,
With all devotion, offering all his labors?
And how the wilde Bore, Barbarisme, now
Will roote these Quick-sets up? what hearb shall grow,
That is not sown in his inhumane tracts?
No thought of good shall spring, but many acts
Will crop, or blast, or blow it up: and see
How left to this, the mournfull Familie,
Muffled in black clouds, full of teares are driven
With stormes about the relickes of this Heaven;
Retiring from the world, like Corses, herst
Home to their graves, a hundred waies disperst.

O that this court-schoole; this Olimpus meerly,
Where two-fold Man was practisde; should so early
Dissolve the celebration purpos'd there,
Of all Heroique parts, when farre and neere,
All were resolv'd t' admire, None to contend,
When, in the place of all, one wretched end
Will take up all endeavours; Harpye Gaine,
Pandare to Gote, Ambition; goulden Chaine
To true mans freedome; not from heav'n let fal
To draw men up; But shot from Hell to hale
All men, as bondslaves, to his Turckish den,
For Toades, and Adders, far more fit then men.

His house had well his surname from a Saint,
All things so sacred, did so lively paint
Their pious figures in it: And as well
His other house, did in his Name fore-tell
What it should harbour; a rich world of parts
Bonfire-like kindling, the still-feasted Arts,
Which now on bridles bite, and puft Contempt
Spurres to Despaire, from all fit foode exempt.

O what a frame of Good, in all hopes rais'd
Came tumbling downe with him! as when was seisde
By Grecian furie, famous Ilion,
Whose fall, still rings out his Confusion.
What Triumphs, scatterd at his feete, lye smoking!
Banquets that will not downe; their cherers choking,
Fields fought, and hidden now, with future slaughter,
Furies sit frowning, where late sat sweet laughter,
The active lying maim'd, the healthfull crasde?
All round about his Herse? And how amaz'd
The change of things stands! how astonisht joy
Wonders he ever was? yet every Toy
Quits this grave losse: Rainbowes no sooner taint
Thinne dewye vapors, which oppos'd beames paint
Round in an instant, (at which children stare
And slight the Sunne, that makes them circular
And so disparent) then mere gawds peirce men,
Slighting the grave, like fooles, and children.
So courtly nere plagues, sooth and stupefie
And with such paine, men leave selfe flatterie.
Of which, to see him free (who stood no lesse
Then a full siege of such) who can expresse
His most direct infusion from above,
Farre from the humorous seede of mortall love?

He knew, that Justice simply usd, was best,
Made princes most secure, most lov'd, most blest
No Artezan; No Scholler; could pretend,
No Statesman; No Divine; for his owne end
Any thing to him, but he would descend
The depth of any right belong'd to it,
Where they could merit, or himselfe should quit.

He would not trust, with what himselfe concern'd,
Any in any kinde; but ever learn'd
The grounds of what he built on: Nothing lies
In mans fit course, that his own knowledge flies
Eyther direct, or circumstantiall.
O what are Princes then, that never call
Their actions to account, but flatterers trust
To make their triall, if unjust or just?
Flatterers are houshold theeves, traitors by law,
That rob kings honors, and their soules-bloud draw;
Diseases, that keep nourishment from their food.
And as to know himselfe, is mans chiefe good,
So that which intercepts that supreame skill,
(Which Flattery is) is the supreamest ill:
Whose lookes will breede the Basilisk in kings eyes,
That by reflexion of his sight, dyes.

And as a Nurse lab'ring a wayward Childe,
Day, and night watching it, like an offspring wilde;
Talkes infinitely idly to it still;
Sings with a standing throate, to worse from ill;
Lord-blesses it; beares with his pewks and cryes;
And to give it a long lifes miseries,
Sweetens his food, rocks, kisses, sings againe;
Plyes it with rattles, and all objects vaine:

So Flatterers, with as servile childish things,
Observe, and sooth the waiward moods of kings;
So kings, that flatterers love, had neede to have
As nurse-like councellors, and contemn the grave;
Themselves as wayward, and as noisome too;
Full as untuneable in all they doe,
As poore sicke Infants; ever breeding Teeth
In all their humours, that be worse then Death.
How wise then was our Prince that hated these,
And wold with nought but truth his humor plese
Nor would hee give a place, but where hee saw
One that could use it; and become a Law
Both to his fortunes, and his Princes Honor.
Who wold give fortune noght she took upon her,
Not give but to desert; nor take a chance,
That might not justly, his wisht ends advance.
His Good he joyn'd with Equitie and Truth;
Wisedome in yeeres, crown'd his ripe head in youth;
His heart wore all the folds of Policie,
Yet went as naked as Simplicitie.
Knew good and ill; but onely good did love;
In him the Serpent did embrace the Dove.
Hee was not curious to sound all the streame
Of others acts, yet kept his owne from them:
"He whose most darke deeds dare not stand the light,
Begot was of imposture and the night.
Who surer then a Man, doth ends secure;
Eyther a God is, or a Divell sure."
The President of men; whom (as men can)
All men should imitate, was God and Man.
In these cleere deepes our Prince fish't troubl'd streams
Of bloud and vantage challenge diadems.
In summe, (knot-like) hee was together put,
That no man could dissolve, and so was cut.
But we shal see our foule-mouth'd factions spite
(Markt, witch-like, with one blacke eie, th' other white)
Ope, and oppose against this spotlesse sun;
Such heaven strike blinder the th' eclipsed moon
Twixt whom and noblesse or humanities truth,
As much dull earth lies, and as little ruth,
(Should all things sacred perish) as there lyes
Twixt Phaebe, and the Light-fount of the skies,
In her most darke delinquence: vermine right,
That prey in darknesse, and abhorre the light;
Live by the spoile of vertue; are not well
But when they heare newes, from their father hell
Of some blacke mischiefe; never do good deed,
But where it does much harme, or hath no need.

What shall become a vertues far-short traine,
When thou their head art reacht, high Prince of men?
O that thy life could have disperst deaths stormes,
To give faire act to those Heroique formes,
With which al good rules had enricht thy mind,
Preparing for affayres of every kinde,
Peace being but a pause to breathe fierce warre;
No warrant dormant, to neglect his Starre;
The licence sence hath, is t' informe the soule;
Not to suppresse her, and our lusts extoll;
This life in all things, to enjoy the next;
Of which lawes, thy youth, both contain'd the text
And the contents; ah, that thy grey-ripe yeeres
Had made of all, Caesarean Commentares,
(More then can now be thoght) in fact t' enroule;
And make blacke Faction blush away her soule.

That, as a Temple, built when Pietie
Did to divine ends offer specially,
What men enjoy'd; that wondrous state exprest,
Strange Art, strange cost; yet who had interest
In all the frame of it; and saw those dayes,
Admir'd but little; and as little praise
Gave to the goodly Fabricke: but when men,
That live whole Ages after, view it, then,
They gaze, and wonder; and the longer time
It stands, the more it glorifies his prime;
Growes fresh in honor, and the age doth shame
That in such Monuments neglect such fame;
So had thy sacred Frame beene rais'd to height,
Forme, fulnesse, ornament: the more the light
Had given it view, the more had Men admir'd;
And tho men now are scarce to warmnesse fir'd
With love of thee; but rather colde and dead
To all sense of the grace they forfeited
In thy neglect, and losse; yet after-ages
Would be inflam'd, and put on holy rages
With thy inspiring vertues; cursing those
Whose breaths dare blast thus, in the bud, the Rose.
But thou (woe's me) art blown up before blowne,
And as the ruines of some famous Towne,
Show here a Temple stood; a Pallace, here;
A Cytadell, an Amphitheater;
Of which (ahlas) some broken Arches, still
(Pillars, or Columns rac't; which Art did fill
With all her riches and Divinitie)
Retaine their great, and worthy memory:
So of our Princes state, I nought rehearse
But show his ruines, bleeding in my verse.
What poison'd Ast'risme, may his death accuse?
Tell thy astonisht Prophet (deathles Muse)
And make my starres therein, the more adverse,
The more advance, with sacred rage my Verse,
And so adorne my dearest Fautors Herse.
That all the wits prophane, of these bold times
May feare to spend the spawne of their rancke rymes
On any touch of him, that shold be sung
To eares divine, and aske an Angels tongue.
With this it thundred; and a lightning show'd
Where she sate writing in a sable cloud;
A Penne so hard and sharpe exprest her plight,
It bit through Flint; and did in Diamant write;
Her words, she sung, and laid out such a brest,
As melted Heaven, and vext the very blest.
In which she cal'd all worlds to her complaints,
And how our losse grew, thus with teares shee paints:
Hear earth and heaven (and you that have no eares)
Hell, and the hearts of tyrants, heare my teares:
Thus Brittaine Henry tooke his timelesse end;
When his great Father did so far transcend
All other Kings; and that he had a Sonne
In all his Fathers gifts, so farre begunne,
As added to Fames Pynions, double wings;
And (as brave rivers, broken from their springs,
The further off, grow greater, and disdaine
To spread a narrower current then the Maine)
Had drawne in all deserts such ample Spheares,
As Hope yet never turn'd about his yeeres.
All other Princes with his parts comparing;
Like all Heavens pettie Luminaries faring,
To radiant Lucifer, the dayes first borne)
It hurld a fire red as a threatning Morne
On fiery Rhamnusias sere, and sulphurous spight,
Who turn'd the sterne orbs of her ghastly sight,
About each corner of her vaste Command,
And (in the turning of her bloudy hand)
Sought how to ruine endlesly our Hope,
And set to all mishap all entries ope.
And see how ready meanes to mischiefe are;
She saw, fast by, the bloud-affecting Fever,
(Even when th' Autumnal-starre began t' expire)
Gathering in vapours thinne, Ethereall fire:
Of which, her venomde finger did impart
To our brave Princes fount of heat, the heart;
A praeternaturall heat; which through the vaines
And Arteries, by'th blood and spirits meanes
Diffus'd about the body, and inflam'd,
Begat a Fevor to be never nam'd.
And now this loather of the lovely Light,
(Begot of Erebus, and uglie Night)
Mounted in hast, her new, and noysefull Carre,
Whose wheeles had beam-spokes from th' Hungarian star;
And all the other frame, and freight; from thence
Deriv'd their rude and ruthlesse influence.
Up to her left side, lept infernall Death
His head hid in a cloud of sensuall breath;
By her sat furious Anguish, Pale Despight;
Murmure, and Sorrow, and possest Affright;
Yellow Corruption, Marow-eating Care;
Languor, chill Trembling, fits Irregulare;
Inconstant Collor, feeble voyc't Complaint;
Relentles Rigor, and Confusion faint;
Frantick Distemper; and Hare-eyd unrest;
And short-breath'd Thirst, with th' ever-burning breast
A wreath of Adders bound her trenched Browes;
Where Torment Ambusht lay with all her throws
Marmarian Lyons, frindg'd with slaming Manes,
Drew this grym furie, and her brood of Banes,
Their hearts of glowing Coles, murmurd, and ror'd,
To beare her crook't yokes, and her Banes abhord,
To their deare Prince, that bore them in his Armes,
And should not suffer, for his Good, their Harmes;
Then from Hels burning whirlepit up she hallde,
The horrid Monster fierce Echidna calde;
That from her Stigian lawes, doth vomit ever,
Quitture, and Venome, yet is empty never:
Then burnt her bloud shot eyes, her Temples yet
Were cold as Ice, her Necke all drownd in swet:
Palenes spred all her breast, her lifes heat stung:
The Minds Interpreter, her scorched tongue,
Flow'd with blew poison: from her yawning Mouth
Rhumes fell like spouts fild from the stormy South:
Which being corrupt, the hewe of Saffron tooke,
A fervent Vapor, all her body shooke:
From whence, her Vexed Spirits, a noysome smell,
Expyr'd in fumes that lookt as blacke as Hell.
A ceaseles Torrent did her Nosthrils steepe,
Her witherd Entrailes tooke no rest, No sleepe:
Her swoln throte ratl'd, warmd with lifes last spark
And in her salt jawes, painful Coughs did barke:
Her teeth were staind with Rust, her sluttish hand
Shee held out reeking like a New-quencht Brand:
Arm'd with crook'd Tallons like the horned Moone,
All Cheere, all Ease, all Hope with her was gone:
In her left hand a quenchles fire did glow,
And in her Right Palme freez'd Sithonian Snow:
The ancient Romanes did a Temple build
To her, as whome a Deitie they held:
So hyd, and farre from cure of Man shee flyes,
In whose Lifes Power she mates the Deities.

When fell Rhamnusia saw this Monster nere,
(Her steele Heart sharpning) thus she spake to her:
Seest thou this Prince (great Maid and seed of Night)
Whose brows cast beams about them, like the Light:
Who joyes securely in all present State,
Nor dreams what Fortune is, or future Fate:
At whome, with fingers, and with fixed eyes
All Kingdomes Point, and Looke, and Sacrifice:
Could be content to give him: Temples rayse
To his Expectance, and Unbounded Praise:
His Now-ripe Spirits, and Valor doth despise,
Sicknesse, and Sword, that give our Godheads Prise:
His worth contracts the worlds, in his sole Hope,
Religion, Vertue, Conquest have no scope:
But his Indowments; At him, at him, flie;
More swift, and timelesse, more the Deitie;
His Sommer, Winter with the jellid flakes;
His pure Life, poyson, sting out with thy Snakes;
This is a worke will Fame thy Maidenhead:
With this, her speach and she together fledde;
Nor durst she more endure her dreadfull eyes;
Who stung with goads her roaring Lyons thyes;
And brandisht, round about, her Snak-curld head
With her left hand, the Torch it managed.

And now Heavens Smith, kindl'd his Forge and blew;
And throgh the round Pole, thick the sparkls flew
When great Prince Henrie, the delight of fame;
Darkn'd the Pallace, of his Fathers Name;
And hid his white lyms, in his downie Bed;
Then Heaven wept falling Stars that summoned
(With soft, and silent Motion) sleepe to breath
On his bright Temples, th' Ominous forme of death;
Which now the cruel Goddes did permit,
That she might enter so, her Mayden fit;

When the good Angell, his kind Guardian,
Her wither'd foot, saw neare this spring of Man;
He shrikt and said: what, what are thy rude ends;
Cannot, in him alone, all vertues friends,
(Melted into his all-upholding Nerv's;
For whose Assistance, every Deity serves)
Moove thee to prove thy Godhead, blessing him
With long long life, whose light extinckt, wil dim,
All heavenly graces? all this, moov'd her nought;
But on, and in his, all our ruines wrought:

She toucht the Thresholds, and the thresholds shooke;
The dore-posts, Palenes pierst with her faint look:
The dores brake open, and the fatall Bed
Rudely sh' aproacht, and thus her fell mouth said;
Henrie, why tak'st thou thus thy rest secure?
Nought doubting what Fortune and fates assure;
Thou never yet felt'st my red right hands maims,
That I to thee, and fate to me proclaimes;
Thy fate stands idle; spinns no more thy thread;
Die thou must (great Prince) sigh not; beare thy head
In all things free, even with necessity
If sweet it be to live; tis sweet to dye:
This said shee shooke at him her Torch, and cast
A fire in him, that all his breast embrac't,
The darting through his heart a deadly cold,
And as much venome as his vaines could hold;
Death, Death, O Death, inserting, thrusting in,
Shut his faire eyes, and op't our uglie sinne:
This seene resolv'd on, by her selfe and fate;
Was there a sight so pale, and desperate,
Ever before seene, in a thrust-through State?
The poore Verginian, miserable sayle,
A long-long-Night-turnd-Day, that liv'd in Hell
Never so portrayd, where the Billowes strove
(Blackt like so many Devils) which should prove
The damned Victor; all their furies heighting;
Their Drum, the thunder; and their Colours lightning,
Both souldiers in the battel; one contending
To drown the waves in Noyse; the other spending
His Hel-hot sulphurous flames to drink them dry:
When heaven was lost, when not a teare-wrackt eye,
Could tell in all that dead time, if they were,
Sincking or sayling; till a quickning cleere
Gave light to save them by the ruth of Rocks
At the Bermudas; where the tearing shocks
And all the Miseries before, more felt
Then here halfe told; All, All this did not melt
Those desperate few, still dying more in teares,
Then this Death, all men, to the Marrow weares:
All that are Men; the rest, those drudging Beasts,
That onely beare of Men, the Coates, and Crests;
And for their Slave, sick, that can earne them pence,
More mourne (O Monsters) then for such a Prince;
Whose soules do ebbe and flow still with their gain,
Who nothing moves but pelf, and their own pain;
Let such (great Heaven) be onely borne to beare,
All that can follow this meere Massacre.

Lost is our poore Prince; all his sad indurers;
The busie Art of those that should be Curers;
The sacred vowes made by the zealous King,
His God-like Syre; his often visiting;
Nor thy grave prayers and presence (holy Man)
This Realme thrice Reverend Metropolitan,
That was the worthy Father to his soule:
Th' insulting Fever could one fit controule.
Nor let me here forget on farre, and neare;
And in his lifes love, Passing deepe and deare;
That doth his sacred Memorie adore,
Virtues true fautor his grave Chancellor,
Whose worth in all workes should a Place enjoie,
Where his fit Fame her Trumpet shall imploie,
Whose Cares, and Prayers, were ever usde to ease
His fev'rous Warre, and send him healthfull peace,
Yet sicke our Prince is still; who though the steps
Of bitter Death, he saw bring in by heaps
Clouds to his Luster, and poore rest of light;
And felt his last Day suffering lasting Night;
His true-bred-brave soule, shrunck yet at no part,
Downe kept he all sighs, with his powers al-Hart;
Cler'd even his dying browes: and (in an Eye
Manly dissembling) hid his Misery.
And all to spare the Royall heat so spent
In his sad Father, fearefull of th' event.

And now did Phoebus with his Twelfth Lampe show
The world his haples light: and in his Brow
A Torch of Pitch stuck, lighting halfe t' half skies,
When lifes last error prest the broken eyes
Of this heart-breaking Prince; his forc't look fled;
Fled was all Colour from his cheekes; yet fed
His spirit, his sight: with dying now, he cast
On his kind King, and Father: on whome, fast
He fixt his fading beames: and with his view
A little did their empty Orbs renew:
His Mind saw him, come from the deeps of Death,
To whome he said, O Author of my Breath:
Soule to my life, and essence to my Soule,
Why grieve you so, that should al griefe controule?
Death's sweet to me, that you are stil lifes creature,
I now have finisht the great worke of Nature.
I see you pay a perfect Fathers debt
And in a feastfull Peace your Empire kept;
If your true Sonnes last words have any right
In your most righteous Bosome, doe not fright
Your hearkning kingdoms to your cariage now;
All yours, in mee, I here resigne to you,
My youth (I pray to God with my last powres)
Substract from me may adde to you and yours.

Thus vanisht he, thus swift, thus instantly;
Ah now I see, even heavenly powres must dye.

Now shift the King and Queene from court to court
But no way can shift off their cares resort,
That which we hate the more we flie, pursues,
That which we love, the more we seek, eschewes:
Now weepes his Princely Brother; Now alas
His Cynthian Sister, (our sole earthly Grace)
Like Hebes fount still overflowes her bounds,
And in her colde lips, stick astonisht sounds,
Sh' oppresseth her sweet kinde; In her soft brest
Care can no vent finde, it is so comprest:

And see how the Promethean Liver growes
As vulture Griefe devoures it: see fresh showes
Revive woes sence, and multiply her soule;
And worthely; for who would teares controle
On such a springing ground? Tis dearely fit,
To pay all tribute, Thought can poure on it:
For why were Funerals first us'd but for these,
Presag'd and cast in their Nativities?
The streames were checkt a while: so Torrents staid
Enrage the more; but are (left free) allaid.

Now our grim waves march altogether; Now
Our blacke seas runne so high, they overflow
The clouds they nourish; now the gloomy herse
Puts out the Sunne: Revive, revive (dead vierse)
Death hath slain death; there ther the person lies
Whose death should buy out all mortalities.

But let the world be now a heape of death,
Lifes joy lyes dead in him, and challengeth
No lesse a reason: If all motion stoode
Benumb'd and stupified, with his frozen blood;
And like a Tombe-stone, fixt, lay all the seas
There were fit pillers for our Hercules
To bound the world with: Men had better dye
Then out-live free times; slaves to Policie.

On on sad Traine, as from a crannid rocke
Bee-swarmes rob'd of their honey, ceasles flock.
Mourne, mourne, dissected now his cold lims lie
Ah, knit so late with flame, and Majestie.
Where's now his gracious smile, his sparkling eie
His Judgement, Valour, Magnanimitie?
O God, what doth not one short hour snatch up
Of all mans glosse? still over-flowes the cup
Of his burst cares; put with no nerves together,
And lighter, then the shadow of a feather.

On: make earth pomp as frequent as ye can,
'Twill still leave black, the fairest flower of man;
Yee well may lay all cost on miserie,
Tis all can boast, the proud'st humanitie.

If yong Marcellus had to grace his fall,
Sixe hundred Herses at his Funerall;
Sylla sixe thousand; let Prince Henry have
Sixe Millions bring him to his greedy grave.
And now the States of earth, thus mourn below
Behold in Heaven, Love with his broken Bow;
His quiver downwards turn'd, his brands put out
Hanging his wings; with sighes all black about.

Nor lesse, our losse, his Mothers heart infests,
Her melting palmes, beating her snowy brests;
As much confus'd, as when the Calidon Bore
The thigh of her divine Adonis tore:
Her vowes all vaine, resolv'd to blesse his yeeres
With Issue Royall, and exempt from freres;
Who now dyed fruitlesse; and prevented then
The blest of women, of the best of men.

Mourne all ye Arts, ye are not of the earth;
Fall, fall with him; rise with his second birth.
Lastly, with gifts enrich the sable Phane,
And odorous lights eternally maintaine;
Sing Priests, O sing now, his eternall rest,
His light eternall; and his soules free brest
As joyes eternall; so of those the best;
And this short verse be on his Tomb imprest.

So flits, ahlas, an everlasting River,
As our losse in him, past, will last for ever.
The golden Age, Star-like, shot through our Skye;
Aim'd at his pompe renew'd, and stucke in's eye.
And (like the sacred knot, together put)
Since no man could dissolve him, he was cut.)

Whom all the vaste frame of the fixed Earth
Shrunck under; now, a weake Herse stands beneath;
His Fate, he past in fact; in hope, his Birth;
His youth, in good life; and in spirit, his death.

Blest be his great Begetter; blest the Wombe
That gave him birth, though much too neare his Tombe
In them was hee, and they in him were blest:
What their most great powers gave him, was his least.
His Person grac't the Earth; and of the Skies,
His blessed Spirit, the praise is, and the prise.

[sigs B-F2v]