Gave light to save them by the ruth of rocks

At the Bermudas; where the tearing shocks And all the miseries before, more felt Than here half told; all, all this did not melt

Those desperate few, still dying more in tears,

Than this death all men to the marrow

wears;

All that are men: the rest, those drudging beasts,

That only bear of men the coats and crests;

And for their slave, sick, that can earn them pence,

More mourn, O monsters, than for such a Prince;

Whose souls do ebb and flow still with their gain,

Whom nothing moves but pelf and their own pain;

Let such, great Heaven, be only born to bear

All that can follow this mere massacre.

Lost is our poor Prince; all his sad endurers ;

The busy art of those that should be

curers;

The sacred vows made by the zealous
King,

His godlike sire; his often visiting;
Nor thy grave prayers and presence, holy
Man,

This realm's thrice-reverend Metropolitan,*
That was the worthy Father to his soul,
Th' insulting Fever could one fit control.
Nor let me here forget one far and near,
And in his life's love passing deep and
dear;

That doth his sacred memory adore Virtue's true fautor, his grave Chancellor ;t Whose worth in all works should a place enjoy,

Where his fit Fame her trumpet shall employ ;

Whose cares and prayers were ever used to

ease

His feverous war, and send him healthful peace;

Yet sick our Prince is still; who though the steps

Of bitter Death he saw bring in by heaps

*The Archbishop of Canterbury, passing pious, in care of the Prince.

+ Sir Ed. Phillips, Master of the Rolls, and the Prince's Chancellor: a chief sorrower for him.

Clouds to his lustre and poor rest of light;

And felt his last day suffering lasting night;

His* true-bred brave soul shrunk yet at no part;

Down kept he all sighs, with his powers' all-heart;

Clear'd even his dying brows; and in an eye

Manly dissembling, hid his misery.
And all to spare the Royal heat so spent
In his sad Father, fearful of th' event.

And now didt Phoebus with his twelfth lamp show

The world his hapless light; and in his brow

A torch of pitch stuck, lighting half the skies,

When life's last error press'd the broken eyes

Of this heart-breaking Prince; his forced look fled;

Fled was all colour from his cheeks; yet fed

His spirit his sight; with dying now, he

But let the world be now a heap of death,

Life's joy lies dead in him, and challengeth
No less a reason. If all motion stood
Benumb'd and stupefied with his frozen
blood;

And like a tombstone, fix'd, lay all the seas;
There were fit pillars for our Hercules
To bound the world with. Men had bet-
ter die

Than outlive free times, slaves to policy. On, on, sad Train, as from a crannied rock

Bee-swarms robb'd of their honey ceaseless flock.

Mourn, mown; dissected now his cold limbs lie;

Ah, knit so late with flame and majesty! Where now his gracious smile, his spark

ling eye,

His judgment, valour, magnanimity? O God! what doth not one short hour snatch up

Of all man's gloss? Still overflows the cup Of his burst cares; put with no nerves together,

And lighter than the shadow of a feather. On make Earth pomp as frequent as ye

:

At foot of Death, and worship funeral, Form hath bestow'd; for form is nought too dear

Thy solid virtues yet, eternized here, My blood and wasted spirits have only found

Commanded cost, and broke so rich a ground,

Not to inter, but make thee ever spring,

will,

To all times future this time's mark extend,

thing,

Shall fade and vanish into fume before. What lasts thrives least; yet wealth of soul

is poor,

friend.

Ignotus nimis omnibus, Sat notus, moritur sibi

SING, sing a rapture to all nuptial ears, Bright Hymen's torches, drunk up Parcæ's

tears.

Sweet Hymen, Hymen, mightiest of Gods, Atoning of all-taming blood the odds; Two into one contracting; one to two Dilating, which no other God can do. Makest sure, with change, and lett'st the married try,

Of man and woman, the variety. And as a flower, half scorch'd with day's long heat.

Thirsts for refreshing, with night's cooling sweat,

The wings of Zephyr, fanning still her face,

No cheer can add to her heart thirsty grace;

* Prefixed to "A Woman is a Weather-cocke, A New Comedy, Written by Nat. Field. Lond., 1612." Field, as we learn from the Prologue to the posthumous edition, performed the part of the hero with great spirit in Chapman's Bussy

D'Ambois.-ED.

+ Printed at the end of Chapman's "Masque of the Middle Temple, 1613."

Yet wears she 'gainst those fires that make her fade,

Her thick hairs proof, all hid in midnight's shade,

Her health is all in dews; hope all in showers,

Whose want bewail'd, she pines in all her powers:

So love-scorch'd virgins, nourish quenchless fires;

The father's cares, the mother's kind desires,

Their gold, and garments of the newest guise,

Can nothing comfort their scorch'd fantasies,

But, taken ravish'd up, in Hymen's arms, His circle holds, for all their anguish, charms;

Then, as a glad graft, in the spring sun shines,

That all the helps of earth and heaven combines

In her sweet growth: puts in the morning on Her cheerful airs; the sun's rich fires, at

noon;

At even the sweet dews, and at night with stars,

In all their virtuous influences shares ; So, in the bridegroom's sweet embrace, the bride

All varied joys tastes, in their naked pride; To which the richest weeds are weeds to flowers;

Come Hymen, then; come, close these nuptial hours

With all years' comforts. Come; each virgin keeps

Her odorous kisses for thee. Golden sleeps

Will, in their humours, never steep an eye,

Till thou invitest them with thy harmony. Why stay'st thou? see each virgin doth

prepare

Embraces for thee; her white breasts lays bare

To tempt thy soft hand; lets such glances fly

As make stars shoot, to imitate her eye. Puts Art's attires on, that put Nature's down;

Sings, dances, sets on every foot a crown, Sighs in her songs and dances; kisseth air

Till rites, and words past, thou in deeds repair;

The whole court Iö sings: Io the air:
Iö, the floods, and fields: Iö most fair,
Most sweet, most happy Hymen; come:
away;

With all thy comforts come; old matrons

At all parts perfect; and must therefore lose,

No minute's time; from time's use all fruit flows;

And as the tender hyacinth, that grows Where Phoebus most his golden beams bestows,

Is propt with care; is water'd every hour, The sweet winds adding their increasing power,

The scatter'd drops of night's refreshing dew,

Hasting the full grace of his glorious hue, Which once disclosing, must be gather'd straight,

Or hue and odour both will lose their height;

So, of a virgin, high, and richly kept, The grace and sweetness full grown must he reap'd,

Or forth her spirits fly, in empty air ; The sooner fading, the more sweet and fair.

Gentle, gentle Hymen, be not then Cruel, that kindest art to maids, and men ; These two, one twin are; and their mutual

bliss

Not in thy beams, but in thy bosom is. Nor can their hands fast, their hearts' joys make sweet;

Their hearts, in breasts are; and their breasts must meet.

Let there be peace, yet murmur; and that noise

Beget of peace the nuptial battle's joys. Let peace grow cruel; and take wrack of all,

The war's delay brought thy full festival. Hark, hark, O now the sweet twin murmur sounds;

Hymen is come, and all his heat abounds; Shut all doors; none but Hymen's lights

advance.

VOL. II.

N