Non fert ullum ictum illæsa fælicitas.
He who hath never warr'd with misery,
Nor ever tugg'd with Fortune, and distress,
Hath had no occasion nor no field to try
The strength and forces of his worthiness:
Those parts of judgment which felicity
Keeps as conceal'd, affliction must express;
And only men shew their abilities,
And what they are, in their extremities.
The world had never taken so full note
Of what thou art, hadst thou not been undone,
And only thy affliction hath begot
More fame than thy best fortunes could have done.
For ever by adversity are wrought
The greatest works of admiration,
And all the fair examples of renown
Out of distress and misery are grown.
Mutius the fire, the tortures Regulus,
Did make the miracles of faith and zeal:
Exile renown'd and grac'd Rutilius:
Imprisonment and poison did reveal
The worth of Socrates: Fabricius'
Poverty did grace that common-wealth
More than all Syllaes riches got with strife;
And Catoes death^{6 note} did vie with Cæsar's life.
Not to be unhappy is unhappiness,
And misery not to have known misery:
For the best way unto discretion is
The way that leads us by adversity:
And men are better shew'd what is amiss,
By the expert finger of calamity,
Than they can be with all that fortune brings,
Who never shews them the true face of things.
How could we know that thou could'st have endur'd
With a reposed cheer, wrong and disgrace,
And with a heart and countenance assur'd
Have look'd stern death and horrour in the face?

How should we know thy soul had been secur'd
In honest counsels, and in ways unbase,
Hadst thou not stood to show us what thou wert,
By thy affliction that descry'd thy heart?
It is not but the tempest that doth shew
The sea-man's cunning: but the field that tries
The captain's courage: and we come to know
Best what men are, in their worst jeopardies:
For lo, how many have we seen to grow
To high renown from lowest miseries,
Out of the hands of death; and many a one
To have been undone, had they not been undone!
He that endures for what his conscience knows
Not to be ill, doth from a patience high
Look only on the cause whereto he owes
Those sufferings, not on his misery:
The more he endures, the more his glory grows,
Which never grows from imbecillity:
Only the best compos'd and worthiest hearts
God sets to act the hardest and constant'st parts.
When now the life of great Southampton ends,
His fainting servants and astonish'd friends
Stand like so many weeping marble stones,
No passage left to utter sighs, or groans:
And must I first dissolve the bonds of grief,
And strain forth words, to give the rest relief?
I will be bold my trembling voice to try,
That his dear name may not in silence die.
The world must pardon, if my song be weak;
In such a case it is enough to speak.
My verses are not for the present age;
For what man lives, or breathes on England's stage,
That knew not brave Southampton, in whose sight
Most place their day, and in his absence night?
I strive, that unborn children may conceive,
Of what a jewel angry fates bereave
This mournful kingdom; and, when heavy woes
Oppress their hearts, think ours as great as those.
In what estate shall I him first express?
In youth, or age, in oy, or in distress?

When he was young, no ornament of youth
Was wanting in him, acting that in truth
Which Cyrus did in shadow; and to men
Appear'd like Peleus' son from Chiron's den:
While through this island Fame his praise reports,
As best in martial deeds, and courtly sports.
When riper age with winged feet repairs,
Grave care adorns his head with silver hairs;
His valiant fervour was not then decay'd,
But join'd with counsel, as a further aid.
Behold his constant and undaunted eye,
In greatest danger, when condemn'd to die!
He scorns the insulting adversary's breath,
And will admit no fear, though near to death.
But when our gracious sovereign had regain'd
This light, with clouds obscur'd, in walls detain'd;
And by his favour plac'd this star on high,
Fix'd in the Garter, England's azure sky;
He pride (which dimms such change) as much did hate,
As base dejection in his former state.
When he was call'd to sit, by Jove's command,
Among the demigods that rule this land,
No power, no strong persuasion, could him draw
From that, which he conceiv'd as right and law.
When shall we in this realm a father find
So truly sweet, or husband half so kind?
Thus he enjoy'd the best contents of life,
Obedient children, and a loving wife.
These were his parts in peace; but O, how far
This noble soul excell'd itself in war!
He was directed by a natural vein,
True honour by this painful way to gain.
Let Ireland witness, where he first appears,
And to the fight his warlike ensigns bears.
And thou, O Belgia, wert in hope to see
The trophies of his conquests wrought in thee;
But Death, who durst not meet him in the field,
In private by close treachery made him yield.—
I keep that glory last, which is the best;
The love of learning, which he oft exprest
By conversation, and respect to those
Who had a name in arts, in verse or prose.
Shall ever I forget, with what delight,
He on my simple lines would cast his sight?
His only memory my poor work adorns,
He is a father to my crown of thorns.
Now since his death how can I ever look,
Without some tears, upon that orphan book?

Ye sacred Muses, if ye will admit
My name into the roll which ye have writ
Of all your servants, to my thoughts display
Some rich conceit, some unfrequented way,
Which may hereafter to the world commend
A picture fit for this my noble friend:
For this is nothing, all these rhimes I scorn;
Let pens be broken, and the paper torn;
And with his last breath let my musick cease,
Unless my lowly poem could increase
In true description of immortal things;
And, rais'd above the earth with nimble wings,
Fly like an eagle from his funeral fire,
Admir'd by all, as all did him admire. The Teares of the Isle of Wight, shed on the Tombe of their most Noble, valorous, and louing Captaine and Gouernour, the right Honourable Henrie, Earle of Southampton: who dyed in the Netherlands, Nouemb. &frac1020; at Bergen-vp-Zone. As also the true Image of his Person and Vertues, Iames; the Lord Wriothesley, Knight of the Bath, and Baron of Titchfield; who dyed Nouemb. &frac515; at Rosendaell. And were both buried in the Sepulcher of their Fathers, at Tichfield, on Innocents day, 1624.

To the Right Honovrable, Thomas, Earle of Sovthampton; All Peace and Happinesse.

My very Honourable good Lord:

It hath pleased God to make your Lordship Heire vnto your most Noble Father, and therefore I thinke you haue most right to these Teares, which were shed for him, and your renowned Elder Brother. If I did not know by mine own obseruasion, that your Lordship was a diligent Obseruer of all your Fathers Vertues (touching which also, you haue a daily Remembrancer) I would exhort you to behold the shadow of them

delienated here, by those which much admired him liuing, and shall neuer cease to honour his Memory, and loue those that doe any Honour vnto him. The Lord increase the Honour of your House, and reioyce ouer you to doe you good, vntill hee haue Crowned you with Immortalitie.

Your Lordships at command,
W. Iones.

Mors vltima, linea rerum.
Quis est homo qui viuet & non videbit mortem. Ps.
Yee famous Poets of this Southerne Islle,
Straine forth the raptures of your Tragick Muse;
And with your Laurea't Pens come and compile,
The praises due to this Great Lord: peruse
  His Globe of Worth, and eke his Vertues braue,
  Like learned Maroes at Mecenas graue.
Valour and Wisdome were in thee confin'd;
The Gemini of thy perfection,
And all the Graces were in thee combin'd,
The rich mans ioy and poores refection,
  Therefore the King of Kings doth thee imbrace,
  For aye to dwell in iust Astræas place.
Nought is Immortall vnderneath the Sun,
Wee all are subiect to Deaths restlesse date,
Wee end our liues before they are begun,
And mark't in the Eternall Booke of Fate.
  But for thy Selfe, and Heire one thred was spun
  And cut: like Talbots and his valiant Sonne.
Planet of Honour rest, Diuinely sleepe
Secure from iealousie and worldly feares,
Thy Soule Iehovah will it safely keepe:
I, at thy Vrne will drop sad Funerall Teares.
  Thou A'leluiah's vnto God alone,
  And to the Lambe that sits amidst his Throne.

I can no more in this lugubrious Verse:
Reader depart, and looke on Sidneys Herse. Fra. Beale, Esq.

Henry Sovthampton,
  Anagram;
The Stampe in Honour.

'Twas neere a fortnight, that no sun did smile
Vpon this cloudy Orbe; and all that while
The Heau'ns wept by fits, as their pale feares
Presented to them matters for their teares:
And all the winds at once such gusts forth sent
Of deep-fetch't sighs, as filled where they went,
The shoares with wracks; as if they mean't the state
Of all the world, should suffer with that fate.

We of the lower sort, loath that our wings
By proudly soaring into Gods or Kings
Reserv'd designments, should be iustly sear'd,
Fearing to search, stay'd till the cause appear'd.
Yet simply thought that Nature had mistaken
Her courses, so, that all her ground were shaken,
And her whole frame disioynted; wherewithall
Wee look't eich houre the stagg'ring world should fall.
Til by a rumour from beyond-sea flying,
Wee found the cause: Sovthampton lay a dying.

O had we found it sooner, e're the thred
Of his desired life had quite beene shred!
Or that pure soule, of all good men belou'd
Had left her rich-built lodge to be remou'd,
Yet to a richer Mansion! We had then
Preuented this great losse. Our pray'rs amain
Had flow'n to Heau'n, and with impetu'ous strife,
And such vnited strength, su'ed for his life,
As should haue forc't th' allmighties free consent.
Not that we enuie, or shall e're repent
His flight to rest; but wishing he had stood,
Both for our owne, and for our countries good,
T' haue clos'd our eyes; (who onely now suruiue,
To waile his losse; and wish we so may thriue,
As we lament it truely.) That a race
Of men vnborne, that had not seene his face,
Nor know'n his vertues, might without a verse,
Or with lesse anguish, haue bedew'd his herse,
But he was gone ere any bruit did grow,
And so we wounded, ere we saw the blow.

Thou long tongu'd Fame that blabbest all thou know'st
But send'st ill newes to fly, where ere thou goe'st,
Like dust in March, what mischiefe did thee guide,
This worst of ills, so long from vs to hide?
That, whilst we dream'd all well, and nothing thought,
But of his honourable battails fought,
And braue atchieuements, by his doing hand,
O're any newes could come to countermand
Our swelling hopes, the first report was spread,
Should stricke vs through, at once: Southamptons dead.

Had it com'n stealing on vs and by slow
Insensible degree's, ben taught to goe,
As his disease on him, 't had so prepar'd
Our hearts, against the wors that could be dar'd,
That, in the vpshott, our misgiuing feares
Would haue fore-stall'd, or quallified our teares.
But thus to wound vs! O distastrous luck!
Struck dead, before we knew that we were struck.

Whence 'tis; that we so long a loofe did hover,
Nor could our witts, and senses soone recover,
T' expresse our griefe, whilst others vainely stroue
In time t' outstripp vs, who could not in loue.
“Light cares will quickly speake; but great ones, craz'd
“With their misfortunes, stand a while amaz'd.

Even my selfe, who with the first assay'd
To lanch out into this deepe, was so dismay'd,
That sighs blew back my Barke, and sorrows tyde
Draue her against her course, and split her side
So desp'rately vppon a rocke of feares,
That downe she sunke, and perish't in my teares;
Nor durst I seeke to putt to Sea againe,
Till tyme had won on griefe, and scour'd the Maine.

Ev'n yet, me thinks, my numbers doe not flow,
As they were wont; I find them lame, and slow.
My buisie sighs breake off eich tender linke,
And eyes let fall more teares, than Pen doth inke.

O how I wish, I might not writt at all,
Not that I doe repine, or ever shall,
To make Sovthamptons high priz'd vertues glory.
The eternall subiect of my well-tun'd storie;
But loath to make his exequies and herse
The argument of my afflicted verse.
Me thinks, it never should be writt, nor read,
Nor ought I tell the world, Sovthampton's dead.

A man aboue all prayse: the richest soile
Of witt, or art, is but his lusters foile,
Fall's short of what he was, and seru's alone,
To set forth, as it can, so rich a stone,

Which in it selfe is richer; of more worth,
Than any witt, or art, can blazon forth.
In peace, in warr, in th' country, in the Court,
In favour in disgrace, earnest and sport,
In all assayes, the blanke of ev'rie Pen,
The Stampe In Honovr, and delight of men.
Should enuie be allow'ed rather than speake,
What she must needes of him, her heart would breake.
Religion, wisedome, valour, courtesse,
Temperance, Iustice, Affabilitie,
And what the Schoole of vertues ever taught,
And meere humanitie hath ever raught,
Were all in him; so couch't so dulie plac't,
And with such liberall endowments grac't,
In such a perfect mixture, and so free
From selfe-conceiptednesse, or levitie,
As if He onely were their proper Spheare,
And They but liu'd, to haue their motion there.
“Such greatnesse with such goodnes seldome stood;
“Seldome is found a man, so great, so good.”
Nor doe I fall vpon his worth, so much
To blazon it, as to giue the world a tuch
Of what by his sadd fall, it selfe hath lost.
“Great benefitts are know'en, and valu'd most
“By their great wants. We neuer knew to prize
Southampton right, vntil Southampton dy'es.

Yet had he dy'd alone, some ease 't had beene,
His reall liuing Image to haue seene.
In his ripe Sonne, grow'n to the pitch of Man,
And who, in his short course, so swiftly ran,
That he outwent his Elders, and ere long
Was old in Vertue, though in yeeres but young;
“Put on his Gowne betime, and in his Downe
Put on his Armes, to beautifie his Gowne.
But ô, sad Fate! Prepost'rous Death would haue
Him too, because so ready for the graue.
The Father was his ayme; yet being loth
To leaue the Sonne, now seene, he would haue both,
And like a Marshall, or a Herald rather,
Surpriz'd the Sonne to vsher vp the Father.

O that I could suppose my selfe to bee
True Poet, rap't into an extasie!
And speaking out of a redundant braine,
Not what is simplie true, but what I faine,
That I might thinke the storie I impart
But some sad fiction of that coyning art!
How pleasing would th' adult'rate error bee?
How sweete th' imposture of my Poesie?

What euer true esteeme my life hath gain'd,
I would haue false, that this were also fain'd.
But Griefe will not so leaue the hould it had,
But still assures me, 'tis as true, as sad.

You bonds of Honour, by th' allmighties hand,
Seal'd, and deliuer'd, to this noble Land,
To saue her harme sse from her debt to fate;
How is't, that you so soone are out of date?
You promis'd more, at your departure hence,
Than to returne with your deere liues expence
Defac't, and cancell'd. You most glorious starres,
Great ornaments both of our Peace and Warres,
Than which, there moues not, in Great Britains spheare,
Sauing the Mouers selfe, and his Great heire,
A brighter couple; When you left our shore
In such great lustre, you assur'd vs more,
Than to returne extinct. O vaine reliefe!
To fill that state with ioy, your owne with griefe.
You were not with Dutch ioy receiued their,
As now, with sorrow, you are landed here

O' if the period of your liues were come,
Why stay'd you not to yeeld them vp at home?
Where, the good Lady, Wife, and Mother both,
For right-diuided love, and true-plight troth,
And all the graces, that that sex hath won,
Worthy of such a Husband, such a Sonne,
With deere imbracings might haue clipt your death,
And from your lips, haue suck't your yeelding breath,
And kneeling by your beds, haue stretch't your thighes,
And with her tender fingers clos'd your eyes.
Where manie Oliue branches, of ripe growth,
Might by their teares haue testifi'd how loath
They were to part, either from slip, or stock,
And many Noble friends, whose high minds mock
The frowns of stars, might with endeered spirits
Haue render'd you, the tribute of your merits.

Why rather went you to a strange dull clyme,
Rich only in such trophies of the time,
In such post hast, there to resigne them, where
The foggie aire is clog'd with fumes of beere,
Amongst a people, that profainely thinke,
They were borne but to liue, and liue to drinke,
A stupid people, whose indocil hearts
Could neuer learne to value your greate parts,
As much vnworthy of you, as vnable
To iudge of worth, the very scum and rable
Of baptiz'd reason? O why went you hying
To giue to them the honour of your dying?

Yet with this pointe of greife, some comfort striu'es:
They onely knew your deaths, but we your liues.

Or if you needes must to the state be sent,
Why did you not returne the same you went?
The whole went hence: the better parts we lack;
And but the courser parts alone come back,
And scarcely parts; since in a state farre worse:
We sent Sovthmapton, but receiue a corse.

Alas; what haue Great Henries merited,
That they by death should thus be summoned?
Henrie the great of France; and Henrie then
Of Wales the greater, Cynosure of men;
And now Sovthamptons Henrie, great in fame,
But greater farre in goodnes, than in name?

Had he but left his like, nor higher stil'd,
More blamelesse death had beene, my selfe more mild
But since their liues scarce one, to make a doubt,
Traduce me, Enuie, I must needes flye out.

Imprudent state of ours, that did not scan
Rightly, what 'twas to hazard such a man,
To saue ten thousand Holands, or of him
For Europes selfe, to venture but a lim!
“The building is more subiect to decay,
“When such a piller is remou'd away.”

But, ô I erre: Deere Countrey, I confesse,
Griefe, and distraction make me thus transgresse
All rules of Reason: Your designes are good.
O pardon me. And yet he might haue stood,
Pardon againe. Alas I doe not know
In his distraction, how my verses flow,
But whilst I am my selfe, if euer thought
But tempt my heart, or tongue but whisper, ought
Gainst your dread hests, may my bold tongue with wonder.
Rot as it lyes, and hart-strings crack asunder.

But thou accursed Netherland, the stage
And common theater of bloud and rage,
On thee Ile vent my vncontrouled spleene,
And stabbe thee to the heart, with my sharpe teene.
Thou whose cold pastures cannot be made good,
But with continuall shour's of reeking blood;
Nor fields be brought to yeald increase agen,
But with the seeds of carcasses of men.
Whose state, much worse than vs'rers, onely thriues
By th' large expence and forfeitures of liues;
Yet bankcrupt-like, who daylie for thy store
Without regard of payment, borrow'st more.
Wherein in threescore years, more men of worth
Haue perish't, than th' whole countrey hath brought forth

Since the Creation; and of lower sorte
More haue beene forc't to trauile through the porte
Of ghastlie death, vnto the common womb
Than well that lirtle bottome can entombe;
How art thou worthy, that to saue thy harmes,
Or worke them, this new world should rise in armes,
And bandy factions? That for thy dear sake,
Kingdomes should ioyne, and Countries parties take?

Curst be thy Cheese and Butter; (All the good
That e're the world receiv'd for so much blood)
May maggots breed in them, vntill they flie
Away in swarms; May all thy Kine goe dry
Or cast their Calues; and when to Bull they gad,
May they grow wilde, and all thy Bulls run mad.

Better that all thy Salt and fenny marishes
Had quite bin sunke, (as some whole-peopled parishes
Already are; whose towers peere o'er the flood,
To tell the wandring Sea-man where they stood.)
Than that these Worthies only, should haue crost
The straights of death, by sayling to that coast.
Whose losse not all that State can recompence:
Nay; should their worths be ballanc't, not th' expence
Of Spaines vast Throne, losse of the Monarchs selfe
And all his subiects, and the glorious pelfe
Of both the Indies, whence his trifles come,
Nor of th' triformed Gerion of Rome,
With all his boystrous Red-caps, and the store
Of diuers-colour'd shauelings, that adore
That strange Chimera, with the lauish rent
That feed's them all, were halfe sufficient.

You Leiden-Doctors, how were you mistooke?
How did your iudgement step besides the booke?
Where was your Art? that could not find the way
To cure two such, in whose know'n valour lay
Your Countries weale. For whom you should haue show'n
The vtmost of that Art, that e're was know'n
Or practiz'd, amongst artists; and haue stroue
T' haue turn'd the course of Nature, and t' haue droue
Things to their pristin state, reducing Men
Meerly to Elements, and thence agen
Moulding them vp anew, preseruing life
In spight of death, and sharpe diseases strife.

Dull leaden Doctors: (Leiden is too good,
For you, poore men, that neuer vnderstood
More wayes of Physicke, than to giue a drench
To cure the big-swolne Dutch, or wasted French.)
Pardon you neighbour Nations: what I had
Or reason's yours; but griefe hath made me mad.

How durst you to such men such boldnesse show,
As t' practise with these parts you did not know?
Or meddle with those veines, that none should strike
But those, that had beene practiz'd in the like?
Alas! you knew not how their bodies stood;
Their veines abounded with a Nobler blood,
Of a farre purer dye, and far more rife
With actiue spirits, of a nimbler life,
Than e're before, you practiz'd on. May all
The sicknesses that on our nature fall,
And vex rebellious man for his foule sin,
Seize on you all throughout, without, within,
For this presumptuous deed, and want of skill;
And may such potions as haue pow'r to kill,
Be all your physicke; yet, corrected, striue
To weare you out, and keepe you long aliue.

But, O, mee think's I raue? 'Tis time to end,
When, 'gainst the rules I loue, I so offend.
Pardon, you learned Artists: well I know
Your skill is great, and you not spar'd to show
The vtmost of it. Yet when all's assay'd,
The debt to God and nature must be pay'd.

You precious Vrns, that hold that Noble dust,
Keepe safe the wealth, committed to your trust.
And you, deare Reliques of that ample worth,
That whilom through your creuices shin'd forth,
That now haue put off Man, and sweely lye;
T' expect your Crowne of Immortality;
Rest there repos'd, vntouch't, and free from care,
Till you shall meet your soules, with them to share
In that rich glory, wherein now they shine,
Disdaining all, that's not like them; Diuine.
  Where I assur'd, againe, to see, and greete you,
  Resolue to weepe, till I goe out to meet you.
Ita non cecinit; at verè, piissimeq. flevit.
Ille dolet verè, qui sine teste dolet.

TO THE READER.

Reader, beleeue me, 'tis not Gaine, nor Fame
That makes me put in my neglected Name;

Mong'st learned Mourners that in Sable Verse,
Doe their last Honour to this dolefull Herse.

Nor did these Lords, by liuing bountie, tie
To Them, and to their Heires my Poetry:
For, to speake plainly, though I am but poore;
Yet neuer came I knocking to their doore:
Nor euer durst my low obscuritie,
Once creepe into the luster of their die.

Yet since I am a Christian, and suppose
My selfe obliged, both with Verse and Prose;
Both with my Pencills, and my Pens best Art;
With eye, tongue, heart, and hand, and euery part
In each right Noble well-deseruing Spirit,
To honour Vertue, and commend true merit.
Since first I breath'd and liu'd within the Shire,
That giues a Title to this honoured Peere;
Since twelue long Winters I, my little Flock
Fed in that Isle that (wal'd with many a rock;
And circled with the Maine) against her shore,
Hear's the proud Ocean euery day to rore;
And sitting there in sun-shine of his Glory
Saw his fair Vertues, read his lifes true Story.

Who see's not, I haue reason to make one,
In this Isle's, Churches, Countries common mone?
Or thinks that in this losse I haue no part,
When the whole Kingdome seems to feele the smart?

Let him that list his griefs in silence mutter,
I cannot hold; my plaints I needs must vtter:
I must lament, and sigh, and write, and speake,
Lest while I hold my tongue, my hearte should breake. W. Pettie.
  The changing World, and the Eternall Word;
Nature, Art, Custome, Creatures all accord
To proue (if any doubted) that we must
(Since All haue sin'd) all die and turne to dust.
  But (deare Sovthampton) since deserued praise
Came thronging on Thee faster then thy dayes;
Since thy Immortall Vertues then were seene
(When thy graue head was gray) to be most greene;
Wee fooles began to hope that thy lifes date,
Was not confined to our common fate.

But that thou still should'st keep the worlds faire Stage,
Acting all parts of goodnesse: that Each Age
Succeeding ours, might in thy action see,
What Vertue, (in them dead) did liue in Thee.
Bvt oh vaine thoughts, though late, we find alas;
The fairest flowers that th' earth brings forth are grass:
Wealth, Honor, Wisdome, Grace, nor Greatnesse can
Adde one short moment to the life of Man.
Time will not stay: and the proud King of feares;
Not mov'd by any Presents, Prayers or teares;
Doth trample downe fraile flesh, and from the wombe
Leads vs away close prisoners to the tombe.
And you braue Lords, the glorie of your Peeres,
More laden with your Honors then your yeeres;
Deare to Your Soueraigne, faithfull to the State;
Friends to Religion, ill men's feare and hate:
Death, as his Captiues, here hath laid full lowe,
And left your friends long legacies of woe.
Griefe to your Country, to your house sad losses,
T' our Armies dread, to our designements crosses.
Tell me (yee liuing wights) what marble heart,
Weying our wants, doth not with sorrow smart
To see those glorious Starres that shin'd so cleere,
In our disconsolate darke Hemisphere:
To see these Pillars, whose firme Basies prop't
Our feeble State; the Cedars that oretop't
The ayrie clouds, yeelding to Birds a Neast,
Shadow and shelter to the wearied Beast:
Now by Death's bloudie hand, cut downe, defaced,
Their Light ecclipsed, and their height abased?
  Yet boast not (cruell Tyrant) of thy spoyle,
Since with thy conquest thou hast won the foile;
For they (O happy Soules) diuinely armed
Could not (though hit) bee with thine arrowes harmed.
  Thus robbed, not of Beeing, but of Breath,
Secure they triumph ouer stinglesse Death;
And while their pure immortall part inherits
The heauenly blisse, with glorified Spirits;

Their dust doth sleepe in hope, and their good name
Liue's in th' eternall Chronicles of fame.
  Holland: t'is knowne that you vnto our Nation
Haue long bin linc'kt in friendlie Combination;
T'is knowne, that we to you haue daily, duly,
All offices of loue performed truely.
  You still haue had protection from our Forts,
Trade to our Townes, and harbour in our Ports;
When big-swolne Spaine you threatend to deuour,
We to your weaker ioyn'd our stronger power.
And our old souldiers willingly, vnprest,
Ran to your wars as fast as to some feast:
We man'd your Cities, and instead of stones,
Helpt you to build your Bulwarks with our bones.
Nor had your Castles now vnbattered stood,
Had not your slime ben tempered with our blood.
  All this we did, and more are still content,
With men, munition, mony to preuent
Your future ruine; Hence with warie speede
Our state sent ouer to your latest neede.
Ten Noble heads, and twice ten thousand hands,
All prest to execute their wise commands:
Mongst them our good Southampton, and his joy,
Deare Iames in hart a man, in age a boy.
  But oh your fatall fields, vnhappie soile,
Accurst Acheldama, foule den of spoile,
Deaths Hospitall, like Hell the place of woe,
Admit all commers, but nere let them goe;
  Churl's to your aide, we sent strong liuing forces,
And you in lieu returne vs liueless corses.
  Ah Noble Lords: went you so farre to haue
  Your Death, and yet come home to seeke a graue?
  Bright starre of Honour, what celestiall fires
Inflame thy youthful bloud; that thy desires
Mount vp so fast to Glories highest Spheres,
So farre beyond thine equalls and thy yeares?
  Whil'st others Noblie borne, ignoblie staine
Their bloud and youth with manners base and vaine,
Thou to thy Fathers holie lessons lending
Thine eare; and to his liue's faire patterne bending
Thy steps; did'st daily learne for sport or need
Nimblie to mount and man thy barbed steed;

Fairelie thy serious thoughts to write or speake,
Stoutlie vpon thy foe, thy lance to breake.
It did not with thine actiue spirit suite
To wast thy time in fingring of a Lute,
Or sing mongs't Cupids spirits a puling Dittie
To moue some femall saint to loue or pittie.
T'was Musick to thine eare in ranged batle
To heare sad Drums to grone, harsh Trumpets ritle:
Or see, when clouds of bloud do rent in sunder,
The pouders lightning, and the Canons thunder.
  And when thou might'st at home haue liued free
From cares and feares in soft securitie,
Thou scorning such dishonorable ease,
To all the hazards both of land and sea's,
Against Religions and thy Countries foes,
Franklie thy selfe and safetie did'd expose.
  O Sacred virtue thy mild modest glances,
Rais'd in his tender heart, these amorous trances,
For thy deare loue so dearely did he weane
His youth from pleasures, and from lusts vncleane:
And so in thy straight narrow paths still treading,
He found the way to endlesse glorie leading.
  But soft (sad Muse) tis now no fitting taske,
The prayses of his well spent Youth t'vnmaske,
To sing his pious cares, his studious night's,
His thriftie daies, his innocent delights,
Or tell what store of vsefull obseruations
He gain'd at home and 'mongst the neighbring Nations.
  Leaue we this virgin theame vntouch't, vntainted,
Till some more happie hand so liuely paint it,
That all Posteritie may see, and read,
His liuing virtues when hee's cold and dead.
  (Sweet Youth) what made thee hide thine amorous face,
And cheekes scarce downie in a steelie case,
And like yong Cupid vnder Mars his sheild,
Mongst men of armes to braue it in the field?
  Thought'st thou (o fondling) cruell death would pitty
The faire, the yong, the noble, wise and witty,
More then the foule and foolish, base and old?
Oh no: the tirant bloudy, blind and bold,
All the wide world in single combate dareth,
  And no condition, sex or age he spareth.

  Yet some supposed since in open fight
Thou had'st so often scap'd his murdering might,
That sure he fear'd to throw his fatall dart
Against thine innocent faith-armed heart:
  Yet sooth to say; twas thy sweet louely youth
That so often mou'd flint-harted Death to ruth.
Though now intangled in thy locks of amber
The inamour'd monster dogs thee to thy chamber,
  And there (alas) to end the mortall strife,
He rauish thee of beautie and of life.
  Nature, although we learne in Graces schoole,
That children must not call their mother foole.
Yet when wee see thee lauishly to burne,
Two or three lights when one would serue the turne.
When we perceiue thee through affection blind,
Cocker the wicked, to the good vnkind.
Ready the stinking rankest Weeds to cherish,
When Lillies, Violets, and sweet Roses perish:
  Wee cannot chuse but tell thee 'tis our thought,
  That age or weaknesse (Nature) makes thee dote.
  Vaine men, how dare yee, in your thoughts vnholy;
Mee, (nay your Maker) to accuse of folly?
And all impatient with your plaints importune
Heav'n, Earth, and Hell, Death, Destiny, and Fortune?
  When 'tis not these poore Instruments that cause
Your Crosses: but the neuer changing Lawes
Of your Almightie, mercifull Creator;
Who sitting supreme Iudge and Moderator
Of mens affaires: doth gouerne and dispence
All, by his All-disposing Prouidence;
  And equally his glorious ends aduances
By good or bad, happy or haplesse chances.
  Great and good Lady, though wee know full well,
What tides of griefe in your sad brest doe swell:
Nor can in this our simple mourning Verse,
The thousand'th part of your deepe cares reherse.

  Yet as the lesser rivulets and fountaines,
Run hastning from the Fields, the Meads, & Mountaines,
Their siluer streames into the Sea to poure,
So flow our tributary teares to your;
  That from the boundlesse Ocean of your sorrow
  Our eyes new springs, our harts new griefs may borrow.
Could we as easily comfort, as complaine;
Then haply this our charitable paine,
Might merit from your grieued heart some thanks;
But oh, our griefs so swell aboue the banks
Of shallow cnstome, and the feeble fences
That are oppos'd by Reason, Art, or Senses;
That if Religion rul'd not our affections,
And pacifi'd our passions insurrections;
We should in mourning misse, both meane and scope,
And sorrow (Pagan-like) sans Faith or Hope.
  Madam, though we but aggrauate your Crosses,
Thus sadly to repeat your former losses:
Whil'st you sit comfortlesse, as all vndone,
Mourning to lack an Husband and a Sonne.
  Yet may it giue your grieued heart some ease,
To saile with company in sorrow's Seas:
To thinke in them you are not tost alone,
But haue the Kingdome partner in your mone:
To thinke that those for whom you weep, are blest,
Lodg'd in the heauenly harbour, where they rest
Secure, nere more to grieue, to want, to feare,
To sin, to Die, or to let fall a teare.
  So though heauens high Decree haue late bereft you
Of two at once, yet hath his bountie left you
Many faire daughters, and a sonne t' inherit
Your Loue, our Honour, and his Fathers Spirit. W. P.
Great Lord; thy losse though I surcease to mourne,
Sith Heanen hath found Thee: yet I'le take my turne
To wait vpon thy Obsequies a while,
And traile my pen, with others of my File:
And tell thy worth; th' effects whereof wee felt,
That in the lists of thy command haue dwelt.

Religions Champion, Guardian of that Isle;
Which is the Goshen of Great Brittains soyle:
How good, how great example dy'd in thee,
When th' Heire of both, preuents thy destiny?
And scarce a pattern's left for those behind
To view in one so Great so good a mind.
Thou Man of Men, how little doth thy Name
Need any Muses praise, to giue it Fame:
Whose liu'ry gayn'd by merit, thou hast worne,
And beg'd or bought esteeme didst hold in scorne:
But wast in darkest lustre, chillingst cold
A perfect Dimond, though not set in gold;
And whether thy regard were good or ill,
Did'st (constant) carry one set posture still.
Needs must the world grow base, and poore at last,
That Honours stock so carelessly doth wast,
How prodigall is shee, that would send forth
At once Two Noble Persons of such worth,
As great Southampton, and his Martiall Heyre?
When scarce one Age yeelds such another payre.
Combin'd in resolution, as infate,
To sacrifice their liues for good of State:
How forward was his youth, how far from feares
As greate in hope, as hee was young in yeeres.
How apt and able in each warlike deed
To charge his foe, to mannage fiery steed?
Yet these but Essays were of what was hee,
Wee but the twilight of his spirit did see.
What had his Autumne bin? wee yet did spy
Only the blossom of his Chieualry.
Death enuious of his actions, hastned Fate
Atchieuements glory to anticipate.
In both whose periods, this I truly story
The earth's best essence is but transitory.
You valiant hearts, that grudged not your blood
To spend for Honour, Country, Altars good:
Your high attempt, your Noble House doe crowne
That chose to dye in Bed of Fame; not Downe.
Liue still admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd; for why
Records of Vertue, will not let you die:
Your Actiue Soules in fleshly gyues restrain'd,
Haue Victory, and Palmes of triumph gain'd:
Your Belgick Feauer, doth your Being giue,
And Phœnix-like, you burne, and dye, and liue. Qui per virtutem peritat non interit. Ar. Price.

Henry Wriothesly Earle of Southampton,
Anagram:
Thy Honour is worth the praise of all Men.
Great Worthy, such is thy renowned Name,
Say what I can, it will make good the same.
On such a theme I would euen spend my quill,
If I had meanes according to my will:
And tho I want fine Poets Wit and Art,
I gladly streine the sinews of my heart:
And prostrate at the Tombe of these two Lords
My tongue, my pen, and what my Fate affords.

Henry Wriothesley Earle of Southampton.
Anagram:
Vertue is thy Honour; O the praise of all men!
  Some men not worth, but fauour doth aduance
Some vulgar breath, some riches doe inhance:
Not so the Noble Squire, of whom I treat,
Nought makes him honour'd, but Vertues great:
  Cardinall, Morall, Theologicall,
  Consider well and behold in him all.
Yet notwithstanding all his Vertues, hee
Lies now in dust and darknesse: Hereby see
How death can rent the hopes of worthy Squires,
And dash their proiects, and crosse their desires.
Yet shall not Death triumph in Vertues fall,
For this his Name is still esteem'd of all.
Death strooke his Body; onely that could die,
His Fame is fresh; his Spirit is gone on hie.

Iames Wriotesley, Baron of Tichfield,
Anagram;
Boyles in Field, to reach worthy's Fame.
  O Rare bright Sparke of ancient Chiualry,
In tender yeeres affecting warlike Glory!
O Noble Impe of that thrice Noble Sire,
What was it that thus kindled thy desire?

Surely 'twas thy presaging Spirit: For why!
Hauing small time thou would'st doe worthily.
Thou took'st thy flight, because in heauinesse
Would'st not see drown'd a world of Worthinesse.