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And while upon that face I fed my sight, Methought she vanish'd up to Titan's light; Who gilding with his rays each hill and plain, Seem'd to have brought the golden world again.


TRIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of bays,
Sky-threat'ning arches, the rewards of worth,
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious lays,
Which men divine unto the world set forth:
States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise,
From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange,
Gigantic frames held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days.
Nothing is constant but in constant change,
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other fashion doth it range;

Thus goes the floating world beneath the Moon: Wherefore, my mind, above time, motion, place, Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.


Too long I followed have my fond desire,
And too long panted on the ocean streams,
Too long refreshment sought amidst the fire,
Pursu'd those joys which to my soul are blames.
Ah when I had what most I did admire,
And seen of life's delights the last extremes,
I found all but a rose hedg'd with a brier,
A nought, a thought, a masquerade of dreams.
Henceforth on thee, my only good, I'll think,
For only thou canst grant what I do crave:
Thy nail my pen shall be; thy blood mine ink;
Thy winding-sheet my paper; study, grave:
And till my soul forth of this body flee,
No hope I'll have, but only only thee.


To spread the azure canopy of Heaven, And spangle it all with sparks of burning gold. To place this ponderous globe of Earth so even, That it should all, and nought should it uphold; With motions strange, t' indue the planets seven, And Jove to make so mild, and Mars so bold; To temper what is moist, dry, hot, and cold, Of all their jars that sweet accords are given;Lord, to thy wisdom's nought, nought to thy might: But that thou should'st, thy glory laid aside, Come basely in mortality to bide, And die for those deserv'd an endless night: A wonder is so far above our wit, That angels stand amaz'd to think on it.


WHAT hapless hap had I for to be born
In these unhappy times, and dying days
Of this now doting world, when good decays,
Love's quite extinct, and virtue's held a scorn!

When such are only priz'd by wretched ways
Who with a golden fleece them can adorn!
When avarice and lust are counted praise,
And bravest minds live, orphan-like, forlorn!
Why was not I born in that golden age,
When gold yet was not known? and those black arts
By which base worldlings vilely play their parts,
With horrid acts staining Earth's stately stage?
To have been then, O Heaven! 't had been my bliss,
But bless me now, and take me soon from this.




THE goddess that in Amathus doth reign,
With silver trammels, and sapphire-colour'd eyes,
When naked from her mother's crystal plain,
She first appear'd unto the wond'ring skies:
Or when the golden apple to obtain,
Her blushing snow amazed Ida's trees,
Did never look in half so fair a guise,
As she here drawn all other ages stain.
O God what beauties to inflame the soul,
And hold the hardest hearts in chains of gold!
Fair locks, sweet face, Love's stately capitol,
Pure neck which doth that heavenly frame uphold,
If Virtue would to mortal eyes appear,

To ravish sense she would your beauty wear.


Ir Heaven, the stars, and Nature did her grace
With all perfections found the Moon above,
And what excelleth in this lower place,
Found place in her to breed a world of love:
If angels' gleams shine on her fairest face, [prove,
Which makes Heaven's joy, on Earth, the gazer
And her bright eyes (the orbs which beauty move)
As Phoebus dazzle in his glorious race.
What pencil paint, what colour to the sight
So sweet a shape can show? the blushing morn,
The red must lend, the milky way the white,
And night the stars which her rich crown adorn;
To draw her right then, and make all agree,
The Heaven the table, Zeuxis Jove must be.



WHEN with brave art the curious painter drew
This heavenly shape, the hand why made he bear
With golden veins that flow'r of purple hue,
Which follows on the planet of the year?
Was it to show how in our hemisphere,
Like him she shines, nay that effects more true
Of power, and wonder do in her appear,
While he but flow'rs, and she doth minds subdue.
Or would he else to virtue's glorious light
Her constant course make known, or is 't that he
Doth parallel her bliss with Clitia's plight:
Right so, and thus, he reading in her eye
Some lover's end, to grace what he did grave,
For Cypress tree, this mourning flow'r her gave.

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My thoughts hold mortal strife,

I do detest my life,

And with lamenting cries,

Peace to my soul to bring,

Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize: But he grim grinning king,

Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, Late having deckt with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.



LIKE a cold fatal sweat which ushers death,
My thoughts hang on me; and by labouring breath,
Stopt up with sighs, my fancy big with woes
Feels two twin mountains struggle in her throws,
Of boundless sorrow th' one, th' other of sin;
For less let no man call it, to begin
Where honour ends in great Gustavus' flame,
That still burnt out and wasted to a name,
Does barely live with us; and when the stuff
Which fed it fails, the taper turns to snuff:
With this poor snuff, this airy shadow, we
Of fame and honour must contented be,
Since from the vain grasp of our wishes fled
Their glorious substances, now he is dead.
Speak it again, and louder, louder yet,
Else whilst we hear the sound, we shall forget
What it delivers; let hoarse Rumour cry
Till she so many echoes multiply,

That may like numerous witnesses confute
Our unbelieving souls, that would dispute
And doubt this truth for ever, this one way
Is left our incredulity to sway,

T' awaken our deaf sense, and make our ears
As open and dilated as our tears;
That we may feel the blow, and feeling grieve
At what we would not fain, but must believe,
And in that horrid faith behold the world
From her proud height of expectation hurl'd;
Stooping with him, as if she strove to have
No lower centre now, than Sweden's grave.

O! could not all the purchas'd victories
Like to thy fame thy flesh immortalize?
Were not thy virtue nor thy valour charms
To guard thy body from those outward harms
Which could not reach thy soul? Could not thy spirit
Lend something which thy frailty could inherit,
From thy diviner part, that death nor heat,
Nor envy's bullets e'er could penetrate?
Could not thy early trophies in stern fight
Turn from the Pole, the Dane, the Muscovite?
Which were thy triumphs, seeds as pledges sown,
That, when thy honour's harvest was ripe grown,
With full plum'd wing thou faulcon-like could fly,
And cuff the eagle in the German sky,
Forcing his iron beak, and feathers feel
They were not proof 'gainst thy victorious steel.
Could not all these protect thee, or prevail
To fright that coward Death, who oft grew pale
To look thee and thy battles in the face?
Alas! they could not; Destiny gives place

To none: nor is it seen that princes' lives
Can saved be by their prerogatives:

No more was thine; who, clos'd in thy cold lead,
Dost from thyself a mournful lecture read
Of man's short-dated glory. Learn, you kings,
You are, like him, but penetrable things;
Though you from demi-gods derive your birth,
You are at best but honourable earth:
And howe'er sifted from that coarser bran
Which doth compound, and knead the common man,
Nothing immortal, or from earth refin'd
About you, but your office and your mind.
Hear then, break your false glasses, which present
You greater than your Maker ever meant.
Make truth your mirror now, since you find all
That flatter yon, confuted by his fall.

Yet since it was decreed thy life's bright sun
Must be eclips'd ere thy full course was run,
Be proud thou didst in thy black obsequies
With greater glory set than others rise:
For in thy death, as life, thou holdest one
Most just and regular proportion.
Look how the circles drawn by compass meet
Indivisibly, joined head to feet;

And by continued points which them unite
Grow at once circular, and infinite:
So did thy fate and honour both contend
To match thy brave beginning with thine end.
Therefore thou hadst, instead of passing-bells,
The drums and cannons' thunder for thy knells;
And in the field thou didst triumphing die,
Closing thy eyelids with a victory;

That so by thousands that there lost their breath,
King-like thou might'st be waited on in death.

Liv'd Plutarch now, and would of Cæsar tell,
He could make none but thee his parallel,
Whose tide of glory, swelling to the brim,
Needs borrow no addition from him:
When did great Julius in any clime
Achieve so much, and in so short a time?
Or if he did, yet shalt thou in that land
Single for him, and unexampled stand.
When o'er the Germans first his eagle tow`r'd,
What saw the legions which on them he pour'd,
But massy bodies made their swords to try,
Subjects, not for his fight, but slavery?
In that so vast expanded piece of ground
(Now Sweden's theatre and scorn) he found
Nothing worth Cæsar's valour, or his fear,
No conqu❜ring army, nor a Tilly there,
Whose strength, nor wiles, nor practice in the war
Might the fierce torrent of his triumphs bar;
But that thy winged sword twice made him yield,
Both from his trenches beat, and from the field.
Besides, the Roman thought he had done much,
Did he the banks of Rhenus only touch:

But though his march was bounded by the Rhine,
Not Oder nor the Danube thee confine.
And but thy frailty did thy fame prevent,
Thou hadst thy conquest stretch'd to such extent
Thou might'st Vienna reach, and after Spain;
From Mulda to the Baltic ocean.

But Death hath spann'd thee, nor must we divine What here thou hadst to finish thy design; Or who shall thee succeed as champion For liberty, and for religion.

Thy task is done as in a watch the spring, Wound to the height, relaxes with the string; So thy steel nerves of conquest, from their steep Ascent declin'd, lie slackt in thy last sleep.

Rest then, triumphant soul, for ever rest,
And, like the phenix in her spicy nest.
Embalm'd with thine own merit, upward fly,
Borne in a cloud of perfume to the sky;
Whilst, as in deathless urns, each noble mind
Treasures thine ashes which are left behind.
And if perhaps no Cassiopeian spark
(Which in the north did thy first rising mark)
Shine o'er thy hearse, the breath of our just praise
Shall to the firmament thy virtues raise;
There fix and kindle them into a star,
Whose influence may crown thy glorious war.




O HEAVENS! then is it true that thou art gone,
And left this woful isle her loss to moan;
Mæliades, bright day-star of the west,
A comet blazing terrour to the east ;
Aud neither that thy spirit so heavenly wise,
Nor body (though of earth) more pure than skies,
Nor royal stem, nor thy sweet tender age,
Of cruel destinies could quench the rage?
O fading hopes! O short-while lasting joy
Of earth-born man, that one hour can destroy!
Then even of Virtue's spoils Death trophies rears,
As if he gloried most in many tears.
Forc'd by hard fates, do Heavens neglect our cries?
Are stars set only to act tragedies?

Then let them do their worst, since thou art gone,
Raise whom thou list to thrones, enthron'd dethrone;
Stain princely bow'rs with blood, and even to Gange,
In cypress sad, glad Hymen's torches change.
Ah! thou hast left to live; and in the time
When scarce thou blossom'dst in thy pleasant prime:
So falls by northern blast a virgin rose,
At half that doth her bashful bosom close;
So a sweet flower Janguishing decays,
That late did blush when kiss'd by Phoebus' rays;
So Phoebus mounting the meridian's height,
Chok'd by pale Phoebe, faints unto our sight;
Astonish'd Nature sullen stands to see
The life of all this all so chang'd to be;

In gloomy gowns the stars this loss deplore,
The sea with murmuring mountains beats the shore,
Black darkness reels o'er all, in thousand show'rs
The weeping air on earth her sorrow pours,
That, in a palsy, quakes to see so soon
Her lover set, and night burst forth ere noon.

If Heaven, alas! ordain'd thee young to die,
Why was 't not where thou might'st thy valour try;
And to the wond'ring world at least set forth
Some little spark of thy expected worth?

The name which in these verses is given unto prince Henry, is that which he himself, in the challenges of his martial sports and masquerades, was wont to use; Maliades, prince of the isles, which in anagram maketh a word most worthy of such a knight as he was, a knight (if time had suffered his actions to answer the world's expectation,) only worthy of such a world, Miles à Deo.

Mæliades, O that by Ister's streams,

'Mong sounding trumpets, fiery twinkling gleams
Of warm vermilion swords, and cannons' roar,
Balls thick as rain pour'd on the Caspian shore,
'Mongst broken spears, 'mongst ringing helms and

Huge heaps of slaughter'd bodies 'long the fields,
In Turkish blood made red like Mars's star,
Thou endedst had thy life, and christian war;
Or as brave Bourbon, thou hadst made old Rome,
Queen of the world, thy triumph, and thy tomb!
So Heaven's fair face, to th' unborn world, which
A book had been of thy illustrious deeds: [reads,
So to their nephews, aged sires had told
The high exploits perform'd by thee of old;
Towns ras'd, and rais'd, victorious, vanquish'd bands,
Fierce tyrants flying, foil'd, kill'd by thy hands:
And in rich arras virgins fair had wrought
The bays and trophies to thy country brought:
While some new Homer, imping wings to fame,
Deaf Nilus' dwellers had made hear thy name.
That thou didst not attain these honour's spheres,
Through want of worth it was not, but of years.
A youth more brave, pale Troy with trembling walls
Did never see, nor she whose name appals
Both Titan's golden bow'rs, in bloody fights,
Must'ring on Mars his field, such Mars-like knights.
The Heavens had brought thee to the highest height
Of wit and courage, showing all their might
When they thee fram'd. Ah me! that what is brave
On Earth, they as their own so soon should crave!
Maliades sweet courtly nymphs deplore,
From Thule to Hydaspes' pearly shore.

When Forth, thy nurse, Forth where thou first didst
Thy tender days, (who smil'd oft on her glass,
To see thee gaze) meand'ring with her streams,
Heard thou hadst left this round, from Phœbus'
She sought to fly, but forced to return
By neighbouring brooks, she set herself to mourn:
And as she rush'd her Cyclades among, [wrong.
She seem'd to plain that Heaven had done her
With a hoarse plaint, Clyde down her steepy rocks,
And Tweed through her green mountains clad with


Did wound the ocean murmuring thy death;
The ocean it roar'd about the earth,
And to the Mauritanian Atlas told,

Who shrunk through grief, and down his white hairs
Huge streams of tears, which changed were to floods,
Wherewith he drown'd the neighbour plains and
The lesser brooks, as they did bubbling go, [woods.
Did keep a consort to the public woe.

The shepherds left their flocks with downcast eyes,
'Sdaining to look up to the angry skies:
Some brake their pipes, and some in sweet-sad lays
Made senseless things amazed at thy praise.
His reed Alexis hung upon a tree,

And with his tears made Doven great to be.
Mæliades sweet courtly nymphs deplore,
From Thule to Hydaspes' pearly shore.

Chaste maids, which haunt fair Aganippe's well,
And you, in Tempe's sacred shade who dwell,
Let fall your harps, cease tunes of joy to sing,
Dishevelled make all Parnassus ring
With anthems sad; thy music Phoebus turn
To doleful plaints, whilst joy itself doth mourn.
Dead is thy darling who adorn'd thy bays,
Who oft was wont to cherish thy sweet lays,
And to a trumpet raise thy amorous style,
That floating Delos envy might this isle.

You, Acidalian archers, break your bows,
Your torches quench, with tears blot beauty's snows,
And bid your weeping mother yet again
A second Adon's death, nay Mars his plain.

His eyes once were your darts; nay, even his name,
Wherever heard, did every heart inflame.
Tagus did court his love with golden streams,
Rhine with his towns, fair Seine with all she claims,
But ah! (poor lovers) death did them betray,
And, not suspected, made their hopes his prey!
Tagus bewails his loss in golden streams,
Rhine with his towns, fair Seine with all she claims.
Mæliades sweet courtly nymphs deplore,
From Thule to Hydaspes' pearly shore. [brings
Eye-pleasing meads, whose painted plain forth
White, golden, azure flow'rs, which once were kings,
To mourning black their shining colours dye,
Bow down their heads, while sighing zephyrs fly.
Queen of the fields, whose blush makes blush the

Sweet rose, a prince's death in purple mourn;
O hyacinths, for aye your AI keep still,
Nay, with more marks of woe your leaves now fill:
And you, O flow'r, of Helen's tears that 's born,
Into these liquid pearls again you turn:
Your green locks, forests, cut; to weeping myrrhs,
To deadly cypress, and ink-dropping firs,

Your palms and myrtles change; from shadows dark,
Wing'd syrens, wail, and you, sad echoes, mark
The lamentable accents of their moan,

And plain that brave Mæliades is gone.

Stay, sky, thy turning course, and now become
A stately arch, unto the earth his tomb:
And over it still wat'ry Iris keep,

And sad Electra's sisters, who still weep:
Mæliades sweet courtly nymphs deplore,
From Thule to Hydaspes' pearly shore.

Thou sweeter songs dost hear, and carollings,
Whilst Heavens do dance, and choirs of angels sings,
Than muddy minds could feign; even our annoy
(If it approach that place) is chang'd to joy.

Rest, blessed soul, rest satiate with the sight
Of him whose beams (though dazzling) do delight;
Life of all lives, cause of each other cause;

The sphere and centre where the mind doth pause;
Narcissus of himself, himself the well,
Lover, and beauty that doth all excel,
Rest, happy soul, and wonder in that glass,
Where seen is all that shall be, is, or was,
While shall be, is, or was, do pass away,
And nothing be, but an eternal day.
For ever rest; thy praise fame will enrol
In golden annals, while about the pole
The slow Bootes turns, or Sun doth rise
With scarlet scarf to cheer the mourning skies.
The virgins on thy tomb will garlands bear
Of flow'rs, and with each flow'r let fall a tear.
Mæliades sweet courtly nymphs deplore,
From Thule to Hydaspes' pearly shore.

OF jet,
Or porbyry,

Or that white stone
Paros affords alone,

Or these, in azure dye,
Which seem to scorn the sky;
Here Memphis' wouders do not set,
Nor Artemisia's huge frame,

That keeps so long her lover's name,
Make no great marble Atlas stoop with gold,
To please the vulgar eye shall it behold.
The Muses, Phoebus, Love, have raised of their tears
A crystal tomb to him, through which his worth

Dear ghost, forgive these our untimely tears,
By which our loving mind, though weak, appears :
Our loss, not thine (when we complain) we weep,
For thee the glistering walls of Heaven do keep,
Beyond the planet's wheels, 'bove highest source
Of spheres, that turns the lower in his course:
Where Sun doth never set, nor ugly Night
Ever appears in mourning garments dight:
Where Boreas' stormy trumpet doth not sound,
Nor clouds in lightnings bursting, minds astound.
From cares, cold climates far, and hot desire,
Where Time's exil'd, and ages ne'er expire;
'Mong purest spirits environed with beams,

At least that part the earth of him could claim
This marble holds (hard like the destinies:)
For as to his brave spirit, and glorious name,
The one the world, the other fills the skies.

Thou think'st all things below t' have been but Th' immortal amaranthus, princely rose,


And joy'st to look down to the azur'd bars

Sad violet, and that sweet flow'r that bears
In sanguine spots the tenour of our woes,

Then go and tell from Gades unto Inde,

You saw where Earth's perfections were confin'd.

Of Heaven, powder'd with troops of streaming stars; Spread on this stone, and wash it with your tears;
And in their turning temples to behold,
In silver robe the Moon, the Sun in gold;
Like young eye-speaking lovers in a dance,
With majesty by turns retire, advance:
Thou wonder'st Earth to see hang like a ball,
Clos'd in the mighty cloister of this all;
And that poor men should prove so madly fond,
To toss themselves for a small spot of ground:
Nay, that they ev'n dare brave the powers above,
From this base stage of change that cannot move.
All worldly pomp and pride thou seest arise
Like smoke, that 's scatter'd in the empty skies.
Other high hills and forests, other tow'rs,
Amaz'd thou find'st excelling our poor bow'rs;
Courts void of flattery, of malice minds,
Pleasure which lasts, not such as reason blinds.


STAY, passenger, see where enclosed lies
The paragon of princes, fairest frame,
Time, nature, place, could show to mortal eyes,
In worth, wit, virtue, miracle of fame:


A PASSING glance, a lightning long the skies,
Which, ushering thunder, dies straight to our sight;
A spark that doth from jarring mixtures rise,
Thus drown'd is in th' huge depths of day and night:
Is this small trifle, life, held in such price
Of blinded wights, who ne'er judge aught aright ?
Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the flight,
As life, that wastes itself, and living dies.

Ah! what is human greatness, valour, wit?
What fading beauty, riches, honour, praise?
To what doth serve in golden thrones to sit,
Thrall Earth's vast round, triumphal arches raise?
That all 's a dream, learn in this prince's fall,
In whom, save death, nought mortal was at all.




WHAT Course of life should wretched mortals take?
In books hard questions large contention make.
Care dwells in houses, labour in the field;
Tumultuous seas affrighting dangers yield.
In foreign lands thou never canst be blest:
If rich, thou art in fear; if poor, distress'd.
In wedlock frequent discontentments swell;
Unmarried persons as in deserts dwell.
How many troubles are with children born!
Yet he that wants them counts himself forlorn.
Young men are wanton, and of wisdom void;
Grey hairs are cold, unfit to be employ'd.
Who would not one of these two offers try,
Not to be born; or, being born, to die?

aflin and a lit




Or that Medusa strange,

Who those that did her see in rocks did change,
No image carv'd is this:
Medusa's self it is:

For while at heat of day

To quench her thirst she by this spring did stay,
Her hideous head beholding in this glass,
Her senses fail'd, and thus transform'd she was.


FAIR Paphos' wanton queen
(Not drawn in white and red)

Is truly here, as when in Vulcan's bed
She was of all Heaven's laughing senate seen.
Gaze on her hair, and eine,

Her brows, the bows of Love,
Her back with lilies spread:

Ye also might perceive her turn and move,
But that she neither so will do, nor dare,
For fear to wake the angry god of war.

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OVER a crystal source
lolas laid his face,

Of purling streams to see the restless course.
But scarce he had o'ershadowed the place,
When in the water he a child espies,

So like himself in stature, face and eyes,
That glad he rose, and cried,


"Dear mates approach, see whom I have descried,

FLOODS cannot quench my flames, ah! in this well The boy of whom strange stories shepherds tell,
I burn, not drown, for what I cannot tell.
Oft called Hylas, dwelleth in this well."

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