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And, in their error's maze, thine own way know : Which is to live to conscience, not to show.

He that, but living half his age, dies such, Makes the whole longer than 'twas given him, much.



Weep with me, all you

This little story;

that read

And know, for whom a tear you shed,

Death's self is sorry.

'Twas a child, that so did thrive
In grace and feature,

As Heaven and nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen

When fates turned cruel;

Yet three filled zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel;

And did act, what now we moan,
Old men so duly ;

As, sooth, the Parcea thought him one

He played so truly.

So, by error, to his fate

They all consented;

102 Salathiel Pavy. The subject of this beautiful epitaph acted in Cynthia's Revels and in the Poetaster, 1600 and 1601, in which [latter] year he probably died. The poet speaks of him with interest and affection, and it cannot be doubted that he was a boy of extraordinary talents.-G.

But viewing him since, (alas, too late!)

They have repented;

And have sought, to give new birth,
In baths to steep him;

But, being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.



Rudyerd, as lesser dames to great ones use,
My lighter comes to kiss thy learned muse;
Whose better studies while she emulates,
She learns to know long difference of their states.
Yet is the office not to be despised,

If only love should make the action prized;
Nor he for friendship can be thought unfit,
That strives his manners should precede his wit.


If I would wish, for truth and not for show,
The aged Saturn's age and rites to know;
If I would strive to bring back times, and try
The world's pure gold, and wise simplicity;
If I would virtue set as she was young,
And hear her speak with one, and her first tongue;
If holiest friendship, naked to the touch,

I would restore, and keep it ever such:
I need no other arts, but study thee,
Who prov'st all these were, and again may be.

103 Afterwards knighted; one of the most accomplished men of his time, a scholar, a poet, a distinguished speaker in Parliament, and the intimate friend of Pembroke.-B.


Writing thyself, or judging others' writ,

I know not which thou'st most, candor, or wit;
But both thou'st so, as who affects the state
Of the best writer and judge, should emulate.

Wouldst thou hear what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die;
Which in life did harbor give
To more virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,

Th' other let it sleep with death.

Fitter, where it died, to tell,

Than that it lived at all.


CXXV. TO SIR WILLIAM UVEDALE. 195 Uvedale, thou piece of the first times, a man Made for what nature could, or virtue can; Both whose dimensions lost, the world might find

104 The name of the lady upon whom this most exquisite epitaph was written is unknown. Jonson wished it to be concealed, and the secret seems to have been carefully kept until the means of tracing it were lost.

105 Nothing appears to be known of this gentleman's history. Gifford says he was of Wickham, in the county of Southampton. — B.

Restored in thy body, and thy mind!
Who sees a soul in such a body set,
Might love the treasure for the cabinet.
But I, no child, no fool, respect the kind,
The full, the flowing graces there enshrined;
Which, would the world not miscall 't flattery,
I could adore, almost t' idolatry!

CXXVI. TO HIS LADY, THEN MISTRESS CARY. Retired, with purpose your fair worth to praise, 'Mongst Hampton shades, and Phoebus' grove of bays,

I plucked a branch; the jealous god did frown,
And bade me lay th' usurped laurel down;
Said I wronged him, and, which was more, his

I answered, Daphne now no pain can prove.
Phoebus replied, Bold head, it is not she,
Cary my love is, Daphne but my tree.



Is there a hope that man would thankful be,
If I should fail in gratitude to thee

To whom I am so bound, loved Aubigny?
No, I do, therefore, call posterity

Into the debt; and reckon on her head
How full of want, how swallowed up, how dead
I and this muse had been, if thou hadst not

100 Brother to the Duke of Lenox, whom he succeeded in title and estate. - G.

Lent timely succors, and new life begot;
So, all reward, or name, that grows to me
By her attempt, shall still be owing thee.
And, than this same, I know no abler way
To thank thy benefits: which is, to pay.

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Roe, and my joy to name, thou'rt now to go
Countries and climes, manners and men to know,
T'extract and choose the best of all these known,
And those to turn to blood, and make thine own.
May winds as soft as breath of kissing friends,
Attend thee hence; and there, may all thy ends,
As the beginning here, prove purely sweet,
And perfect in a circle always meet!

So when we, blest with thy return, shall see Thyself, with thy first thoughts brought home by thee,

We each to other may this voice inspire; This is that good Æneas, passed through fire,

107 Supposed by Gifford to be the younger brother, or cousin, of Sir Thomas Roe. See ante, p. 16. Gifford adds that this gentleman seems to have been in a mercantile or diplomatic capacity, and to have entered the profession of arms, quoting a passage from a letter of Howell's to the effect that William Roe had returned from the wars wounded in the arm, and confessing himself "an egregious fool to leave his mercership for a musket." But there is nothing in the epigram to sustain any of these suppositions. The William Roe addressed by the poet appears to have gone abroad expressly upon his travels.


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