Old Jacobs Account Cast Up and Owned, Poem 1 – Poem 3
Epicedium Upon the death of the moſt worthy Lady, Suſanna Reynolds (Wife to the Hononrable Commiſſary-General Reynolds) who dyed at Wanſtead Houſe, Jan. 8. 1654.
TIs hard now not to write, if Ink were ſcant
Or failed now, Tears might ſupply that want.
Zac. 11.2.Let Fir trees howl, at this ſweet Cedars fall,
Let dry and withered ones, this Funeral,
Attend with fear, and what's to the green on done,
Obſerve with trembling, ſhall this radiant Sun
Go unlamented down? Oh no, the loſs
Is Univerſal, and this ſtroak a Croſs,
Pſal. 43.9. and 75.3.To the whole world; which by her loſs now wants
A Shield and Pillar; for ſuch are the Saints
Unto the tottering Earth, to ward off blows,
Bear burthens, and prevent ſad overthrows;
Who ever heard her name in time of life,
In either ſtate of Virgin, or of Wife;
But with th' Appendix of the higeſt praiſe:
A ſtrife t'wixt Grace and Nature, which ſhould raiſe
Her moſt, was viſible unto thoſe few,
Who had the glory of a nearer view:
Her far fam'd worth did touch all ears and hearts,
With love and wonder; Virtue, Perſon, Parts,
Deportment, Wiſdom, Sweetneſs, all combin'd,
To conquer every Nobler heart and mind.
And who hath heard ſhe's dead, without a grief,
And horrour, ſuch as ſcarce admits relief;
Her early, too too early loſs of breath,
Gives all our joys an Univerſal death.
And yet, nor ſighs nor tears this equal can,
Although our eyes out flow the Ocean.
In this one inſtance ſee the truth of all
Thoſe Sacred Similes, that ſpeak mans fall;
His life is likened to a Vapour vain,
To Shepherds Booth, ſoon up and down again.
To flying ſhadows, To a fading flower,
Grows up, is green, pluck't withered in an hour.
To dreams ith' morning, ended ere begun,
To a ſhort ſtories Race, that's quickly run.
To Duſt that's blown away with every blaſt,
To Wind that goes and comes no more in haſt:
To Weavers Shuttle moving faſt away,
To flying Eagles, haſting to the prey,
To the ſwift ſayling Ships, that haſten moſt;
To the ſwift riding of a winged Poſt.
All theſe made good in one ſo juſtly dear;
May fill Survivors hearts with care and Fear.
To her worthy Husband.
Y' have loſt your ſofteſt, ſweeteſt half, a part
Is rent from off that Cawl that hides your heart:
How great's your loſs? You but begun to know,
What you to God, for ſuch a Mate did owe.
The Throne of Beauty ſeated in her Face,
Loves Loadſtone, in her pure and peerleſs grace,
A Soul ſo full of that diviner flame,
Of love (next God) to you, Oh love her Name,
Her name and memory. And love the Lord,
Who once (though but a while) was pleas'd t' afford
And lend you ſuch a Jewel, but few ſuch
Do ſhine on Earth; all th' earth will ſay as much.
And now She ſhines above, behold her there,
By Faith, and follow her, up to that Sphaere,
Where centred both in him, whom we adore,
You'le meet e're long, neer to be parted more.
To her Noble Parents.
Y' have loſt part of your ſelves, a Child, a Friend,
The ſeed of faireſt hopes, which might extend
To after times, in her your ſelves ſet forth,
In a new Volume, the ſame Grace and worth;
Might to the world and Saints, have lived ſtill,
When Heaven your ſouls, and earth your bodies fil:
But why do thoughts 'gainſt him ariſe and mount
Who of his matters giveth no account:
Death like the Serpent's dieted and muſt
Meddle no further, onelyonly feed on duſt:
And give up that at laſt, as he that's bold,
To chop up morſels, too too hot to hold,
That part which you were Organs to convey,
Shall be reſtored in that glorious day.
To her Brethren and onelyonly Siſter.
Y' have loſt your ſelves repeated and no leſs,
A loſs then of a Glaſs, wherein to dreſs,
Your ſouls; you ſtill might learn, a ſtaff, a ſtay,
She might have proov'd to you another day:
Y' have loſt a Right hand and a Non-ſuch friend
When once your precious Parents days ſhall end.
Strive to make up this Breach, Strive to exceed,
Excel your ſelves in every worthy Deed.
Reſemble her that's gone, pray to inherit,
A double portion of your Siſters Spirit.
Sic deflevit, Hodie que deflet. Thomas Hariſon.
In Excellentiſſimam, & Chariſſimam, Dom. Suſannam Reynolds.
Sic Flevit, H. P.
HEr matchleſs worth had I not known;
My ruſtick Reed had never blown;
But cauſe I knew this Phenix well,
My Tit-mouſe joyns with Philomel:
And though unskil'd in Sol, Fa, Re,
Can bear a part in Lachrimae.
The little Spanlet of her life
She paſt a Child, a Maid, a Wife:
The firſt was ſuch a lovely ſtory,
Her Parents had that joy, that glory;
So ſweet it was, that they can tell,
Obedience beyond Paralel:
She could ſubſcribe with guileleſs breath
Obedient Daughter unto death:
There needed not a Fathers frown,
Or Mothers lowrings to take down
An awleſs Spirit, where an eye,
Or hint commanded Loyalty.
(Deer heart) ſo anxious to obey,
She grew all duty (as ſome ſay)
She carryed duty, or it her,
Unto the Grave, if I don't erre.
A Virgin ſo unſoild, ſo chaſt,
That to bee a Wife ſhe made no haſt;
Such vertue lay in Beauty hid,
That all abſurd attempts forbid.
Honour and Greatneſs came a wooing,
And Riches offer'd to be dooing;
But in her boſome find's no place,
It was ſo taken up with Grace.
Curled Locks, and powdered Loyns,
The Votaries to Beauties ſhrines:
Painted Puppets, and fine things
Like men, with Watches and with Rings,
Preſenting Love in Ryme and Proſe,
Were anſwered, I will none of thoſe
Unleſs I meant to ſee ſome feats,
Playd by Baboons or Marmoſets.
At length her Nobler thoughts ſhe plac'd
On one whom Heaven and Earth had grac'd;
But how like to a Rock ſhe ſtood,
'Gainſt Waves and Seas to make vows good,
And how through thick, thin, hot and cold,
She travel'd, and through ways untold.
And how her worth did ſwim above,
Frowns and diſdains to anſwer love;
Yea how withal ſhe did conteſt,
To gain a long'd for ſhort-liv'd reſt,
Muſt be the work of a Steel'd Pen,
I can but weep it ore agen.
A Wife ſhe is: Oh give me back
That word agen! though words I lack,
To tell how good ſhe was, and yet,
Whether a Wife, I ev'n forget;
For ere the Sun had run its round,
Nor Child, nor Maid, nor Wife was found:
But dainty Duſt, layd up in Clay,
OnelyOnly (Deer Shade) this muſt I ſay.
Religion and not Phancical,
Prudence and meekneſs not formal.
And faithfulneſs without deceit,
A ſpirit moſt humble, and as great;
Birth worth, and ſweetneſs met in thee,
All ſtrove for place, yet all agree;
But what of theſe? Alas ſhe dies:
Let other Muſes write, mine cries.
For ſorrows tears drop not from Pens (bleſt Sue)
But hearts and eyes, Adew, adew, adew.
H. P.
In Conjugalem Amicitiam
JOHANNIS REYNOLDS
SƲSANNAE REYNOLDS
I Ask no Muſe's help to write,
Nor yet of Venus flame or light.
My Fancie's mov'd by Nobler love,
Such as virtuous minds approve.
Beauties fair colour, and its Shape,
Is Natures gift, or Natures Ape.
By love, which of two Souls made one,
Two Spirits compoſition;
And Friendſhips Sacred Bond ſo knit,
Death's Sword alone, could ſevere it.
Pythagoras and Plato may
Of Scepticks eas'ly gain the day.
Old Poets ſome blind Prophets call,
Since love's become Ethereall.
Our Goſpel ground-work, and no leſs,
Then hearts enjoyments, as we gueſs,
More of Souls love, I can't reherſe,
In tear's Floud, ends my Swan-like Verſe.