Suffolks Tears, Frontispiece – Dedication
Sr Nathaniel Barnardiston of Ketton in Suff. Kt Obiit A. D. 1653 …t 66. F. H. van. Houe Sculp.
SƲFFOLKS Tears: OR ELEGIES On that Renowned Knight Sir Nathaniel Barnardiſton. A Gentleman eminent for Piety to God, love to the Church, and fidelity to his Country; and therefore Highly honored by them all. He was Five times choſen Knight of the Shire, for the County of Suffolk, and once Burgeſs for Sudbury. In the diſcharge of which Truſt, he always approved Himſelf Faithful; as by his great ſufferings for the Freedoms and Liberties of his Countrey, abundantly appear. A Zealous Promoter of the Preaching of the Goſpel, manifeſted by his great care, in preſenting Men, Able, Learned, and Pious, to the places whereof he had the Patronage; and alſo by his large and extraordinary bounty towards the advancing of Religion and Learning, both at home, and in Forreign Plantations among the Heathen.
Dignum laude virum Muſa vetat Mori.
London, Printed by R. I. for Tho. Newberry at the Three Lions in Cornhil, near the Royal Exchange. 1653.
To the VVorſhipful and highly honoured Lady, the Lady Jane Barnardiston. An Offertory.
THrice Noble Lady, ſpare that melting Bead,
Our ſorrows want no jewel from your head;
Still let thoſe ſilver drops, that lightly lye
Like little delug'd worlds within your eye;
Fixed abide in their own brighteſt ſphear,
His fame wants not thoſe pendents for her ear;
Thoſe falling ſtars rob heaven, we need not thence
Borrow our griefs, or taxe you with expence:
Behold how every Mourner brings his ſheet
To wipe your eyes, and weep himſelf; 'tis meet
That this ſo publick loſs by th' Countries charge
Should mourned be: Spare, Madam, then: this large
And thicker Volume that is here annext,
Is but our Comment on that publick text:
Come Argus, Hieraclicus, lend your eyes
To pay on's tomb a liquid ſacrifice;
Lo all the graſſe that round about him lye,
Hangs full of tears ſhed from Dame Natures eye,
See how ſad Philomele (that yonder ſits,
And to the dancing twig her muſick fits)
Now mourns for him, the ſilver brook runs on,
Grumbling to leave thoſe loved banks, whereon
A Manſion once he had; that's now ſet round
With Cypreſs trees, and with their branches crown'd;
So dark, it ſeems Nights mantle for to borrow,
And may be cal'd, the gloomy den of ſorrow.
E're ſince he di'd; the Heavens their griefs to tell,
Daily in tears to earth's wet boſome fell;
Not in an April ſtorm, or thoſe in June,
Whoſe trembling Cadents makes it rain in tune;
But like a grave Decembers day, or thoſe
Who mourn in Cicero's ſtile, and weep in proſe.
Madam, you ſee all Natures wat'ry ſtore
Attends this ſable day, weep you no more;
Angels, that on your eyes with bottles wait
To catch your falling tears, do now retreat
With veſſels full; anon again they'l ſtoop,
And lightly hover round the mourning troop,
Whilſt I in ſilence do his Shrine adore;
If worſhip doth offend, I then implore,
And crave a favour, Madam, 'tis this one,
Adde to his memory no pictur'd ſtone;
Leſt whilſt within the Church my vows I pay,
I to the Image of this Saint ſhould pray.
Madam, your moſt humble and faithful ſervitor: Samuel Faireclough. Jun.