Poems, Elegy 7
A Funerall ELEGIE.
'TIs loſt to truſt a Tombe with ſuch a gueſt,
Or to confine her in a marble cheſt,
Alas, what's Marble, Jeat, or Porphyrie,
Priz'd with the Chryſolite of either eye,
Or with thoſe Pearles, and Rubies, which ſhe was?
Joyne the two Indies in one Tombe, 'tis glaſſe;
And ſo is all to her materials,
Though every inch were ten Eſcurials;
Yet ſhe's demoliſh'd: can wee keepe her then
In works of hands, or of the wits of men?
Can theſe memorials, ragges of paper, give
Life to that name, by which name they muſt live?
Sickly, alas, ſhort-liv'd, aborted bee
Thoſe carcaſſe verſes, whoſe ſoule is not ſhee.
And can ſhee, who no longer would be ſhee,
Being ſuch a Tabernacle, ſtoop to be
In paper wrapt; or when ſhee would not lie
In ſuch a houſe, dwell in an Elegie?
But'tis no matter; wee may well allow
Verſe to live ſo long as the world will now,
For her death wounded it. The world containes
Princes for armes, and counſellors for braines,
Lawyers for tongues, Divines for hearts, and more,
The rich for ſtomackes, and for backs the poore;
The officers for hands, merchants for feet,
By which, remote and diſtant Countries meet.
But thoſe fine ſpirits which do tune, and ſet
This Organ, are thoſe peeces, which beget
Wonder and love; and theſe were ſhee; and ſhee
Being ſpent, the world muſt needs decrepit bee;
For ſince death will proceed to triumph ſtill,
He can finde nothing, after her, to kill,
Except the world it ſelfe, ſo great was ſhee.
Thus brave and confident may Nature bee,
Death cannot give her ſuch another blow,
Becauſe ſhee cannot ſuch another ſhow.
But muſt wee ſay ſhe's dead? may't not be ſaid
That as a ſundred clocke is peecemeale laid,
Not to be loſt, but by the makers hand
Repolliſh'd, without errour then to ſtand,
Or as the Affrique Niger ſtreame enwombs
It ſelfe into the earth, and after comes
(Having firſt made a naturall bridge, to paſſe
For many leagues) farre greater then it was,
May't not be ſaid, that her grave ſhall reſtore
Her, greater, purer, firmer, then before?
Heaven may ſay this, and joy in't, but can wee
Who live, and lacke her, here, this vantage ſee?
What is't to us, alas, if there have beene
An Angell made a Throne, or Cherubin?
Wee loſe by't: and as aged men are glad
Being taſtleſſe growne, to joy in joyes they had,
So now the ſick ſtarv'd world muſt feed upon
This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.
Rejoyce then Nature, and this World, that you,
Fearing the laſt fires haſtning to ſubdue
Your force and vigour, ere it were neere gone,
Wiſely beſtow'd and laid it all on one;
One, whoſe cleare body was ſo pure and thinne,
Becauſe it need diſguiſe no thought within.
'Twas but a through-light ſcarfe, her minde t'inroule;
Or exhalation breath'd out from her Soule.
One, whom all men who durſt no more, admir'd:
And whom, who ere had worke enough, deſir'd;
As when a Temple's built, Saints emulate
To which of them, it ſhall be conſecrate.
But, as when heaven lookes on us with new eyes,
Thoſe new ſtarres every Artiſt exerciſe,
VVhat place they ſhould aſſigne to them they doubt,
Argue, 'and agree not, till thoſe ſtarres goe out:
So the world ſtudied whoſe this peece ſhould be,
Till ſhee can be no bodies elſe, nor ſhee:
But like a Lampe of Balſamum, deſir'd
Rather t'adorne, then laſt, ſhe ſoone expir'd,
Cloath'd in her virgin white integritie,
For marriage, though it doth not ſtaine, doth die.
To ſcape th'infirmities which wait upon
VVoman, ſhe went away, before ſh'was one;
And the worlds buſie noyſe to overcome,
Tooke ſo much death, as ſerv'd for opium;
For though ſhe could not, nor could chuſe to dye,
She'ath yeelded to too long an extaſie:
Hee which not knowing her ſaid Hiſtory,
Should come to reade the booke of deſtiny,
How faire, and chaſt, humble, and high ſhe'ad been,
Much promis'd, much perform'd, at not fifteene,
And meaſuring future things, by things before,
Should turne the leafe to reade, and reade no more,
VVould thinke that either deſtiny miſtooke,
Or that ſome leaves were torne out of the booke.
But 'tis not ſo; Fate did but uſher her
To yeares of reaſons uſe, and then inferre
Her deſtiny to her ſelfe, which liberty
She tooke, but for thus much, thus much do die.
Her modeſtie not ſuffering her to bee
Fellow-Commiſſioner with Deſtinie,
She did no more but die; if after her
Any ſhall live, which dare true good prefer;
Every ſuch perſon is her deligate,
T'accompliſh that which ſhould have beene her Fate.
They ſhall make up that Booke and ſhall have thanks
Of Fate, and her, for filling up their blankes.
For future vertuous deeds are Legacies,
VVhichWhich from the gift of her example riſe;
And 'tis in heav'n part of ſpirituall mirth,
To ſee how well the good play her, on earth.