Cypress may fade, the countenance be chang'd,
A garment rot, an elegy forgotten,

A hearse 'mongst irreligious rites be ranged,

A tomb pluck'd down, or else through age be rotten:
All things th' impartial hand of Fate

Can raze out with a thought:
These have a sev'ral fixed date,

Which ended, turn to nought.

Yet shall my truest cause

Of sorrow firmly stay,

When these effects the wings to Time
Shall fan and sweep away.

Look as a sweet rose fairly budding forth
Bewrays her beauties to the enamour'd morn,
Until some keen blast from the envious North
Kills the sweet bud that was but newly born,
Or else her rarest smells delighting
Make her herself betray,

Some white and curious hand inviting
To pluck her thence away.
So stands my mournful case,
For had he been less good,
Yet (uncorrupt) he had kept the stock
Whereon he fairly stood.

Yet though so long he liv'd not as he might,
He had the time appointed to him given.
Who liveth but the space of one poor night,
His birth, his youth, his age is in that even.
Whoever doth the period see

Of days by heav'n forth plotted,
Dies full of age, as well as he

That had more years allotted.

In sad tones then my verse

Shall with incessant tears
Bemoan my hapless loss of him,
And not his want of years.

In deepest passions of my grief-swol'n breast
(Sweet soul!) this only comfort seizeth me,
That so few years should make thee so much blest,
And gave such wings to reach eternity.

Is this to die? no, as a ship

Well built, with easy wind
A lazy hulk doth far outstrip,
And soonest harbour find:
So Philarete fled,

Quick was his passage given,

When others must have longer time
To make them fit for heaven.

Then not for thee these briny tears are spent,
But as the nightingale against the breer,

'Tis for myself I moan, and do lament,

Not that thou left'st the world, but left'st me here:
Here, where without thee all delights

Fail of their pleasing power:
All glorious days seem ugly nights,

Methinks no April shower
Embroider should the earth,

But briny tears distil,

Since Flora's beauties shall no more

Be honour'd by thy quill.

And ye his sheep (in token of his lack)
Whilome the fairest flock on all the plain,

Yean never lamb, but be it cloth'd in black.
Ye shady sycamores! when any swain

To carve his name upon your rind

Doth come, where his doth stand
Shed drops, if he be so unkind

To raze it with his hand.

And thou, my loved Muse,

No more should'st numbers move,

But that his name should ever live,

This said, he sigh'd, and with o'er-drowned eyes
Gaz'd on the heavens for what he miss'd on earth;
Then from the earth, full gladly 'gan arise

As far from future hope, as present mirth,
Unto his cot with heavy pace

As ever sorrow trode,

He went, with mind no more to trace
Where mirthful swains abode;

And as he spent the day

The night he past alone;

Was never shepherd lov'd more dear,

Nor made a truer moan.

The Shepherd's Pipe, by W. Browne,

Ecl. iv.

ELEGY

ON THE LATE LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, BARON OF

EFFINGHAM,

WHO DIED DECEMBER 10, 1615.

I DI

DID not know thee, lord, nor do I strive
To win access, or grace, with lords alive;
The dead I serve, from whence nor faction can
Move me, nor favour; nor a greater man :
To whom no vice commends me, nor bribe sent,
From whom no penance warns, nor portion spent,
To these I dedicate as much of me

As I can spare from my own husbandry:

And till ghosts walk, as they were wont to do,
I trade for some, and do these errands too.
But first I do inquire, and am assur'd
What trials in their journies they endur'd;
What certainties of honour and of worth

Their most uncertain lifetimes have brought forth:
And whoso did least hurt of this small store,

He is my patron, died he rich or poor.
First I will know of Fame (after his peace,
When flattery and envy both do cease)
Who rul'd his actions; reason, or my lord?
Did the whole man rely upon a word,
A badge of title; or above all chance,
Seem'd he as ancient as his cognizance?

What did he? acts of mercy, and refrain
Oppression in himself, and in his train?
Was his essential table full as free

As boasts and invitations use to be?

Where if his russet-friend did chance to dine,
Whether his sattin-man would fill him wine?
Did he think perjury as lov'd a sin,

Himself forsworn, as if his slave had been?
Did he seek regular pleasures? was he known
Just husband of one wife, and she his own?
Did he give freely without pause or doubt,
And read petitions ere they were worn out?
Or should his well-deserving client ask,
Would he bestow a tilting or a mask

To keep need virtuous? and that done, not fear
What lady damn'd him for his absence there?
Did he attend the court for no man's fall?
Wore he the ruin of no hospital?

And when he did his rich apparel don,
Put he no widow nor an orphan on* ?

* Did he attend the court for no man's fall? Wore he the ruin of no hospital?

And when he did his rich apparel don,

Put he no widow, nor an orphan on?] The most finished character of detestation we have, is Massinger's Sir Giles Overreach. The following part of a dialogue will give the reader some insight into his exquisite talents for mischief.

Lovell. Are you not frighted with the imprecations and curses of whole families, made wretched by your sinister practices?

Overreach. Yes, as rocks are,

When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is mov'd,

When wolves, with hunger pin'd, howl at her brightness.

I'm of a solid temper, and like these

Steer on a constant course. With mine own sword,

If call'd into the field, I can make that right,

Which fearful enemies murmured at as wrong.