D^r. DONNE.
To have liv'd eminent, in a degree
Beyond our lofty'st flights, that is, like Thee,
Or t'have had too much merit, is not safe;
For, such excesses finde no Epitaph.
At common graves we have Poetique eyes 5
Can melt themselves in easie Elegies,
Each quill can drop his tributary verse,
And pin it, like the Hatchments, to the Hearse:
But at Thine, Poeme, or Inscription
(Rich soule of wit, and language) we have none. 10
Indeed a silence does that tombe befit,
Where is no Herald left to blazon it.
Widow'd invention justly doth forbeare
To come abroad, knowing Thou art not here,
Late her great Patron; Whose Prerogative 15
Maintain'd, and cloth'd her so, as none alive
Must now presume, to keepe her at thy rate,
Though he the Indies for her dowre estate.
Or else that awfull fire, which once did burne
In thy cleare Braine, now falne into thy Urne 20
Lives there, to fright rude Empiricks from thence,
Which might prophane thee by their Ignorance.
Who ever writes of Thee, and in a stile
Unworthy such a Theme, does but revile
Thy precious Dust, and wake a learned Spirit 25
Which may revenge his Rapes upon thy Merit.
For, all a low pitch't phansie can devise,
Will prove, at best, but Hallow'd Injuries.
Thou, like the dying Swanne, didst lately sing
Thy Mournfull Dirge, in audience of the King; 30
When pale lookes, and faint accents of thy breath,
Presented so, to life, that peece of death,
That it was fear'd, and prophesi'd by all,
Thou thither cam'st to preach thy Funerall.
O! had'st Thou in an Elegiacke Knell 35
Rung out unto the world thine owne farewell,
And in thy High Victorious Numbers beate
The solemne measure of thy griev'd Retreat;
Thou might'st the Poets service now have mist
As well, as then thou did'st prevent the Priest; 40
And never to the world beholding bee
So much, as for an Epitaph for thee.
I doe not like the office. Nor is't fit
Thou, who did'st lend our Age such summes of wit,
Should'st now re-borrow from her bankrupt Mine, 45
That Ore to Bury Thee, which once was Thine,
Rather still leave us in thy debt; And know
(Exalted Soule) more glory 'tis to owe
Unto thy Hearse, what we can never pay,
Then, with embased Coine those Rites defray. 50
Commit we then Thee to Thy selfe: Nor blame
Our drooping loves, which thus to thy owne Fame
Leave Thee Executour. Since, but thine owne,
No pen could doe Thee Justice, nor Bayes Crowne
Thy vast desert; Save that, wee nothing can 55
Depute, to be thy Ashes Guardian.
So Jewellers no Art, or Metall trust
To forme the Diamond, but the Diamonds dust.
_H. K._
[To the _&c._ _Also in_ Deaths Duell. _1632_, _Walton's_ Lives
_1670_, _King's_ Poems. _1657_, _1664_, _1700_]
[14 here] there _1632_]
[31 faint] weak _1632_]
[57 or] nor _1632_]
To the deceased Author,
Upon the _Promiscuous_ printing of his Poems, the _Looser sort_, with
the _Religious_.
When thy _Loose_ raptures, _Donne_, shall meet with Those
That doe confine
Tuning, unto the Duller line,
And sing not, but in _Sanctified Prose_;
How will they, with sharper eyes, 5
The _Fore-skinne_ of thy phansie circumcise?
And feare, thy _wantonnesse_ should now, begin
_Example_, that hath ceased to be _Sin_?
And that _Feare_ fannes their _Heat_; whilst knowing eyes
Will not admire 10
At this _Strange Fire_,
That here is _mingled with thy Sacrifice_:
But dare reade even thy _Wanton Story_,
As thy _Confession_, not thy _Glory_.
And will so envie _Both_ to future times, 15
That they would buy thy _Goodnesse_, with thy _Crimes_.
_Tho: Browne._
_On the death of D^r DONNE._
I Cannot blame those men, that knew thee well,
Yet dare not helpe the world, to ring thy knell
In tunefull _Elegies_; there's not language knowne
Fit for thy mention, but 'twas first thy owne;
The _Epitaphs_ thou writst, have so bereft 5
Our tongue of wit, there is not phansie left
Enough to weepe thee; what henceforth we see
Of Art or Nature, must result from thee.
There may perchance some busie gathering friend
Steale from thy owne workes, and that, varied, lend, 10
Which thou bestow'st on others, to thy Hearse,
And so thou shalt live still in thine owne verse;
Hee that shall venture farther, may commit
A pitied errour, shew his zeale, not wit.
Fate hath done mankinde wrong; vertue may aime 15
Reward of conscience, never can, of fame,
Since her great trumpet's broke, could onely give
Faith to the world, command it to beleeve;
Hee then must write, that would define thy parts:
_Here lyes the best Divinitie, All the Arts._ 20
_Edw. Hyde_.
[On the _&c._ _Also in =Deaths Duell.= 1632_]
[4 thy] thine _1632_]
[6 tongue] pens _1632_]
_On Doctor =Donne=,