[An Elegie _&c._ _See note_]
[1-3
Our Donne is dead; England should mourne, may say
We had a man where language chose to stay
And shew her gracefull power _1635-69_
]
[35 _Crowne_] Crowme _1633_]
An Elegie upon the death of the Deane of Pauls, D^r. Iohn Donne:
By _M^r. Tho: Carie_.
Can we not force from widdowed Poetry,
Now thou art dead (Great DONNE) one Elegie
To crowne thy Hearse? Why yet dare we not trust
Though with unkneaded dowe-bak't prose thy dust,
Such as the uncisor'd Churchman from the flower 5
Of fading Rhetorique, short liv'd as his houre,
Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay
Upon thy Ashes, on the funerall day?
Have we no voice, no tune? Did'st thou dispense
Through all our language, both the words and sense? 10
'Tis a sad truth: The Pulpit may her plaine,
And sober Christian precepts still retaine,
Doctrines it may, and wholesome Uses frame,
Grave Homilies, and Lectures, But the flame
Of thy brave Soule, that shot such heat and light, 15
As burnt our earth, and made our darknesse bright,
Committed holy Rapes upon our Will,
Did through the eye the melting heart distill;
And the deepe knowledge of darke truths so teach,
As sense might judge, what phansie could not reach; 20
Must be desir'd for ever. So the fire,
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphique quire,
Which kindled first by thy Promethean breath,
Glow'd here a while, lies quench't now in thy death;
The Muses garden with Pedantique weedes 25
O'rspred, was purg'd by thee; The lazie seeds
Of servile imitation throwne away;
And fresh invention planted, Thou didst pay
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;
Licentious thefts, that make poëtique rage 30
A Mimique fury, when our soules must bee
Possest, or with Anacreons Extasie,
Or Pindars, not their owne; The subtle cheat
Of slie Exchanges, and the jugling feat
Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong 35
By ours was done the Greeke, or Latine tongue,
Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd Us a Mine
Of rich and pregnant phansie, drawne a line
Of masculine expression, which had good
Old Orpheus seene, Or all the ancient Brood 40
Our superstitious fooles admire, and hold
Their lead more precious, then thy burnish't Gold,
Thou hadst beene their Exchequer, and no more
They each in others dust, had rak'd for Ore.
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time, 45
And the blinde fate of language, whose tun'd chime
More charmes the outward sense; Yet thou maist claime
From so great disadvantage greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our stubborne language bends, made only fit 50
With her tough-thick-rib'd hoopes to gird about
Thy Giant phansie, which had prov'd too stout
For their soft melting Phrases. As in time
They had the start, so did they cull the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred yeare, 55
And left the rifled fields, besides the feare
To touch their Harvest, yet from those bare lands
Of what is purely thine, thy only hands
(And that thy smallest worke) have gleaned more
Then all those times, and tongues could reape before; 60
But thou art gone, and thy strict lawes will be
Too hard for Libertines in Poetrie.
They will repeale the goodly exil'd traine
Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just raigne
Were banish'd nobler Poems, now, with these 65
The silenc'd tales o'th'Metamorphoses
Shall stuffe their lines, and swell the windy Page,
Till Verse refin'd by thee, in this last Age,
Turne ballad rime, Or those old Idolls bee
Ador'd againe, with new apostasie; 70
Oh, pardon mee, that breake with untun'd verse
The reverend silence that attends thy herse,
Whose awfull solemne murmures were to thee
More then these faint lines, A loud Elegie,
That did proclaime in a dumbe eloquence 75
The death of all the Arts, whose influence
Growne feeble, in these panting numbers lies
Gasping short winded Accents, and so dies:
So doth the swiftly turning wheele not stand
In th'instant we withdraw the moving hand, 80
But some small time maintaine a faint weake course
By vertue of the first impulsive force:
And so whil'st I cast on thy funerall pile
Thy crowne of Bayes, Oh, let it crack a while,
And spit disdaine, till the devouring flashes 85
Suck all the moysture up, then turne to ashes.
I will not draw the envy to engrosse
All thy perfections, or weepe all our losse;
Those are too numerous for an Elegie,
And this too great, to be express'd by mee. 90
Though every pen should share a distinct part,
Yet art thou Theme enough to tyre all Art;
Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice
I on thy Tombe this Epitaph incise.
_Here lies a King, that rul'd as hee thought fit 95
The universall Monarchy of wit;
Here lie two Flamens, and both those, the best,
Apollo's first, at last, the true Gods Priest_.
[An Elegie _&c._ _Also in Carew's _Poems_ 1640._ _See note_]
_An Elegie on D^r. DONNE: By Sir Lucius Carie._
Poets attend, the Elegie I sing
Both of a doubly-named Priest, and King:
In stead of Coates, and Pennons, bring your Verse,
For you must bee chiefe mourners at his Hearse,
A Tombe your Muse must to his Fame supply, 5
No other Monuments can never die;
And as he was a two-fold Priest; in youth,
Apollo's; afterwards, the voice of Truth,
Gods Conduit-pipe for grace, who chose him for
His extraordinary Embassador, 10
So let his Liegiers with the Poets joyne,
Both having shares, both must in griefe combine:
Whil'st Johnson forceth with his Elegie
Teares from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye,
(Like Moses at whose stroke the waters gusht 15
From forth the Rock, and like a Torrent rusht.)
Let Lawd his funerall Sermon preach, and shew
Those vertues, dull eyes were not apt to know,
Nor leave that Piercing Theme, till it appeares
To be goodfriday, by the Churches Teares; 20
Yet make not griefe too long oppresse our Powers,
Least that his funerall Sermon should prove ours.
Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence,
With which he did the bread of life dispense,
Preacher and Orator discharg'd both parts 25
With pleasure for our sense, health for our hearts,
And the first such (Though a long studied Art
Tell us our soule is all in every part,)
None was so marble, but whil'st him he heares,
His Soule so long dwelt only in his eares. 30
And from thence (with the fiercenesse of a flood
Bearing downe vice) victual'd with that blest food
Their hearts; His seed in none could faile to grow,
Fertile he found them all, or made them so:
No Druggist of the Soule bestow'd on all 35
So Catholiquely a curing Cordiall.
Nor only in the Pulpit dwelt his store,
His words work'd much, but his example more,
That preach't on worky dayes, His Poetrie
It selfe was oftentimes divinity, 40
Those Anthemes (almost second Psalmes) he writ
To make us know the Crosse, and value it,
(Although we owe that reverence to that name
Wee should not need warmth from an under flame.)
Creates a fire in us, so neare extreme 45
That we would die, for, and upon this theme.
Next, his so pious Litany, which none can
But count Divine, except a Puritan,
And that but for the name, nor this, nor those
Want any thing of Sermons, but the prose. 50
Experience makes us see, that many a one
Owes to his Countrey his Religion;
And in another, would as strongly grow,
Had but his Nurse and Mother taught him so,
Not hee the ballast on his Judgement hung; 55
Nor did his preconceit doe either wrong;
He labour'd to exclude what ever sinne
By time or carelessenesse had entred in;
Winnow'd the chaffe from wheat, but yet was loath
A too hot zeale should force him, burne them both; 60
Nor would allow of that so ignorant gall,
Which to save blotting often would blot all;
Nor did those barbarous opinions owne,
To thinke the Organs sinne, and faction, none;
Nor was there expectation to gaine grace 65
From forth his Sermons only, but his face;
So Primitive a looke, such gravitie
With humblenesse, and both with Pietie;
So milde was Moses countenance, when he prai'd
For them whose Satanisme his power gainsaid; 70
And such his gravitie, when all Gods band
Receiv'd his word (through him) at second hand,
Which joyn'd, did flames of more devotion move
Then ever Argive Hellens could of love.
Now to conclude, I must my reason bring, 75
Wherefore I call'd him in his title King,
That Kingdome the Philosophers beleev'd
To excell Alexanders, nor were griev'd
By feare of losse (that being such a Prey
No stronger then ones selfe can force away) 80
The Kingdome of ones selfe, this he enjoy'd,
And his authoritie so well employ'd,
That never any could before become
So Great a Monarch, in so small a roome;
He conquer'd rebell passions, rul'd them so, 85
As under-spheares by the first Mover goe,
Banish't so farre their working, that we can
But know he had some, for we knew him man.
Then let his last excuse his first extremes,
His age saw visions, though his youth dream'd dreams. 90
[72 Receiv'd] Receiv' _1633_]
_On D^{r}._ DONNES _death_:
_By M^{r}._ Mayne _of Christ-Church in Oxford._
Who shall presume to mourn thee, _Donne_, unlesse
He could his teares in thy expressions dresse,
And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearse,
To weepe lines, learned, as thy Anniverse,
A Poëme of that worth, whose every teare 5
Deserves the title of a severall yeare.
Indeed so farre above its Reader, good,
That wee are thought wits, when 'tis understood,
There that blest maid to die, who now should grieve?
After thy sorrow, 'twere her losse to live; 10
And her faire vertues in anothers line,
Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine.
Hadst thou beene shallower, and not writ so high,
Or left some new way for our pennes, or eye,
To shed a funerall teare, perchance thy Tombe 15
Had not beene speechlesse, or our Muses dumbe;
But now wee dare not write, but must conceale
Thy Epitaph, lest we be thought to steale,
For, who hath read thee, and discernes thy worth,
That will not say, thy carelesse houres brought forth 20
Fancies beyond our studies, and thy play
Was happier, then our serious time of day?
So learned was thy chance; thy haste had wit,
And matter from thy pen flow'd rashly fit,
What was thy recreation turnes our braine, 25
Our rack and palenesse, is thy weakest straine.
And when we most come neere thee, 'tis our blisse
To imitate thee, where thou dost amisse.
Here light your muse, you that do onely thinke,
And write, and are just Poëts, as you drinke, 30
In whose weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow,
Just as your recknings rise, that wee may know
In your whole carriage of your worke, that here
This flash you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere,
This is to tap your Muse, which running long 35
Writes flat, and takes our eare not halfe so strong;
Poore Suburbe wits, who, if you want your cup,
Or if a Lord recover, are blowne up.
Could you but reach this height, you should not need
To make, each meale, a project ere you feed, 40
Nor walke in reliques, clothes so old and bare,
As if left off to you from _Ennius_ were,
Nor should your love, in verse, call Mistresse, those,
Who are mine hostesse, or your whores in prose;
From this Muse learne to Court, whose power could move 45
A Cloystred coldnesse, or a Vestall love,
And would convey such errands to their eare,
That Ladies knew no oddes to grant and heare;
But I do wrong thee, _Donne_, and this low praise
Is written onely for thy yonger dayes. 50
I am not growne up, for thy riper parts,
Then should I praise thee, through the Tongues, and Arts,
And have that deepe Divinity, to know,
What mysteries did from thy preaching flow,
Who with thy words could charme thy audience, 55
That at thy sermons, eare was all our sense;
Yet have I seene thee in the pulpit stand,
Where wee might take notes, from thy looke, and hand;
And from thy speaking action beare away
More Sermon, then some teachers use to say. 60
Such was thy carriage, and thy gesture such,
As could divide the heart, and conscience touch.
Thy motion did confute, and wee might see
An errour vanquish'd by delivery.
Not like our Sonnes of Zeale, who to reforme 65
Their hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit storme,
And beate the cushion into worse estate,
Then if they did conclude it reprobate,
Who can out pray the glasse, then lay about
Till all Predestination be runne out. 70
And from the point such tedious uses draw,
Their repetitions would make Gospell, Law.
No, In such temper would thy Sermons flow,
So well did Doctrine, and thy language show,
And had that holy feare, as, hearing thee, 75
The Court would mend, and a good Christian bee.
And Ladies though unhansome, out of grace,
Would heare thee, in their unbought lookes, and face.
More I could write, but let this crowne thine Urne,
Wee cannot hope the like, till thou returne. 80
_Upon M^r J. Donne, and his Poems._
Who dares say thou art dead, when he doth see
(Unburied yet) this living part of thee?
This part that to thy beeing gives fresh flame,
And though th'art _Donne_, yet will preserve thy name.
Thy flesh (whose channels left their crimsen hew, 5
And whey-like ranne at last in a pale blew)
May shew thee mortall, a dead palsie may
Seise on't, and quickly turne it into clay;
Which like the Indian earth, shall rise refin'd:
But this great Spirit thou hast left behinde, 10
This Soule of Verse (in it's first pure estate)
Shall live, for all the World to imitate,
But not come neer, for in thy Fancies flight
Thou dost not stoope unto the vulgar fight,
But, hovering highly in the aire of Wit, 15
Hold'st such a pitch, that few can follow it;
Admire they may. Each object that the Spring
(Or a more piercing influence) doth bring
T'adorne Earths face, thou sweetly did'st contrive
To beauties elements, and thence derive 20
Unspotted Lillies white; which thou did'st set
Hand in hand, with the veine-like Violet,
Making them soft, and warme, and by thy power,
Could'st give both life, and sense, unto a flower.
The Cheries thou hast made to speake, will bee 25
Sweeter unto the taste, then from the tree.
And (spight of winter stormes) amidst the snow
Thou oft hast made the blushing Rose to grow.
The Sea-nimphs, that the watry cavernes keepe,
Have sent their Pearles and Rubies from the deepe 30
To deck thy love, and plac'd by thee, they drew
More lustre to them, then where first they grew.
All minerals (that Earths full wombe doth hold
Promiscuously) thou couldst convert to gold,
And with thy flaming raptures so refine, 35
That it was much more pure then in the Mine.
The lights that guild the night, if thou did'st say,
They looke like eyes, those did out-shine the day;
For there would be more vertue in such spells,
Then in Meridians, or crosse Parallels: 40
What ever was of worth in this great Frame,
That Art could comprehend, or Wit could name,
It was thy theme for Beauty; thou didst see,
Woman, was this faire Worlds Epitomie.
Thy nimble _Satyres_ too, and every straine 45
(With nervy strength) that issued from thy brain,
Will lose the glory of their owne cleare bayes,
If they admit of any others praise.
But thy diviner Poëms (whose cleare fire
Purges all drosse away) shall by a Quire 50
Of Cherubims, with heavenly Notes be set
(Where flesh and blood could ne'r attaine to yet)
There purest Spirits sing such sacred Layes,
In Panegyrique Alleluiaes.
_Arth. Wilson._
_In memory of Doctor Donne: By M^{r} R. B._
_Donne_ dead? 'Tis here reported true, though I
Ne'r yet so much desir'd to heare a lye,
'Tis too too true, for so wee finde it still,
Good newes are often false, but seldome, ill:
But must poore fame tell us his fatall day, 5
And shall we know his death, the common way,
Mee thinkes some Comet bright should have foretold
The death of such a man, for though of old
'Tis held, that Comets Princes death foretell,
Why should not his, have needed one as well? 10
Who was the Prince of wits, 'mongst whom he reign'd,
High as a Prince, and as great State maintain'd?
Yet wants he not his signe, for wee have seene
A dearth, the like to which hath never beene,
Treading on harvests heeles, which doth presage 15
The death of wit and learning, which this age
Shall finde, now he is gone; for though there bee
Much graine in shew, none brought it forth as he,
Or men are misers; or if true want raises
The dearth, then more that dearth _Donnes_ plenty praises. 20
Of learning, languages, of eloquence,
And Poësie, (past rauishing of sense,)
He had a magazine, wherein such store
Was laid up, as might hundreds serve of poore.
But he is gone, O how will his desire 25
Torture all those that warm'd them by his fire?
Mee thinkes I see him in the pulpit standing,
Not eares, or eyes, but all mens hearts commanding,
Where wee that heard him, to our selves did faine
Golden Chrysostome was alive againe; 30
And never were we weari'd, till we saw
His houre (and but an houre) to end did draw.
How did he shame the doctrine-men, and use,
With helps to boot, for men to beare th'abuse
Of their tir'd patience, and endure th'expence 35
Of time, O spent in hearkning to non-sense,
With markes also, enough whereby to know,
The speaker is a zealous dunce, or so.
'Tis true, they quitted him, to their poore power,
They humm'd against him; And with face most sowre 40
Call'd him a strong lin'd man, a Macaroon,
And no way fit to speake to clouted shoone,
As fine words [truly] as you would desire,
But [verily,] but a bad edifier.
Thus did these beetles slight in him that good, 45
They could not see, and much lesse understood.
But we may say, when we compare the stuffe
Both brought; He was a candle, they the snuffe.
Well, Wisedome's of her children justifi'd,
Let therefore these poore fellowes stand aside; 50
Nor, though of learning he deserv'd so highly,
Would I his booke should save him; Rather slily
I should advise his Clergie not to pray,
Though of the learn'dst sort; Me thinkes that they
Of the same trade, are Judges not so fit, 55
There's no such emulation as of wit.
Of such, the Envy might as much perchance
Wrong him, and more, then th'others ignorance.
It was his Fate (I know't) to be envy'd
As much by Clerkes, as lay men magnifi'd; 60
And why? but 'cause he came late in the day,
And yet his Penny earn'd, and had as they.
No more of this, least some should say, that I
Am strai'd to Satyre, meaning Elegie.
No, no, had DONNE need to be judg'd or try'd, 65
A Jury I would summon on his side,
That had no sides, nor factions, past the touch
Of all exceptions, freed from Passion, such
As nor to feare nor flatter, e'r were bred,
These would I bring, though called from the dead: 70
Southampton, Hambleton, Pembrooke, Dorsets Earles,
Huntingdon, Bedfords Countesses (the Pearles
Once of each sexe.) If these suffice not, I
Ten _decem tales_ have of Standers by:
All which, for DONNE, would such a verdict give, 75
As can belong to none, that now doth live.
But what doe I? A diminution 'tis
To speake of him in verse, so short of his,
Whereof he was the master; All indeed
Compar'd with him, pip'd on an Oaten reed. 80
O that you had but one 'mongst all your brothers
Could write for him, as he hath done for others:
(Poets I speake to) When I see't, I'll say,
My eye-sight betters, as my yeares decay,
Meane time a quarrell I shall ever have 85
Against these doughty keepers from the grave,
Who use, it seemes their old Authoritie,
When (Verses men immortall make) they cry:
Which had it been a Recipe true tri'd,
_Probatum esset_, DONNE had never dy'd. 90
For mee, if e'r I had least sparke at all
Of that which they Poetique fire doe call,
Here I confesse it fetched from his hearth,
Which is gone out, now he is gone to earth.
This only a poore flash, a lightning is 95
Before my Muses death, as after his.
Farewell (faire soule) and deigne receive from mee
This Type of that devotion I owe thee,
From whom (while living) as by voice and penne
I learned more, then from a thousand men: 100
So by thy death, am of one doubt releas'd,
And now beleeve that miracles are ceas'd.
_Epitaph._
_Heere lies Deane Donne_; Enough; Those words alone
Shew him as fully, as if all the stone
His Church of Pauls contains, were through inscrib'd
Or all the walkers there, to speake him, brib'd.
None can mistake him, for one such as Hee 5
DONNE, Deane, or Man, more none shall ever see.
Not man? No, though unto a Sunne each eye
Were turn'd, the whole earth so to overspie.
A bold brave word; Yet such brave Spirits as knew
His Spirit, will say, it is lesse bold then true. 10
_Epitaph upon D^r. Donne_,
By _Endy: Porter_.
This decent Urne a sad inscription weares,
Of _Donnes_ departure from us, to the spheares;
And the dumbe stone with silence seemes to tell
The changes of this life, wherein is well
Exprest, A cause to make all joy to cease, 5
And never let our sorrowes more take ease;
For now it is impossible to finde
One fraught with vertues, to inrich a minde;
But why should death, with a promiscuous hand
At one rude stroke impoverish a land? 10
Thou strict Attorney, unto stricter Fate,
Didst thou confiscate his life out of hate
To his rare Parts? Or didst thou throw thy dart,
With envious hand, at some Plebeyan heart;
And he with pious vertue stept betweene 15
To save that stroke, and so was kill'd unseene
By thee? O 'twas his goodnesse so to doe,
Which humane kindnesse never reacht unto.
Thus the hard lawes of death were satisfi'd,
And he left us like Orphan friends, and di'de. 20
Now from the Pulpit to the peoples eares,
Whose speech shall send repentant sighes, and teares?
Or tell mee, if a purer Virgin die,
Who shall hereafter write her Elegie?
Poets be silent, let your numbers sleepe, 25
For he is gone that did all phansie keepe;
Time hath no Soule, but his exalted verse;
Which with amazements, we may now reherse.
In obitum venerabilis viri _Iohannis Donne_, sacræ
Theologiæ Doctoris, Ecclesiæ Cathedralis Divi _Pauli_,
nuper Decani; Illi honoris, tibi (multum mihi colende
Vir) observantiæ ergo Hæc ego.
_Conquerar? ignavoque sequar tua funera planctu?
Sed lachrimæ clausistis iter: nec muta querelas
Lingua potest proferre pias: ignoscite manes
Defuncti, & tacito finite indulgere dolori.
Sed scelus est tacuisse: cadant in mœsta lituræ 5
Verba. Tuis (docta umbra) tuis hæc accipe jussis
Cæpta, nec officii contemnens pignora nostri
Aversare tuâ non dignum laude Poëtam.
O si Pythagoræ non vanum dogma fuisset:
Inque meum â vestro migraret pectore pectus 10
Musa, repentinos tua nosceret urna furores.
Sed frustra, heu frustra hæc votis puerilibus opto:
Tecum abiit, summoque sedens jam monte Thalia
Ridet anhelantes, Parnassi & culmina vates
Desperare jubet. Verum hâc nolente coactos 15
Scribimus audaces numeros, & flebile carmen
Scribimus (ô soli qui te dilexit) habendum.
Siccine perpetuus liventia lumina somnus
Clausit? & immerito merguntur funere virtus?
Et pietas? & quæ poterant fecisse beatum, 20
Cætera, sed nec te poterant servare beatum.
Quo mihi doctrinam? quorsum impallescere chartis
Nocturnis juvat? & totidem olfecisse lucernas?
Decolor & longos studiis deperdere Soles
Vt prius aggredior, longamque arcessere famam. 25
Omnia sed frustra: mihi dum cunctisque minatur
Exitium crudele & inexorabile fatum.
Nam post te sperare nihil decet: hoc mihi restat
Vt moriar, tenues fugiatque obscurus in auras
Spiritus: ô doctis saltem si cognitus umbris. 30
Illic te (venerande) iterum, (venerande) videbo.
Et dulces audire sonós, & verba diserti
Oris, & æternas dabitur mihi carpere voces.
Quêis ferus infernæ tacuisset Ianitor aulæ
Auditis: Nilusque minus strepuisset: Arion 35
Cederet, & sylvas qui post se traxerat Orpheus.
Eloquio sic ille viros, sic ille movere
Voce feros potuit: quis enim tam barbarus? aut tam
Facundis nimis infestus non motus ut illo
Hortante, & blando victus sermone sileret? 40
Sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat,
Singula sic decuere senem, sic omnia. Vidi,
Audivi & stupui quoties orator in Æde
Paulina stetit, & mira gravitate levantes
Corda, oculosque viros tenuit: dum Nestoris ille 45
Fudit verba (omni quanta mage dulcia melle?)
Nunc habet attonitos, pandit mysteria plebi
Non concessa prius nondum intellecta: revolvunt
Mirantes, tacitique arrectis auribus astant.
Mutatis mox ille modo, formaque loquendi 50
Tristia pertractat: fatumque & flebile mortis
Tempus, & in cineres redeunt quod corpora primos.
Tunc gemitum cunctos dare, tunc lugere videres,
Forsitan à lachrymis aliquis non temperat, atque
Ex oculis largum stillat rorem; ætheris illo 55
Sic pater audito voluit succumbere turbam,
Affectusque ciere suos, & ponere notæ
Vocis ad arbitrium, divinæ oracula mentis
Dum narrat, rostrisque potens dominatur in altis.
Quo feror? audaci & forsan pietate nocenti 60
In nimia ignoscas vati, qui vatibus olim
Egregium decus, et tanto excellentior unus
Omnibus; inferior quanto est, et pessimus, impar
Laudibus hisce, tibi qui nunc facit ista Poëta.
Et quo nos canimus? cur hæc tibi sacra? Poëtæ 65
Desinite: en fati certus, sibi voce canorâ
Inferias præmisit olor, cum Carolus Albâ
(Vltima volventem et Cycnæâ voce loquentem)
Nuper eum, turba & magnatum audiret in Aulâ.
Tunc Rex, tunc Proceres, Clerus, tunc astitit illi 70
Aula frequens. Solâ nunc in tellure recumbit,
Vermibus esca, pio malint nisi parcere: quidni
Incipiant & amare famem? Metuere Leones
Sic olim, sacrosque artus violare Prophetæ
Bellua non ausa est qùamquam jejuna, sitimque 75
Optaret nimis humano satiare cruore.
At non hæc de te sperabimus; omnia carpit
Prædator vermis: nec talis contigit illi
Præda diu; forsan metrico pede serpet ab inde:
Vescere, & exhausto satia te sanguine. Iam nos 80
Adsumus; et post te cupiet quis vivere? Post te
Quis volet, aut poterit? nam post te vivere mors est.
Et tamen ingratas ignavi ducimus auras:
Sustinet & tibi lingua vale, vale dicere: parce
Non festinanti æternum requiescere turbæ. 85
Ipsa satis properat quæ nescit Parca morari,
Nunc urgere colum, trahere atque occare videmus.
Quin rursus (Venerande) Vale, vale: ordine nos te
Quo Deus, & quo dura volet natura sequemur.
Depositum interea lapides servate fideles. 90
Fœlices illâ quêis Ædis parte locari
Quâ jacet iste datur. Forsan lapis inde loquetur,
Parturietque viro plenus testantia luctus
Verba: & carminibus quæ Donni suggeret illi
Spiritus, insolitos testari voce calores 95
Incipiet: (non sic Pyrrhâ jactante calebat.)
Mole sub hâc tegitur quicquid mortale relictum est
De tanto mortale viro. Qui præfuit Ædi huic,
Formosi pecoris pastor, formosior ipse.
Ite igitur, dignisque illum celebrate loquelis, 100
Et quæ demuntur vitæ date tempora famæ._
Indignus tantorum meritorum Præco, virtutum
tuarum cultor religiosissimus,