And, when ye hear that I am dead or slain,
Lament my lot, and tell your fellow-swains,
That sad Alcyon died in life's disdain.
“And ye, fair Damsels! Shepherds' dear delights,
That with your loves do their rude hearts possess,
When as my hearse shall happen to your sights,
Vouchsafe to deck the same with Cyparesse;
And ever sprinkle brackish tears among,
In pity of my undeserved distress,
The which, I, wretch, endurèd have thus long.
"And ye, poor Pilgrims! that with restless toil
Weary yourselves in wandring desert ways,
Till that you come where ye your vows assoil,
When passing by ye read these woeful lays,
On my grave written, rue my Daphne's wrong,
And mourn for me that languish out my days.
Cease, Shepherd! cease, and end thy under-song."
Thus when he ended had his heavy plaint,
The heaviest plaint that ever I heard sound,
His cheeks waxed pale, and sprites began to faint,
As if again he would have fallen to ground;
Which, when I saw, I (stepping to him light)
Amoved him out of his stony swound,
And 'gan him to re-comfort as I might.
But he no way re-comforted would be,
Nor suffer solace to approach him nigh,
But casting up a 'sdainful eye at me,
That in his trance I would not let him lie,
Did rend his hair, and beat his blubbered face,
As one disposèd wilfully to die,
That I sore grieved to see his wretched case.
Tho* when the pang was somewhat overpassed,
And the outrageous passion nigh appeased,
I him desired sith day was overcast,
And dark night fast approachèd, to be pleased
To turn aside unto my Cabinet,
And stay with me, till he were better eased
Of that strong stound which him so sore beset.
But by no means I could him win thereto,
Ne longer him intreat with me to stay,
But without taking leave he forth did go
With staggering pace and dismal looks' dismay,
As if that death he in the face had seen,
Or hellish hags had met upon the way;
But what of him became I cannot ween.
Edmund Spenser, 1552-1598.
[From "An Anatomy of the world; Wherein, by occasion of the untimely death of Mrs Elizabeth Drury, the frailty and the decay of this whole world is represented"; with the "First Anniversary" of which, it was first published in 1611. The Second Anniversary was added to the second edition of 1612.]
'Tis loss to trust a tomb with such a guest,
Or to confine her in a marble chest.
Alas! what's marble, jet, or porphyry,
Prized with the chrysolite of either eye,
Or with those pearls and rubies which she was?
Join the two Indies in one tomb, 'tis glass;
And so is all, to her materials,
Though every inch were ten Escurials;
Yet she's demolished; can we keep her then
In works of hands, or of the wits of men?
Can these memorials, rags of paper, give
Life to that name, by which name they must live?
Sickly, alas! short lived, abortive be
Those carcase verses, whose soul is not she;
And can she, who no longer would be she,
Being such a tabernacle stoop to be
In paper wrapped: or when she would not lie
In such a house, dwell in an elegy?
But 'tis no matter: we may well allow
Verse to live so long as the world will now,
For her death wounded it. The world contains
Princes for arms and counsellors for brains,
Lawyers for tongues, divines for hearts, and more,
The rich for stomachs, and for backs the poor;
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 pieces which beget
Wonder and love; and these were she: and she
Being spent, the world must needs decrepit be.
For since death will proceed to triumph still,
He can find nothing, after her, to kill,
Except the world itself, so great as she.
Thus brave and confident may nature be,
Death cannot give her such another blow,
Because she cannot such another show.
But must we say she's dead? may't not be said,
That as a sundered clock is piecemeal laid,
Not to be lost, but by the maker's hand
Repolished without error then to stand,
Or as the Afric Niger stream enwombs
Itself into the earth, and after comes
-Having first made a natural bridge, to pass
For many leagues-far greater than it was,
May't not be said, that her grave shall restore
Her, greater, purer, firmer than before?
Heaven may say this, and joy in 't but can we
Who live, and lack her here, this vantage see?
What is't to us, alas! if there have been
An angel made, a throne, or cherubin?
We lose by 't: and as agèd men are glad
Being tasteless grown, to joy in joys they had,
So now the sick, starved world must feed upon
This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.
Rejoice, then, nature, and this world, that you,
Fearing the last fires hastening to subdue
Your force and vigour, ere it were near gone,
Wisely bestowed and laid it all on one;
One, whose clear body was so pure and thin,
Because it need disguise no thought within;
'Twas but a through-light scarf her mind to enroll,
Or exhalation breathed out from her soul;
One whom all men, who durst no more, admired;
And whom, whoe'er had worth enough, desired;
As when a temple's built saints emulate
To which of them it shall be consecrate.
But as, when heaven looks on us with new eyes,
Those new stars every artist exercise;
What place they should assign to them they doubt,
Argue, and agree not, till those stars go out;
So the world studied whose this piece should be,
Till she can be nobody's else, nor she;
But like a lump of balsamum, desired
Rather to adorn than last, she soon expired.
Clothed in her virgin white integrity
-For marriage, though it doth not stain, doth dye-
To escape the infirmities which wait upon
Woman, she went away before she was one;
And the world's busy noise to overcome,
Took so much death as served for opium;
For though she could not, nor could choose to die,
She hath yielded to too long an ecstacy.
He which, not knowing her sad history,
Should come to read the book of destiny,
How fair, and chaste, humble and high she'd been
Much promised, much performed, at not fifteen,
And measuring future things by things before,
Should turn the leaf to read, and read no more,
Would think that either destiny mistook,
Or that some leaves were torn out of the book.
But 'tis not so: fate did but usher her
To years of reason's use, and then infer
Her destiny to herself, which liberty
She took, but for thus much, thus much to die.
Her modesty not suffering her to be
Fellow-commissioner with destiny,
She did no more but die: if after her
Any shall live, which dare true good prefer,
Every such person is her delegate,
To accomplish that which should have been her fate.
They shall make up that book and shall have thanks
Of fate, and her, for filling up their blanks;
For future virtuous deeds are legacies
Which from the gift of her example rise;
And 'tis in heaven part of spiritual mirth,
To see how well the good play her, on earth.
On my Muse the truly honoured Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby; who living, gave me leave to call her so. Being her ȧrobéwois, or Relation to the Saints.
[From "Eupheme or the Fair Fame left to Posterity of that Truly noble Lady the Lady Venetia Digby, Late Wife of Sir Kenelme Digby, Knt.," of which it is Part IX.*]
'Twere time that I died too, now she is dead,
Who was my Muse, and life of all I said;
The spirit that I wrote with, and conceived:
All that was good, or great with me, she weaved,
* From “Underwoods: consisting of Divers Poems,” 1641, part of the second folio edition.
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