Lucasta [41]
fifteen cals matrons on the stage, Whilst not a blemish or least staine is scene On your white roabe 'twixt fifty and fifteene; But as it in your swathing-bands was given, Bring't in your winding sheet unsoyl'd to Heav'n. Daere to do purely, without compact good, Or herald, by no one understood But him, who now in thanks bows either knee For th' early benefit and secresie.
Dare to affect a serious holy sorrow, To which delights of pallaces are narrow, And, lasting as their smiles, dig you a roome, Where practise the probation of your tombe With ever-bended knees and piercing pray'r, Smooth the rough passe through craggy earth to ay'r; Flame there as lights that shipwrackt mariners May put in safely, and secure their feares, Who, adding to your joyes, now owe you theirs.
Virgins, if thus you dare but courage take To follow her in life, else through this lake Of Nature wade, and breake her earthly bars, Y' are fixt with her upon a throne of stars, Arched with a pure Heav'n chrystaline, Where round you love and joy for ever shine.
But you are dumbe, as what you do lament More senseles then her very monument, Which at your weaknes weeps. Spare that vaine teare, Enough to burst the rev'rend sepulcher. Rise and walk home; there groaning prostrate fall, And celebrate your owne sad funerall: For howsoe're you move, may heare, or see, YOU ARE MORE DEAD AND BURIED THEN SHEE.
<42.1> Cassandra Cotton, only daughter of Sir George Cotton, of Warblenton, Co. Sussex, and of Bedhampton, co. Hants, died some time before 1649, unmarried. She was the sister of Charles Cotton the elder, and aunt to the poet. See WALTON'S ANGLER, ed. Nicolas, Introduction, clxvi.
THE VINTAGE TO THE DUNGEON. A SONG.<43.1> SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES.
I. Sing out, pent soules, sing cheerefully! Care shackles you in liberty: Mirth frees you in captivity. Would you double fetters adde? Else why so sadde?
Chorus. Besides your pinion'd armes youl finde Griefe too can manakell the minde.
II. Live then, pris'ners, uncontrol'd; Drink oth' strong, the rich, the old, Till wine too hath your wits in hold; Then if still your jollitie And throats are free--
Chorus. Tryumph in your bonds and paines, And daunce to the music of your chaines.
<43.1> Probably composed during the poet's confinement in Peterhouse.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH FILMER.<44.1> AN ELEGIACALL EPITAPH.
You that shall live awhile, before Old time tyrs, and is no more: When that this ambitious stone Stoopes low as what it tramples on: Know that in that age, when sinne Gave the world law, and governd Queene, A virgin liv'd, that still put on White thoughts, though out of fashion: That trac't the stars, 'spite of report, And durst be good, though chidden for't: Of such a soule that infant Heav'n Repented what it thus had giv'n: For finding equall happy man, Th' impatient pow'rs snatch it agen. Thus, chaste as th' ayre whither shee's fled, She, making her celestiall bed In her warme alablaster, lay As cold is in this house of clay: Nor were the rooms unfit to feast Or circumscribe this angel-guest; The radiant gemme was brightly set In as divine a carkanet; Of<44.2> which the clearer was not knowne, Her minde or her complexion. Such an everlasting grace, Such a beatifick face, Incloysters here this narrow floore, That possest all hearts before.
Blest and bewayl'd in death and birth! The smiles and teares of heav'n and earth! Virgins at each step are afeard, Filmer is shot by which they steer'd, Their star extinct, their beauty dead, That the yong world to honour led; But see! the rapid spheres stand still, And tune themselves unto her will.
Thus, although this marble must, As all things, crumble into dust, And though you finde this faire-built tombe Ashes, as what lyes in its wombe: Yet her saint-like name shall shine A living glory to this shrine, And her eternall fame be read, When all but VERY VERTUE'S DEAD.<44.3>
Dare to affect a serious holy sorrow, To which delights of pallaces are narrow, And, lasting as their smiles, dig you a roome, Where practise the probation of your tombe With ever-bended knees and piercing pray'r, Smooth the rough passe through craggy earth to ay'r; Flame there as lights that shipwrackt mariners May put in safely, and secure their feares, Who, adding to your joyes, now owe you theirs.
Virgins, if thus you dare but courage take To follow her in life, else through this lake Of Nature wade, and breake her earthly bars, Y' are fixt with her upon a throne of stars, Arched with a pure Heav'n chrystaline, Where round you love and joy for ever shine.
But you are dumbe, as what you do lament More senseles then her very monument, Which at your weaknes weeps. Spare that vaine teare, Enough to burst the rev'rend sepulcher. Rise and walk home; there groaning prostrate fall, And celebrate your owne sad funerall: For howsoe're you move, may heare, or see, YOU ARE MORE DEAD AND BURIED THEN SHEE.
<42.1> Cassandra Cotton, only daughter of Sir George Cotton, of Warblenton, Co. Sussex, and of Bedhampton, co. Hants, died some time before 1649, unmarried. She was the sister of Charles Cotton the elder, and aunt to the poet. See WALTON'S ANGLER, ed. Nicolas, Introduction, clxvi.
THE VINTAGE TO THE DUNGEON. A SONG.<43.1> SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES.
I. Sing out, pent soules, sing cheerefully! Care shackles you in liberty: Mirth frees you in captivity. Would you double fetters adde? Else why so sadde?
Chorus. Besides your pinion'd armes youl finde Griefe too can manakell the minde.
II. Live then, pris'ners, uncontrol'd; Drink oth' strong, the rich, the old, Till wine too hath your wits in hold; Then if still your jollitie And throats are free--
Chorus. Tryumph in your bonds and paines, And daunce to the music of your chaines.
<43.1> Probably composed during the poet's confinement in Peterhouse.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH FILMER.<44.1> AN ELEGIACALL EPITAPH.
You that shall live awhile, before Old time tyrs, and is no more: When that this ambitious stone Stoopes low as what it tramples on: Know that in that age, when sinne Gave the world law, and governd Queene, A virgin liv'd, that still put on White thoughts, though out of fashion: That trac't the stars, 'spite of report, And durst be good, though chidden for't: Of such a soule that infant Heav'n Repented what it thus had giv'n: For finding equall happy man, Th' impatient pow'rs snatch it agen. Thus, chaste as th' ayre whither shee's fled, She, making her celestiall bed In her warme alablaster, lay As cold is in this house of clay: Nor were the rooms unfit to feast Or circumscribe this angel-guest; The radiant gemme was brightly set In as divine a carkanet; Of<44.2> which the clearer was not knowne, Her minde or her complexion. Such an everlasting grace, Such a beatifick face, Incloysters here this narrow floore, That possest all hearts before.
Blest and bewayl'd in death and birth! The smiles and teares of heav'n and earth! Virgins at each step are afeard, Filmer is shot by which they steer'd, Their star extinct, their beauty dead, That the yong world to honour led; But see! the rapid spheres stand still, And tune themselves unto her will.
Thus, although this marble must, As all things, crumble into dust, And though you finde this faire-built tombe Ashes, as what lyes in its wombe: Yet her saint-like name shall shine A living glory to this shrine, And her eternall fame be read, When all but VERY VERTUE'S DEAD.<44.3>