Musarum plangores: Vpon the death of the right Honou
rable,
Sir Christopher Hatton,
Knight, &c.
FLock on apace you troups of saddest wights,
Flie fast vnto repining Sorrowes Cell,
Banish your ioyes, abandon all delights,
And count each pleasing moment for a hell.
For he that late did moue your sweete content,
Euen now his chiefest fire of life hath spent.
Muses come mourne, come gentle Muses weepe,
Wayle you the want of such an English Peere:
Whose vertues might vprayse from deadly sleepe,
The Ghoasts of Poets buried many a yeere.
Whose ceaseles moanes might pearce the azurd skies,
And fill fayre Albion with their wofull cries.
Perisht is the roote from whence such branches sprang,
Dimd is the light that glistered like the Sunne,
Whose worthy deedes to euery Region rang,
And hath ere since his Honour first begunne.
Then you that lou'd the Lord that gaue the HINDE,
Breathe foorth the sorrowes of your mournful minde.
Princeps.
SOrrow is seal'd vpon our Pallace gate,
And Heauinesse with discontented steps,
Hath chosen Sighs to be his carefull mate,
whereby our heart with inward passions leaps.
How can the Members then but be distrest,
When as the Head so highly is opprest?
Our Cedar stock hath lost a liuely branch,
And Death the hunts-man of our humane race,
His fierce and egre appetite to stanch,
In ranging through our Forrest Syluane chace,
Hath slayne the spotles HINDE with cruell spight,
In whome his Prince reposde a chiefe delight.
Syluanes approach with mournefull melodie,
And wooddy Nymphs, that sit in spreading bowres:
With brackish teares commix your harmanie,
To wayle with me both minutes, months, and howres.
For we haue lost that nothing can amend:
A faythfull subiect and a loyall friend.
Primates.
VPon the Sea, in threatning winters frowne,
When rising billowes struggle with the winde:
What sooner casts the Sea-mans courage downe,
Then want of him their Pilot was assignde?
Such may we call misfortune of our state,
Depriu'd the counsell of a worthy mate.
If brothers doo lament a brothers death,
And Nature ioyne the Parent to deplore
His tender sonne, bereft of vitall breath:
If for their young the sauage beasts will rore,
Then Reason, Nature, dutie knit in one,
For our graue friend inioyneth vs to mone.
The grace he got by vertue to arise,
Was gouerned with such an humble minde;
As none his Honours titles could despise,
Or for his fauour any grudging finde:
Such name his wisdome alwayes sought to haue,
Loued he liu'd, and honoured to his graue.
Populus.
BLack Sorrowes night with dismall pitchie cloudes,
Hath chast the comfort of the day from hence,
Within a hollow toombe our Solace shrowds,
And Desolation burieth our defence.
For which in teares, in sighes, in harts distresse,
We now are forst to shew our heauinesse.
Our cryes were heard, our prayers found remorce,
Our helpe stood not on lingering delay,
Pitie in him retaynd a greater force,
And Iustice walkt in Vertues perfect way:
Nor meede, nor friendship euer could auayle
To make our iust and noble Patron quayle.
Why ist not graunted of deuiner powers,
That such as best maintaines their sacred lawes,
Should haue the longest dayes and happiest howers,
Where honour springs by vertues worthie cause?
But all things precious and of purest price
Forsakes the earth, to dwell aboue the skyes.
Musarum plangores.
Melpomene.
NOt from the sea (though salt doth hide my brest)
But from a flood of teares, bankt in with griefe,
Whereas the black-foot Rauen sought for rest,
I come to menace moane without reliefe:
My pen is Ebon, and my paper earth,
Where I must write of honours endles dearth.
My palled face, my eylids hung with lead,
The Arches hollow, like the chalkie cliffes,
My teeth that chatters ecchoes from the dead,
Forst by their sighes that through their sorrow whiffes,
Shewes that some noble Lord hath left this land,
Whose honourd graces, multiplied with sand.
Of earths more tarter is my body made,
Of waters scumme ordaynd to tragick tale:
Yet were I harsher, his faire flowering fade
Would make my sullen nature couch and quaile.
And so my tragick Muse shall sit and write,
The wasting woe the Commons shall indite.
Polihymnia.
CEase prowd vayn glorious birds, and buzzing windes,
My Rethorick shall perswade me more to sing:
But neasts of Hornets from the rotten rindes,
A harsher murmure to my sorrow bring.
For from the groaues (inchaunted now with care)
The HINDE is wandred: ill the flock doo fare.
The tongue of Time doth sightles glyde away,
And carieth Enuie with his swift-foot course,
His spightfull Date hath brought before the day,
An end to Honour (fell without remorse)
My Rethorick now shall be to ridgie rocks,
Where Ruine feedes in stead of quiet flocks.
The quill I lately pluckt from Hermes wing
Shall write my groaning playnt vnto the skye,
There shall the Throni with their Censors sing,
His Noblesse and his Honours victory.
And with this pen the burthen I will beare,
That all may know how heauen his prayse doth reare.
Calliope.
NOw Phoebus Altars crack with rotten weedes,
None bringeth spices from the Phoenix nest:
Who discontented with those choaking seedes,
Brings floods of teares to drowne that noy some Feast.
His browes as smooth, as was his Iuory Lute,
Sends lookes for frownings with a swift pursute.
This makes me cast my Musick to the grouund,
And send Musaeus back againe to hell,
The nights sad Prophet makes me pleasant sound,
And breedes desire within a caue to dwell:
For all my Sisters drop their teares like showers,
And leaue the pleasure of Idalian bowers.
Of round Cayister quills Ile make a pipe,
And sing the Swannes last song vpon this hill:
For Death doth Honour with his tallants gripe
And with his blasting breath the Bay doth spill.
Hereafter what I write shall be in praise
Of him, his bountie and his vertuous dayes.
Clio.
MY ancient bookes of grauen monumentes
Are claspt for euer vp with dustie leaues,
For in the margent lyes my discontents,
How Fate and Death of Honour me bereaues,
Ile change my late Historicall intent,
To write with them whose groanes to clay are sent.
Yet first Ile turne my Pen vnto a Spade,
And chuse the entray les of the purest mould,
Where when I see this noble Lord is layd,
Ile write the rest my Sisters leaue vntould:
The ground shall be embalm'd with Muses breath,
Whose vertue purgeth all contagious earth.
Then shall my Sisters daunce about his Toombe,
And with their feete shall make a wreath of flowers:
So shall his Coarse be stucke with vertuous bloome,
Shall make the ground smell like perfumed bowers,
And of these flowers I will Garlands make,
And euer weare them for his noble sake.
Thalia.
SVrceasing pastime of my comick pen,
Ile tune my laughter vnto low'd exclaymes
And tragick teares the floods of sorrowing men,
Doo seeke to quench the fire that honour flames.
My labouring hand doth let my tongue preuaile,
To treate of sorrow when my mirth doth faile.
Ile set my breast to Lacus dulcis streame,
And swim vnto Elisean lillie field,
And in Ambrosian trees Ile write a Theame,
Of all his deedes that Honour hath vpheld:
My dwelling is too full of mirth and glee,
To write the Poëms of a Tragedie.
To all the Poets that inhabite there,
Hauing their wits refind with heauenly ayre,
By me his gifts of wisedome shall appeare,
And they shall sing them to the highest fayre:
Then turning backe from whence I came agayne,
Ile write of that which hath my pleasure slayne.
Euterpe.
THe Northerne Hunter blowes his ycie Horne,
And bids me lay aside my windie sound,
And blackfast stormes out-braue the rosie morne,
And makes her looke as heauie as the ground:
So like the noyce of frost and rayne together,
My euill sounding Musick tunes with wether.
Stiffe are my fingers like a Marble stone,
Vnfit to mooue a warbling instrument:
My tawnie skinne is shriueled to the bone,
As if my senceles Senses did lament,
The silent tale with dumbe deliuerance,
The passion of some heauie dire mischance.
My tongue incorporate with my scalding roofe,
Feares to report the fayling of my hand,
My sorrowing playmates shrink, and kepe a loofe,
As if a darth did couer all the land:
No darth, because it is not barren brought,
But yet the fruit is cropt which deare I bought.
Tarpsicore.
MY Harp is strung with stretching Sorrowes strings,
And Death hath tunde it with his knobbie bones,
A solemne dump, the Musick that it ringes,
Linked in Consort with deepe fetched groanes.
For with my Sisters in a Cipres bower,
My Blisse is Bale, my Sweete tormenting Sower.
The Summers season with her fresh attyre,
That alwayes vsde t'muite me to her Pallace:
Where Nightingales did make a pleasant Quiere,
With sundry Layes to cause their Soueraignes Solace;
Is nipt with Winter, and her pride is lost,
My fingers stiffe, my sences numbd with Frost.
The prospect that appeareth to my eyes,
Are wringing handes of such that are forlorne:
My eares are fild with Ecchoes double cries,
Proceeding from vnconstant Fortunes scorne.
Thus are my Eyes, my Eares, my Hand and Heart,
Made thrall to Sorrowes neuer dying smart.
Erato.
I That did measure haughty Towers tops,
And tooke the compasse of the largest ground,
My Sorrowes headlong course no Reason stoppes,
And infinite mine agonies abound.
For that proportion nature ritchly framde,
By Death dissolue'd doth make the Graces blam'd.
The numbers that adorn'd my sacred skill,
Are now become Decrees of waxing Woe:
My studie is distresse, my bookes doo kill,
And contemplation maketh dolors growe,
Because the substance that I wisht to saue,
Hath his dimension in a senceles graue.
But since the Destinies haue been seuere
To rob the earth of her assur'd delight,
Ile finde a place deuoyd of deadly feare,
To measure out a mansion farre more bright,
Where free from harmes, or any foule annoy,
This Potentate shall haue eternall ioy.
Urania.
GIue me (at last fayre Sisters) leaue to speake,
Me thinkes you should not wilfully repine,
Or with extremities your dueties breake,
When as the glorie and the gayne is mine:
It grieues not me, when ought accords your will,
Your ouerflowing mirth, my ioyes doth fill.
Draw in your teares and let your sighes surcease,
Exile exclaymings from your drouping harts:
For with his death his Honours doth increase.
And though the earth contaynes his humane parts,
Yet shall his soule made pure with heauenly ayre,
Receiue the guerdon of his vertuous care.
The starres bright eye shall guide his happie feete,
The sunne of gladnes shine vpon his face,
The glorious Planets where so ere they meete,
Within their shining armes his soule embrace.
So that although his mortall dayes doo wayne,
Dispayre not Sisters greater is his gayne.
FINIS.
R. Ihonson. Sa: