FROM LACHRYMÆ LACHRYMARUM, 1613.
Upon the unseasonable times that have followed the unseasonable death of my sweete master, Prince Henry, by J. Hall.
"Fond vulgar, canst thou thinke it strange to find,
So watery water, and so wastefull winde ?
What other face could nature's age become,
In looking on great Henry's herse and toome?
The world's whole frame, his part in mourning beares:
The windes are sighes: the raine is heaven's teares:
And if these teares be rife, and sighes be strong,
Such sighs, such teares, to these sad times belong.
These show'rs have drown'd all hearts: these sighs did make
The church, the world, with griefs, with tears to shake.
Weep on, ye heav'ns; and sigh as ye begon:
Men's sighes and teares are slight, and quickly done.
Of the Rainbowe, that was reported to be seen in the night, over St. James's, before the Prince's death; and of the unseasonable winter since, by J. Hall.
Was ever mighty Rainbowe seen?
Did ever winter mourne in greene?
Had that long Bowe been bent by day,
That chased all our clouds away :
But now that it by night appeares,
It tells the deluge of our teares.
No marvell rainbowes shine by night,
When suns yshorne do lose their light.
Iris was wont to be of old
Heaven's messenger to earthly mold;
And now she came, to bring us down
Sad newes of Henry's better crowne.
And as the Easterne star did tell
The Persian sages of that cell,
Where Sion's King was borne, and lay;
And over that same house did stay:
So did this westerne breeze descry
Where Henry prince of men should die.
Lo there this arch of heavenly state
Rais'd to the triumph of his fate;
Yet, rais'd in dark of night to showe
His glory should be with our woe.
And now, for that men's mourning weed,
Reports a griefe, not felt indeed;
The winter weeps, and mournes indeed,
Though clothed in a summer weed.
To Master Joshua Sylvester.
I dare confesse, of Muses more than nine,
Nor list, nor can I envi none but thine.
She's drench't alone in Sion's sacred spring,
Her Maker's praise hath sweetly chose to sing,
And reacheth neerest th' Angels' notes above,
Nor lists to sing, or tales, or wars, or love.
One while I finde her in her nimble flight,
Cutting the brazen spheares of heaven bright,
Thence rushing downe through native's closet dore,
She ransacks all her Grandame's secret store,
And diving to the darknesse of the deepe,
Sees there what wealth the waves in prison keep,
And, what shee sees above, below, between,*
Shee showes and sings to other's ears and eyes.
'Tis true; thy Muse another's steps doth presse.
The more's her paine; nor is her praise the lesse.
Freedome gives scope unto the roving thought,
Which by restraint is curb'd. Who wonders ought
That feete unfett'red, walken far, or fast,
Which pent with chaines, more want their wonted haste.
Thou follow'st Bartasse's diviner straine ;
And sing'st his numbers in his native veine.
Bartas was some French angel, girt with bayes,
And thou a Bartas art, in English layes.
Whether is more? mee seems the sooth to sayn,
One Bartas speakes in tongues, in nations twain.
Other poems by Bishop Hall occur in Carmen Funebre Caroli Horni, 1596, and in funeral verses upon the death of Sir Edward Lewkenor and his Lady, 1606. An encomiastic epigram by him is prefixed to Greenham's works, 1601; and verses In Autorem before Bishop Bedell's Tale of the Powder Plot.
* Qu. the transcript here? Editor.
"The Wil of Wit, Wit's Wil, or Wil's Wit, chuse you whether. Containing five discourses, the effects whereof follow. Reade and iudge. Newly corrected and amended; being the fift time imprinted. Compiled by Nicholas Breton, Gentleman.
London, printed by Thomas Creede, 1606.”
Ad Lectorem, de Authore.
What shall I say of gold, more than 'tis gold?
Or call the diamond more than precious?
Or praise the man with praises manifold,
When of himselfe himselfe is vertuous ?
Wit is but Wit, yet such his wit and will,
As proves ill good, or makes good to be ill.
Why, what's his wit? proved, and aske his will.
Why, what's his will? reade on, and learne of Wit.
Both good I gesse, yet each a severall ill.
This may seeme strange to those that heare of it.
Nay, nere a whit: for vertue, many waies,
Is made a vice,-yet vertue hath her praise.
Wherefore, O BRETON! worthy is thy worke
Of commendations, worthy to the worth:
Sith captious wittes in every corner lurke,
A bold attempt it is to set them forth
A forme of wit-and that of such a sort
As none offends-for all is said in sport.
And such a sport, as serves for other kinds,
Both young and old, for learning, armes, and love.
For ladies' humors, mirth with none he findes,
With some extreames their patient mindes to prove.
Well, BRETON! write in hand, thou hast the thing,
As when it comes, love, wealth, and fame will bring.
The three following are taken from this Tract.
A Song betweene Wit and Will.
Wit. What art thou, Will?
W. Who was thy syre?
W. Thy mother who?
W. When wert thou born?
W. And where brought up? W. In schoole of little skill.
W. What learn'dst thou there? W. Love is my lesson still.
W. A babe of nature's broode.
W. Sweet lust, as lovers say.
W. Wilde, lustie, wanton blood.
W. In merrie moneth of May.
The Song between Miserie and Care.
Mis. What art thou, Care? C. A secret skil unseene.
M. Who was thy syre? C. Sound Wisdome. M. Mother who?
Devise. M. And who thy nurse? C. Delight, I weene. M. When wert thou born? C. In harvest. M. What to do? C. To worke. M. With whom? C. With Wit and honest Will.
M. What worke? C. In paine-to gleane the good from ill.
Come, all the world, submit yourselves to Care,
And him acknowledge for your chiefest king;
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