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An Elegie, or friends pas-
sion, for his Astrophill.

Written upon the death of the right Honourable sir
Phillip Sidney Knight, Lord gouernour
of Flushing.

Asthen, no winde at all there blew,

No swelling cloude, accloid the aire,
The skie like glasse of watchet hew,
Reflected Phoebus golden haire,

The garnisht tree, no pendant stird,
No voice was heard of anie bird.

There might you see the burly Beare
The Lion king, the Elephant,
The maiden Vnicorne was there,
So was Acteons horned plant,

And what of wilde or tame are found,
Were coucht in order on the ground.

Alcides speckled poplar tree,
The palme that Monarchs do obtaine,
With Loue iuice staind the mulberie,
The fruit that dewes the Poets braine,
And Phillis philbert there away,
Comparde with mirtle and the bay.

The tree that coffins doth adorne,
With stately height threatning the skie,
And for the bed of Loue forlorne,
The blacke and dolefull Ebonie,
All in a circle compast were,
Like to an Amphitheater.

Vpon the branches of those trees,
The airie winged people sat,
Distinguished in od degrees,
One sort in this, another that,

Here Philomell, that knowes full well,
What force and wit in loue doth dwell.

The skiebred Egle roiall bird,
Percht there vpon an oke aboue,
The Turtle by him neuer stird,
Example of immortall loue.

The swan that sings about to dy,
Leauing Meander, stood thereby.
And that which was of woonder most,
The Phoenix left sweet Arabie:
And on a Cædar in this coast,
Built vp her tombe of spicerie,
As I coniecture by the same,
Preparde to take her dying flame.

In midst and center of this plot,
I saw one groueling on the grasse:
A man or stone, I knew not what.
No stone, of man the figure was,
And yet I could not count him one,
More than the image made of stone.
At length I might perceiue him reare
His bodie on his elbow end:
Earthly and pale with gastly cheare,
10 Vpon his knees he vpward tend,

Seeming like one in vncouth stound,
To be ascending out the ground.

A grieuous sigh forthwith he throwes,
As might haue torne the vitall strings,
Then down his cheeks the teares so flows.
As doth the streame of many springs.

So thunder rends the cloud in twaine,
And makes a passage for the raine.
Incontinent with trembling sound,
20 He wofully gan to complaine,
Such were the accents as might wound,
And teare a diamond rocke in twaine.
After his throbs did somewhat stay,
Thus heauily he gan to say.

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O sunne (said he) seeing the sunne,
On wretched me why dost thou shine,
My star is falne, my comfort done,
Out is the apple of my eine,

Shine vpon those possesse delight,
And let me liue in endlesse night.
O griefe that liest vpon my soule,
As heauie as a mount of lead,
The remnant of my life controll,
Consort me quickly with the dead,
Halfe of this hart, this sprite and will,
Di'de in the brest of Astrophill.
And you compassionate of my wo,
Gentle birds, beasts and shadie trees,
I am assurde ye long to kno,

40 What be the sorrowes me agreeu's,
Listen ye then to that insu'th,
And heare a tale of teares and ruthe.

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You knew, who knew not Astrophill,
(That I should liue to say I knew,
And haue not in possession still)
Things knowne permit me to renew,
Of him you know his merit such,
I cannot say, you heare too much.
Within these woods of Arcadie,
He chiefe delight and pleasure tooke,
And on the mountaine Parthenie,
Vpon the chrystall liquid brooke,
The Muses met him eu'ry day,

That taught him sing, to write, and say.
When he descended downe the mount,
His personage seemed most diuine,
A thousand graces one might count,
Vpon his louely cheerfull eine.

To heare him speake and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.
A sweet attractiue kinde of grace,
A full assurance giuen by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face,
The lineaments of Gospell bookes,

I trowe that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.
Was neuer eie, did see that face,
Was neuer eare, did heare that tong,
Was neuer minde, did minde his grace,
That euer thought the trauell long,

But eies, and eares, and eu'ry thought,
Were with his sweete perfections caught.
O God, that such a worthy man,
In whom so rare desarts did raigne,
Desired thus, must leaue vs than,
And we to wish for him in vaine,

O could the stars that bred that wit,
In force no longer fixed sit.
Then being fild with learned dew,
The Muses willed him to loue,

That instrument can aptly shew,
How finely our conceits will moue,
As Bacchus opes dissembled harts,
So loue sets out our better parts.
Stella, a Nymph within this wood,
Most rare and rich of heauenly blis,
The highest in his fancie stood,
And she could well demerite this,

Tis likely they acquainted soone,
He was a Sun, and she a Moone.
Our Astrophill did Stella loue,
O Stella vaunt of Astrophill,
Albeit thy graces gods may moue,
Where wilt thou finde an Astrophill,

The rose and lillie haue their prime,
And so hath beautie but a time.

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Although thy beautie do exceed,
In common sight of eu'ry eie,
Yet in his Poesies when we reede,
It is apparant more thereby,

He that hath loue and iudgement too,
Sees more than any other doo.
Then Astrophill hath honord thee,
For when thy bodie is extinct,
Thy graces shall eternall be,
And liue by vertue of his inke,
For by his verses he doth giue,
To short liude beautie aye to liue.
Aboue all others this is hee,
Which erst approoued in his song,
That loue and honor might agree,
And that pure loue will do no wrong,
Sweet saints, it is no sinne nor blame,
To loue a man of vertuous name.
Did neuer loue so sweetly breath
In any mortall brest before,
Did neuer Muse inspire beneath,
A Poets braine with finer store:

He wrote of loue with high conceit,
And beautie reard aboue her height.
Then Pallas afterward attyrde,

110 Our Astrophill with her deuice,
Whom in his armor heaven admyrde,
As of the nation of the skies,

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He sparkled in his armes afarrs,
As he were dight with fierie starrs.
The blaze whereof when Mars beheld,
(An enuious eie doth see afar)
Such maiestie (quoth he) is seeld,
Such maiestie my mart may mar,
Perhaps this may a suter be,
To set Mars by his deitie.

In this surmize he made with speede,
An iron cane wherein he put,
The thunder that in cloudes do breede
The flame and bolt togither shut,

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With priuie force burst out againe,
And so our Astrophill was slaine.
This word (was slaine) straightway did moue,
And natures inward life strings twitch,
The skie immediately aboue,

130 Was dimd with hideous clouds of pitch,
The wrastling winds from out the ground,
Fild all the aire with ratling sound.
The bending trees exprest a grone,
And sigh'd the sorrow of his fall,
The forrest beasts made ruthfull mone,
The birds did tune their mourning call,

And Philomell for Astrophill,
Vnto her notes annext a phill.

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The Turtle doue with tunes of ruthe,
Shewd feeling passion of his death,
Me thought she said I tell thee truthe,
Was neuer he that drew in breath,

Vnto his loue more trustie found,
Than he for whom our griefs abound.
The swan that was in presence heere,
Began his funerall dirge to sing,
Good things (quoth he) may scarce appeere,
But passe away with speedie wing.

This mortall life as death is tride,
And death giues life, and so he di'de.
The generall sorrow that was made,
Among the creatures of kinde,
Fired the Phoenix where she laide,
Her ashes flying with the winde,

So as I might with reason see,

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An Epitaph vpon the right Honourable
sir Phillip Sidney knight: Lord
gouernor of Flushing.

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"O praise thy life, or waile thy worthie | Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy death,

And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, diuine,
Is far beyond the powre of mortall line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.
Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore,
And friendly care obscurde in secret brest,
And loue that enuie in thy life supprest,
Thy deere life done, and death, hath doubled

more.

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And I, that in thy time and liuing state,
Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought,
As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought,
With words and teares now waile thy timelesse
fate.

Drawne was thy race, aright from princely line,
Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that nature gaue,
The common mother that all creatures haue,)
Doth vertue shew and princely linage shine.
A king gaue thee thy name a kingly minde,
That God thee gaue, who found it now too deere
For this base world, and hath resumde it neere,
To sit in skies, and sort with powres diuine. 20

youth,

The heauens made hast, and staid nor yeers,
nor time,

The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime,
Thy will, thy words: thy words the seales of

truth.

Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence,

To treat from kings, with those more great
than kings,

Such hope men had to lay the highest things,
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence.
Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee
call,

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Thy countries loue, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men, the marks, the liues and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labor all.
There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious
age,

Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes might:
Thy rising day, saw neuer wofull night,
But past with praise, from of this worldly stage.

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Ilence augmenteth grief, writing encreaseth | He onely like himselfe, was second vnto none,

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rage,

Stald are my thoughts, which lou'd, and lost, the wonder of our age:

Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,

Enrag'd I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.

Hard harted mindes relent, and rigors teares abound,

And enuie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found,

Knowledge her light hath lost, valor hath slaine her knight,

Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the worlds delight.

Place pensiue wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride,

Time crieth out, my ebbe is come: his life was my spring tide,

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Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her reports,

Ech liuing wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry sorts.

He was (wo worth that word) to ech well thinking minde,

A spotlesse friend, a matchles man, whose vertue euer shinde,

Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ,

Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.

Whose deth (though life) we rue, and wrong, and al in vain do mone,

Their losse, not him waile they, that fill the world with cries,

Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.

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And farewell mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse mindes,

And all sports, which for liues restore, varietie assignes,

Let all that sweete is voyd; in me no mirth may dwell,

Phillip, the cause of all this woe, my liues content, farewell.

Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin to skill,

And endles griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes not how to kill,

Go seeke that haples tombe, which if ye hap to finde,

Salute the stones, that keep the lims, that held so good a minde.

FINIS.

LONDON Printed by T. C. for William Ponsonbie.

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