Which more confirme what here I seeke to prove:
But that you live old Hargreves onely sonne,
Whose blessed soule rests in the armes of Iove,
And in the bosome of the Holy one;
This hath the key of my affection.
But that you live old Hargreves onely sonne,
Whose blessed soule rests in the armes of Iove,
And in the bosome of the Holy one;
This hath the key of my affection.
This hath the greatest intrest in my heart,
And deeper stands infixed in my brest,
Then either kindred, or the gifts of art,
Or what blinde Nature doth esteeme as best:
For though I held him deare, I doe protest,
Before his passage from this vale of woe,
Yet now enthron'd in everlasting rest,
Much more I love; we seldome fully know
True Vertues worth, till vertue we forgoe.
And deeper stands infixed in my brest,
Then either kindred, or the gifts of art,
Or what blinde Nature doth esteeme as best:
For though I held him deare, I doe protest,
Before his passage from this vale of woe,
Yet now enthron'd in everlasting rest,
Much more I love; we seldome fully know
True Vertues worth, till vertue we forgoe.
Gone is the starre, whose lustre beautifide
Each twinkling light that Northren climats bred,
Yet though that clouds obscure Apollo's pride,
With greater glory soone he shewes his head:
So though we thinke renowned Hargreve dead,
His life eclipsed by the clouds of fate,
No myst or darknesse can so overspread
His lives true honour, or his praise abate,
But still it shines abroad in fresher state.
Each twinkling light that Northren climats bred,
Yet though that clouds obscure Apollo's pride,
With greater glory soone he shewes his head:
So though we thinke renowned Hargreve dead,
His life eclipsed by the clouds of fate,
No myst or darknesse can so overspread
His lives true honour, or his praise abate,
But still it shines abroad in fresher state.
What should I thinke to set his praises forth,
Which farre exceeds the compasse of my braine?
Which farre exceeds the compasse of my braine?
Too
