Elegie on B. Haselrick, slaine in's youth, in a Duell.
Now in the blinde, and quiet age of Night, So dark, as if the funerall of Light Were celebrated here; whither with slow, Unwilling feet, sad Virgins doe you goe? Where have you left your reason, and your feare? What meane those Violets that downe-ward weare Their heads, as griev'd, since thus imploy'd they grew? Lilies, scar'd by your lookes, to their pale hew? Roses, that lost their blushes on the Bough, And Laurell stolne from some dead Poets Brow? These, and your looser Haire, shew that you come To scatter both, on that relenting Tombe. But stay! by this moyst pavement it appeares, Some Ladies have beene earli'r here with Teares Than I, or you; and wee can guesse no more, Those that succeed, by these that drop'd before; Than by the Dew, falne in a Cowslips wombe, Heav'n's Treasurie of Showrs that are to come. The Curtain's drawne! looke there, and you shall spie The faded God of your Idolatrie! Cold as the feet of Rocks, silent in shade As Chaos lay, before the Winds were made. Yet this was once the Flow'r, on whom the Day So smil'd, as if he never should decay: Soft, as the hands of Love, smooth as her brow; So young in shew, as if he still should grow; Yet perfected with all the pride of strength, Equall in Limbs, and square unto his length: And though the jealous World hath understood, Fates only Seal'd, the first creation good; This moderne worke (sterne Fates!) rose up to prove Your ancient skill retayn'd, but not your love: Could you have lov'd, you had with carefull fight Preserv'd, what you did frame with such delight. O, let me summe his crimes, let me relate Them strictly as his Judge, not Advocate; And yet the greatest number you shall finde Were errors of his youth, not of his minde: For had his jealous courage bin so wise, As to beleeve it selfe, not others Eyes; Had he not thought his little patience tame In suff'ring quiet Men, t'enjoy a Fame; He might have liv'd to so great use, that I Had writ his Acts, and not his Elegie. Goe, gentlest of your Sex! should I relate With bolder truth, th'unkindnesse of his Fate, (Too strict, to flesh and blood) I might infuse A Schisme in your Religion, and my Muse: Yet this would be excus'd, since all wee gaine By griefe, is but the licence to complaine.
