An Elegie upon the Death of the Lady Haddington, who Dyed of the Small Pox

Deare losse, to tell the world I greive were true,
But that were to lament my selfe, not you;
That were to cry out helpe for my affaires,
For which nor publick thought, nor private, cares:
No, when thy fate I publish amongst men,
I should have power, and write with the States pen:
I should in naming thee force publicke teares,
And bid their eyes pay ransome for their cares.
First, thy whole life was a short feast of witt,
And Death th’ attendant which did waite on it:
To both mankind doth owe devotion ample,
To that their first, to this their last example.
And though ’twere praise enough (with them whose fame
And vertue’s nothing but an ample name)
That thou wert highly borne, (which no man doubtes)
And so mightst swath base deedes in noble cloutes;
Yet thou thy selfe in titles didst not shroud,
And being noble, wast nor foole, nor proud;
And when thy youth was ripe, when now the suite
Of all the longing court was for thy fruit,
How wisely didst thou choose! Foure blessed eyes,
The kings and thine, had taught thee to be wise.
Did not the best of men thee virgin give
Into his handes, by which himselfe did live?
Nor didst thou two yeares after talke of force,
Or, lady-like, make suit for a divorce:
Who, when their owne wilde lust is falsely spent,
Cry out, “My lord, my lord is impotent.”
Nor hast thou in his nuptiall armes enjoy’d
Barren imbraces, but wert girl’d and boy’d:
Twice-pretty-ones thrice worthier were their youth
Might shee but bring them up, that brought them forth:
Shee would have taught them by a thousand straines,
(Her bloud runns in their manners, not their veines)
That glory is a lye; state a grave sport;
And country sicknesse above health at court.
Oh what a want of her loose gallants have,
Since shee hath chang’d her window for a grave;
From whence shee us’d to dart out witt so fast,
And stick them in their coaches as they past!
Who now shall make well-colour’d vice looke pale?
Or a curl’d meteor with her eyes exhale,
And talke him into nothing? Who shall dare
Tell barren braines they dwell in fertill haire?
Who now shall keepe ould countesses in awe,
And, by tart similyes, repentance draw
From those, whome preachers had given ore? Even such
Whome sermons could not reach, her arrowes touch.
Hereafter, fooles shall prosper with applause,
And wise men smile, and no man aske the cause:
Hee of fourescore, three night capps, and two haires,
Shall marry her of twenty, and get heyres
Which shall be thought his owne; and none shall say
But tis a wondrous blessing, and he may.
Now (which is more then pitty) many a knight,
Which can doe more then quarrell, less then fight,
Shall choose his weapons, ground; draw seconds thither,
Put up his sword, and not be laught at neyther.
Oh thou deform’d unwoeman-like disease,
That plowst up flesh and bloud, and there sow’st pease,
And leav’st such printes on beauty, that dost come
As clouted shon do on a floore of lome;
Thou that of faces hony-combes dost make,
And of two breasts two cullenders, forsake
Thy deadly trade; thou now art rich, give ore,
And let our curses call thee forth no more.
Or, if thou needs will magnify thy power,
Goe where thou art invoked every houre
Amongst the gamsters, where they name thee thicke
At the last maine, or the last pocky nicke.
Get thee a lodging neare thy clyent, dice,
There thou shalt practice on more then one vice.
There’s wherewithall to entertaine the pox,
There’s more then reason, there’s rime for ’t, the box.
Thou who hast such superfluous store of game,
Why struckst thou one whose ruine is thy shame?
O, thou hast murdred where thou shouldst have kist;
And, where thy shaft was needfull, there it mist.
Thou shouldst have chosen out some homely face,
Where thy ill-favour’d kindnesse might adde grace,
That men might say, How beauteous once was shee!
Or, What a peece, ere shee was seaz’d by thee!
Thou shouldst have wrought on some such ladyes mould
That ne’re did love her lord, nor ever could
Untill shee were deform’d, thy tyranny
Were then within the rules of charity.
But upon one whose beauty was above
All sort of art, whose love was more then love,
On her to fix thy ugly counterfett,
Was to erect a pyramide of jett,
And put out fire to digg a turfe from hell,
And place it where a gentle soule should dwell:
A soule which in the body would not stay,
When twas noe more a body, nor good clay,
But a huge ulcer. O thou heav’nly race,
Thou soule that shunn’st th’ infection of thy case,
Thy house, thy prison, pure soule, spotless, faire,
Rest where no heat, no cold, no compounds are!
Rest in that country, and injoy that ease,
Which thy frayle flesh deny’de, and her disease!