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SAd Damon being come,
To that for-ever Lamentable Tombe,
Which those eternall Powers that all controule,
Unto his living Soule
A melancholy prison had prescrib'd:
Of Colour, Heat, and motion depriv'd,
In Armes weake, Fainting, Cold,
A Marble, he the Marble did infold:
And having warme it made with many a showre
Which dimmed Eyes did poure,
When Griefe had given him leave, and sighs them staied,
Thus with a sad alas at last he said.
Who would have thought to me
The place where thou did'st lie could grievous be?
And that (deare body) long thee having sought,
(O me!) who would have thought
Thee once to find it should my Soule confound,
And give my Heart then death a deeper wound?
Thou did'st disdaine my Teares,
But grieve not that this ruthfull Stone them beares,
Mine Eyes for nothing serve, but thee to weep,
And let that course them keep,
Although thou never wouldst them comfort show,
Do not repine, they have part of thy woe.
Ah wretch! too late I find
How Vertues glorious Titles prove but wind;
For if that Vertue could release from Death,
Thou yet enjoy'd hadst Breath:
For if she ere appear'd to mortall Eine,
It was in thy faire shape that she was seen.
But O! if I was made
For thee, with thee why too am I not dead?
Why do outragious Fates which dimm'd thy sight,
Let me see hatefull light?
They without me made Death thee surprise,
Tyrants (no doubt) that they might kill me twice.
O Griefe! And could one Day
Have force such excellence to take away?
Could a swift-flying Moment ah deface,
Those matchlesse gifts, that Grace,
Which Art, and Nature had in thee combin'd
To make thy Body paragon thy Mind?
Hath all pass'd like a cloud,
And doth eternall silence now them shroud?
Is that, so much admir'd, now nought but Dust,
Of which a Stone hath Trust?
O change! O cruell change thou to our sight
Show'st the Fates Rigour equall to their Might!
When thou from earth di…'st passe
(Sweet Nymph) Perfections Mirrour broken was,
And this of late so glorious World of ours,
L…ke Medows without Flowers,
Or Ring of a rich Gem which blind appear▪d,
Or Starless night, or Cynthia nothing clear'd.
Love when he saw thee dye
Entomb'd him in the lid of either Eye,
And left his Torch within thy sacred Vrne
There for a Lampe to burne:
Worth, Honour, Pleasure, with thy life expir'd,
Death since grown sweet begins to be desir'd.
Whilst thou to us wert given,
The Earth her Venus had as well as Heaven:
Nay, and her Suns which burnt as many Hearts,
As he the easterne parts;
Bright Suns which forc'd to leave these Hemispheares,
Benighted set into a Sea of Teares.
Ah Death, who shall thee flie,
Since the most mighty are o'rethrown by thee?
Thou spar'st the Crow, and Nightingall dost kill,
And triumphst at thy will▪
But give thou cannot such another Blow,
Because Earth cannot such another show.
O bitter sweets of Love!
How better is't at all you not to prove,
Nor when we do your pleasures must possesse,
To find them thus made lesse?
O! That the cause which doth consume our joy
Would the remembrance of it too destroy!
What doth this life bestow,
But Flow'rs on Thornes which grow?
Which though they sometime blandish soft delight,
Yet afterwards us smite:
And if the rising Sun them faire doth see,
That Planet setting, doth behold them die.
This world is made a Hell,
Depriv'd of all that in it did excell.
O Pan, Pan, Winter is fallen in May,
Turn'd is to night our Day.
Forsake thy Pipe, a Scepter take to thee,
Thy locks disgarland, thou black Jove shall be.
The Flocks do leave the Meads,
And, loathing three leav'd Grasse, hold up their Heads,
The Streames not glide now with a glentle Rore,
Nor Birds sing as before,
Hills stands with clouds like Mourners vail'd in black,
And Owles upon our Roofes foretell our wrack.
That Zephire every yeare
So soone was heard to sigh in Forrests here,
It was for her that wrapt in Gowns of Greene,
Meads were so earely seen;
That in the saddest Months oft sang the Mearles,
It was for Her: for her Trees dropt forth pearles.
That proud, and stately Courts
Did envy these our Shades and calme Resorts,
It was for Her: and she is gone, O woe!
Woods cut againe do grow,
But doth the Rose, and Dazy, winter done,
But we once dead do no more see the Sun.
Whose Name shall now make ring
The Ecchoes? of whom shall the Nymphets sing?
Whose heavenly voice, whose Soule-invading Straines,
Shall fill with Joy the plaines?
What Haire, what Eyes, can make the Morne in East,
Weep that a fairer riseth in the West?
Faire Sun post still away,
No Musicke here is left thy Course to stay.
Sweet Hybla Swarmes, with Wormewood fill your Bow'r….
Gone is the flower of Flow'rs:
Blush no more Rose, nor Lilly pale remaine,
Dead is that Beauty which yours late did staine.
Aye me to waile my Plight
Why have not I as many Eyes as Night?
Or as that Shepheards which Joves love did keep,
That I still, still may weepe?
But though I had, my Teares unto my crosse
W…re not yet equall, nor griefe to my losse.
Yet of you briny Showers,
Which I …ere poure, may spring as many flow'rs,
As come of those which fell from Helens Eyes;
And when ye do arise,
May every Leafe in sable letters beare
The Dolefull Cause for which ye spring up here.