Must I needes write, who's hee that can refuse, He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse, The thought of her doth heau'nly rage inspire, Next powerfull, to those clouen tongues of fire. Since I knew ought time neuer did allowe Me stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now; When _France_ and _England's_ HENRIES dy'd, my quill, Why, I know not, but it that time lay still. 'Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise, To obserue custome I vse not to praise; 10 Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended, On any one from whom she was descended; That for their fauour I this way should wooe, As some poor wretched things (perhaps) may doe; I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme, If by my freedome, I may giue her fame. Walking then forth being newly vp from bed, O Sir (quoth one) the Lady CLIFTON'S dead. When, but that reason my sterne rage withstood, My hand had sure beene guilty of his blood. 20 If shee be so, must thy rude tongue confesse it (Quoth I) and com'st so coldly to expresse it. Thou shouldst haue giuen a shreeke, to make me feare thee; That might haue slaine what euer had beene neere thee. Thou shouldst haue com'n like Time with thy scalpe bare, And in thy hands thou shouldst haue brought thy haire, Casting vpon me such a dreadfull looke, As seene a spirit, or th'adst beene thunder-strooke, And gazing on me so a little space, Thou shouldst haue shot thine eye balls in my face, 30 Then falling at my feet, thou shouldst haue said, O she is gone, and Nature with her dead. With this ill newes amaz'd by chance I past, By that neere Groue, whereas both first and last, I saw her, not three moneths before shee di'd. When (though full Summer gan to vaile her pride, And that I sawe men leade home ripened Corne, Besides aduis'd me well,) I durst haue sworne The lingring yeare, the Autumne had adiourn'd, And the fresh Spring had beene againe return'd, 40 Her delicacie, louelinesse, and grace, With such a Summer brauery deckt the place: But now alas, it lookt forlorne and dead; And where she stood, the fading leaues were shed, Presenting onely sorrowe to my sight, O God (thought I) this is her Embleme right. And sure I thinke it cannot but be thought, That I to her by prouidence was brought. For that the Fates fore-dooming, shee should die, Shewed me this wondrous Master peece, that I 50 Should sing her Funerall, that the world should know it, That heauen did thinke her worthy of a Poet; My hand is fatall, nor doth fortune doubt, For what it writes, not fire shall ere race out. A thousand silken Puppets should haue died, And in their fulsome Coffins putrified, Ere in my lines, you of their names should heare