Then how can I, sufficiently commend, Her Beauties worth, which makes the World to wonder? Or end her prayse, whose prayses haue no End? Whose absence brings the stoutest stomack vnder: Let it suffice, _Pecunia_ hath no peere; No Wight, no Beauty held; more faire, more deere. _FINIS._ [Illustration] His Prayer to Pecunia. [Illustration] Great Lady, sith I haue complyde thy Prayse, (According to my skill and not thy merit:) And sought thy Fame aboue the starrs to rayse; (Had I sweete _Ovids_ vaine, or _Virgils_ spirit) I craue no more but this, for my good will, That in my Want, thou wilt supplye me still. [Illustration] THE Complaint of Poetrie, for the Death of Liberalitie. _Viuit post funera virtus._ [Illustration] LONDON, Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are to be solde at his shoppe neere Temple-barre, at the Signe of the Hand and starre. 1598. [Illustration] To his Worshipfull wel-willer, Maister _Edward Leigh_, of Grayes Inne. [Illustration] Image of that, whose losse is here lamented; (In whom, so many vertues are containd) Daine to accept, what I haue now presented. Though Bounties death, herein be not fained, In your mind, she not reuiue (with speed) Then will I sweare, that shee is dead indeed. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE COMPLAINT OF Poetrie, for the Death of Liberalitie. [Illustration] Weepe Heauens now, for you haue lost your light; Ye Sunne and Moone, beare witnes of my mone: The cleere is turnd to clouds; the day to night; And all my hope, and all my ioy is gone: _Bounty_ is dead, the cause of my annoy; _Bounty_ is dead, and with her dide my ioy. O who can comfort my afflicted soule? Or adde some ende to my increasing sorrowes? Who can deliuer me from endlesse dole? (Which from my hart eternall torment borrowes.) When _Bounty_ liu'd, I bore the Bell away; When _Bounty_ dide, my credit did decay. I neuer then, did write one verse in vaine; Nor euer went my Poems vnregarded: Then did each Noble breast, me intertaine, And for my Labours I was well rewarded: But now _Good wordes_, are stept in _Bounties_ place, Thinking thereby, her glorie to disgrace. But who can liue with words, in these hard tymes? (Although they came from _Iupiter_ himselfe?) Or who can take such Paiment, for his Rymes? (When nothing now, is so esteem'd as Pelfe?) Tis not _Good wordes_, that can a man maintaine; Wordes are but winde; and winde is all but vaine. Where is _Mecænas_, Learnings noble Patron? (That _Maroes_ Muse, with Bountie so did cherish?) Or faire _Zenobia_, that worthy Matron? (Whose name, for Learnings Loue, shall neuer perish) What tho their Bodies, lie full lowe in graue, Their fame the worlde; their souls the Heauens haue.