Getting the unrighteous man, a righteous sonne. Then stoutly on, let not thy flocke range lewdly In their old vanity, thou lampe of Bewdly. One thing I pray thee; do not too much thirst After Idolatryes last fall; but first Follow this suite more close, let it not goe Till it be thine as thou would’st have ’t: for soe Thy successors, upon the same entayle, Hereafter, may take up the Whitson-ale. ANNE, WIFE OF JAMES THE FIRST, Daughter of Frederick the Second, king of Denmark, died of a dropsy the 2d of March 1619. On the 18th of November 1618, a comet (as alluded to in a foregoing poem) was seen in Libra, which continued visible till the 16th of December; and the vulgar, who think Nunquam futilibus excanduit ignibus æther, considered it indicative of great misfortunes; and the death of the queen which closely followed, the first object of its portentous mission. “The queen was in her great condition,” says Wilson, “a good woman, not tempted from that height she stood on to embroyl her spirit much with things below her, only giving herself content in her own house with such recreations as might not make time tedious unto her; and though great persons’ actions are often pried into, and made envy’s mark, yet nothing could be fixed upon her that left any great impression, but that she may have engraven upon her monument a character of virtue.” AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF QUEENE ANNE. Noe; not a quatch, sad poets; doubt you, There is not greife enough without you? Or that it will asswage ill newes, To say, Shee’s dead, that was your muse? Joine not with Death to make these times More grievous then most grievous rimes. And if ’t be possible, deare eyes, The famous Universityes, If bold your eyes bee matches, sleepe; Or, if you will be loyall, weepe: For-beare the press, there’s none will looke Before the mart for a new booke. Why should you tell the world what witts Grow at New-parkes, or Campus-pitts? Or what conceipts youth stumble on, Taking the ayre towards Trumpington? Nor you, grave tutours, who doe temper Your long and short with _que_ and _semper_; O doe not, when your owne are done, Make for my ladyes eldest sonne Verses, which he will turne to prose, When he shall read what you compose: Nor, for an epithite that failes, Bite off your unpoëticke nailes. Unjust! Why should you in these vaines, Punish your fingers for your braines? Know henceforth, that griefes vitall part Consists in nature, not in art: And verses that are studied Mourne for themselves, not for the dead. Heark, the Queenes epitaph shall bee Noe other then her pedigree: For lines in bloud cutt out are stronger Then lines in marble, and last longer: And such a verse shall never fade, That is begotten, and not made.