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,