[103] Sir Henry had petitioned ineffectually for the revival of the viscounty at an earlier date. _Cal. St. Pa., Dom._, Nov. 23, 1606; see, also, reference in 1614. See also, below, Appendix, Table A. [104] _Calendar of State Papers_ (Domestic), 1611-1617, under dates. [105] Elton, _Drayton_, p. 28. [106] _Hesperides_, Aldine edition of _Herrick_, II, 136. [107] _Hesperides_, Aldine edition, _Herrick_, I, 301. [108] _Op. cit._, I, 329. CHAPTER XII BEAUMONT'S MARRIAGE AND DEATH; THE SURVIVING FAMILY In the 1653 edition of the "Poems; By Francis Beaumont, Gent." there is one, ordinarily regarded as of doubtful authorship, which, in default of information to the contrary, I am tempted to accept as his and to attach to it importance, as of biographical interest. It purports to bear his signature "Fran. Beaumont"; it bears for me the impress of his literary style. Writing before August 1612, to the Countess of Rutland, Beaumont had, as we have remarked, disclaimed ever having praised "living woman in prose or verse." In _The Examination of his Mistris' Perfections_, the poem of which I speak, the writer praises with all sincerity the woman of his love: Stand still, my happinesse; and, swelling heart,-- No more! till I consider what thou art. Like our first parents in Paradise who "thought it nothing if not understood," so the poet of his happiness-- Though by thy bountious favour I be in A paradice, where I may freely taste Of all the vertuous pleasures which thou hast [I] wanting that knowledge, must, in all my blisse, Erre with my parents, and aske what it is. My faith saith 'tis not Heaven; and I dare swear, If it be Hell, no pain of sence, is there; Sure, 't is some pleasant place, where I may stay, As I to Heaven go in the middle way. Wert thou but faire, and no whit vertuous, Thou wert no more to me but a faire house Hanted with spirits, from which men do them blesse, And no man will halfe furnishe to possesse: Or, hadst thou worth wrapt in a rivell'd skin, 'T were inaccessible. Who durst go in To find it out? for sooner would I go To find a pearle cover'd with hills of snow; 'T were buried vertue, and thou mightst me move To reverence the tombe, but not to love,-- No more than dotingly to cast mine eye Upon the urne where Lucrece' ashes lye. But thou art faire and sweet, and every good That ever yet durst mixe with flesh and blood: The Devill ne're saw in his fallen state An object whereupon to ground his hate So fit as thee; all living things but he Love thee; how happy, then, must that man be Whom from amongst all creatures thou dost take! Is there a hope beyond it? can he make A wish to change thee for? This is my blisse, Let it run on now; I know what it is.