How should we know thy soul had been secur'd It is not but the tempest that doth shew He that endures for what his conscience knows The more he endures, the more his glory grows, Only the best compos'd and worthiest hearts God sets to act the hardest and constant'st parts. Upon the Death of the most noble Lord, Henry, Earl of Southampton, written by Sir John Beaumont, Bart. 1624: Printed by his Son in 1629. WHEN now the life of great Southampton ends, My verses are not for the present age; For what man lives, or breathes on England's stage, I strive, that unborn children may conceive, Of what a jewel angry fates bereave This mournful kingdom; and, when heavy woes When he was young, no ornament of youth He pride (which dimms such change) as much did hate, When he was call'd to sit, by Jove's command, Among the demigods that rule this land, No power, no strong persuasion, could him draw So truly sweet, or husband half so kind? These were his parts in peace; but O, how far He was directed by a natural vein, VOL. XX. Ye sacred Muses, if ye will admit The Teares of the Isle of Wight, shed on the Tombe of their most Noble, valorous, and louing Captaine and Gouernour, the right Honourable Henrie, Earle of Southampton: who dyed in the Netherlands, Nouemb. 4 at Bergenop-Zone. As also the true Image of his Person and Vertues, Iames; the Lord Wriothesley, Knight of the Bath, and Baron of Titchfield; who dyed Nouemb. at Rosendaell. And were both buried in the Sepulcher of their Fathers, at Tichfield, on Innocents day, 1624. To the Right Honovrable, Thomas, Earle of Sovthampton; All Peace and Happinesse. My very Honourable good Lord : It hath pleased God to make your Lordship Heire vnto your most Noble Father, and therefore I thinke you haue most right to these Teares, which were shed for him, and your renowned Elder Brother. If I did not know by mine own obseruasion, that your Lordship was a diligent Obseruer of all your Fathers Vertues (touching which also, you haue a daily Remembrancer) I would exhort you to behold the shadow of them delienated here, by those which much admired him liuing, and shall neuer cease to honour his Memory, and loue those that doe any Honour vnto him. The Lord increase the Honour of your House, and reioyce ouer you to doe you good, vntill hee haue Crowned you with Immortalitie. Your Lordships at command, W. IONES. To the Reader. 1 Coming lately to London I found in publike 1 and priuat, many Monuments of honor, loue and griefe, to those Great Worthies; the Earle of Southampton, and his Sonne, which lately deceased in the Low-Countries, whiles they did Honour to our State and Friends. And because it cannot be denied, but wee of the Isle of Wight (of whom that Noble Earle had the speciall Charge and Care) were most obliged vnto his Honour: I thought it very meet to publish these Teares, which (for the greater part) were shed in the Island long since for priuate vse, and adiudged to darknesse; but that my selfe (being bound by particular duty to doe all Honour to these Gracious Lords) intreated that they might still liue, which not without importunitie I obtained. And now they are set forth, neither for fashion, nor flattery, nor ostentation; but meerely to declare our loue and respect, to our neuer sufficiently Commended Noble Captaine. So take them without curiositie; and farewell. Thine W. I. 1 From this it appears that some Elegies on Lord Southampton had been published soon after his death, which have not yet been discovered. Braithwaite published a poem on his death, called Britaines Bathe, but I have not met with it. An Epicede vpon the Death of the right Noble and Honourable Lord, Henry, Earle of Southampton, Baron of Tichfield, Knight of the most Honourable Order of the Garter: Captaine of the Isle of Wight. Mors vltima, linea rerum. Quis est homo qui viuet & non videbit mortem. Ps. Yee famous Poets of this Southerne Islle, His Globe of Worth, and eke his Vertues braue, Valour and Wisdome were in thee confin'd; And all the Graces were in thee combin'd, The rich mans ioy and poores refection, Therefore the King of Kings doth thee imbrace, Nought is Immortall vnderneath the Sun, But for thy Selfe, and Heire one thred was spun Planet of Honour rest, Diuinely sleepe And to the Lambe that sits amidst his Throne. I can no more in this lugubrious Verse: FRA. BEALE, Esq. ་་་ |