An Elegie upon that honourable and renowned Knight, , who was untimely slaine at the Seige of Anno 1586
1When England did injoy her dayes,
2Her noble Sidney wore the Crown of Bay Laurel, a laurel wreath.;
3No lesse an Honour to our British Land,
4Then she that sway'd the Scepter with her hand:
5 did in one agree,
6Of Armes, and Arts, thou should'st a patterne be.
7 with did sing,
8Of , and of Musick thou wert King;
9Thy Rhethorick it struck dead,
10Thine Eloquence made wax red;
11Thy Logick from won the Crown,
12More worth was thine, then could set down.
13, and , say th' truth,
14(Witness , penn'd in his youth)
15Are not his Tragick Comedies so acted.
16As if your nine-fold wit had been compacted;
17To shew the world, they never saw before,
18That this one volumne should exhaust your store.
19I prase thee not for this, it is unfit,
20This was thy shame, O miracle of wit;
21Yet doth thy shune (with all) purchase renown,
22What doe thy vertues then? Oh, honours crown!
23In all records, thy Name I ever see,
24Put with an Epithet of dignity;
25Which , thy worth was great, thine honour such,
26The love thy country ought thee, was as much.
27Let then, none dis-allow of these my straines,
28Which have the self-same blood yet in my veines;
29Who honours thee for what was honourable,
30But leaves the rest, as most unprofitable :
31Thy wiser dayes, condemn'd thy witty works,
32Who knowes the Spels that in thy Rethorick lurks?
33But some infatuate fooles soone caught therein,
34Found Cupids , had never such a ;
35Which makes feverer eyes but scorn thy Story,
36And model Maids, and Wives, blush at thy glory;
37Yet, , that cann't
38A world of treasure, in that rubbish lye;
39And doth the selfe, thy worke, and honour wrong,
40(O brave Refiner of the British tongue;)
41That sees not learning, valour, and morality,
42Justice, friendship, and kind hospitality;
43Yea, and Divinity within thy Book,
44Such were prejudicate, and did not look:
45But to say truth, thy worth I but ,
46Thy fame, and praise, is farre beyond my straine
47Yet great Augustus was content (we know)
48To be saluted by a silly Crow;
49Then let such Crowes as I, thy praises sing,
50A Crow's a Crow, and Caesar is a King.
51O brave I with some , would
52Engrave on Marble, in characters of Gold,
53What famous feats thou didst, on coast,
54Of which, this day, faire Belgia doth boast.
55Of Zutphon, Zutphon, that most fatall City,
56Made famous by thy fall, much more's the pitty,
57Ah, in his blooming prime, death pluckt this Rose,
58E're he was ripe; his thred cut .
59Thus Man is borne to dye, and dead is he,
60Brave by the walls of , we see:
61Oh, who was neare thee, but did sore repine;
62He rescued not with life, that life of thine,
63But yet impartiall Death this Boone did give,
64Though Sidney dy'd, his valiant name should live;
65And live it doth, in spight of death, through fame,
66Thus being over-come, he over-came.
67Where is that envious tongue, but can afford,
68Of this our noble some good word?
69Noble , this to thy praise adds more,
70In sad, sweet verse, thou didst his death deplore;
71Illustrious , thou didst thine full well,
72If thine aspect was milde to Astrophell;
73I feare thou wert a Commet, did portend
74Such prince as he, his race should shortly end;
75If such Stars as these, sad presages be,
76I with no more such Blazers we may see;
77But thou art gone, such Meteors never last,
78And as thy beauty, so thy name would waft,
79But that is record by Philips hand,
80That such an omen once was in out land;
81O princely Philip, rather ,
82Who wert of honours band, the chief Commander.
83How could that Stella, so confine thy will?
84To wait till she, her influence distill,
85I rather judg'd thee of his mind that wept,
86To be within the bounds of one world kept,
87But , set Hercules to spin,
88And Mars himself was ta'n by gin;
89Then wonder lesse, if warlike Philip yield,
90When such a Hero shoots him out o'th' field,
91Yet this thou hast above,
92That thine was true, but theirs love.
93Fain would I shew, how thou fame's path didst tread,
94But now into such Lab'rinths am I led
95With endlesse turnes, the way I find not out,
96For to persist, my muse is more in doubt:
97Calls me ambitious tool, that durst aspire,
98Enough for me to look, and so admire.
99And makes me now with confesse,
100But Sydney's Muse, can sing his worthinesse.
101Too late my errour see, that durst presume
102To fix my faltring lines upon his tomb:
103Which are in wort, as far short of his due,
104As is, of Venus native hue.
105Goodwill, did make my head-long pen to run,
106Like unwise his ill guided sonne,
107Till taught to's cost, for his too hasty hand,
108He left that charge by to be man'd:
109So proudly foolish I, with Phaeton strive,
110Fame's flaming Chariot for to drive.
111Til terrour-struck for my too weighty charge.
112I leave't in brief, Apollo do't at large.
113Apollo laught to patch up what's begun,
114He bad drive, and he would hold the Sun,
115Better my hap, then was his darlings fate,
116For dear regard he had of Sydney's state,
117Who in his Deity, had so deep share,
118That those that name his fame, he needs must spare,
119He promis'd much, but th' muses had no will,
120To give to their detractor any quill.
121With high disdain, they said they gave no more,
122Since Sydney had exhausted all their store,
123That this contempt it did the more perplex,
124In being done by one of their own sex;
125They took from me, the scribling pen I had,
126I to be eas'd of such a task was glad.
127For to revenge his wrong, themselves ingage,
128And drave me from in a rage,
129Not because, sweet Sydney's fame was not dear,
130But I had blemish'd theirs, to make't appear:
131I pensive for my fault, sat down, and then,
132, through their leave thre me my pen,
133For to conclude my poem two lines they daigne,
134Which writ, she bad return't to them again.
135So Sydney's fame, I leave to ,
136His bones do lie interr'd in stately .