Vpon the Death of the Most Desired Mr. Herrys

Death, what dost? O, hold thy blow,What thou dost thou dost not know.Death, thou must not here be cruell,This is Nature's choycest iewell:This is hee, in whose rare frameNature labour'd for a name:And meant to leave his pretious featureThe patterne of a perfect creature.Ioy of Goodnesse, love of Art,Vertue weares him next her heart.Him the Muses love to follow,Him they call their vice-Apollo.Apollo, golden though thou bee,Th' art not fairer than is hee,Nor more lovely lift'st thy head(Blushing) from thine Easterne bed.The glories of thy youth ne're knewBrighter hopes than his can shew.Why then should it e're be seenThat his should fade, while thine is green?And wilt thou (O, cruell boast!)Put poore Nature to such cost?O, twill undoe our common mother,To be at charge of such another.What? thinke me to no other endGracious heavens do use to sendEarth her best perfection,But to vanish, and be gone?Therefore onely given to dayTo-morrow to be snatch't away?I've seen indeed the hopefull budOf a ruddy rose that stoodBlushing, to behold the rayOf the new-saluted Day:(His tender toppe not fully spread)The sweet dash of a shower new shead,Invited him, no more to hideWithin himselfe the purple prideOf his forward flower; when lo,While he sweetly 'gan to showHis swelling gloryes, Auster spide him,Cruell Auster thither hy'd him,And with the rush of one rude blast,Sham'd not, spitefully to wastAll his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,And lay them trembling at his feet.I've seen the Morning's lovely rayHover o're the new-borne Day,With rosie wings so richly bright,As if she scorn'd to thinke of Night;When a rugged storme, whose scowleMade heaven's radiant face looke fouleCall'd for an untimely night,To blot the newly-blossom'd light.But were the rose's blush so rare,Were the Morning's smile so faire,As is he, nor cloud, nor wind,But would be courteous, would be kind.Spare him Death, ah! spare him then,Spare the sweetest among men:And let not Pitty, with her tearesKeepe such distance from thine eares.But O, thou wilt not, can'st not spare,Haste hath never time to heare.Therefore if he needs must go,And the Fates will have it so;Softly may he be possestOf his monumentall rest.Safe, thou darke home of the dead,Safe, O hide his loved head:Keepe him close, close in thine armes,Seal'd vpp with a thousand charmes.For Pittie's sake, O, hide him quiteFrom his mother Nature's sight;Lest for griefe his losse may moveAll her births abortive proue.