By Mr. Mayne of Christ-Church in Oxford

Who shall presume to mourn thee, Donne, unlesseHe could his teares in thy expressions dresse,And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearse,To weepe lines, learned, as thy Anniverse,A Poëme of that worth, whose every teareDeserves the title of a severall yeare.Indeed so farre above its Reader, good,That wee are thought wits, when 'tis understood,There that blest maid to die, who now should grieve?After thy sorrow, 'twere her losse to live;And her faire vertues in anothers line,Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine.Hadst thou beene shallower, and not writ so high,Or left some new way for our pennes, or eye,To shed a funerall teare, perchance thy TombeHad not beene speechlesse, or our Muses dumbe;But now wee dare not write, but must concealeThy Epitaph, lest we be thought to steale,For, who hath read thee, and discernes thy worth,That will not say, thy carelesse houres brought forthFancies beyond our studies, and thy playWas happier, then our serious time of day?So learned was thy chance; thy haste had wit,And matter from thy pen flow'd rashly fit,What was thy recreation turnes our braine,Our rack and palenesse, is thy weakest straine.And when we most come neere thee, 'tis our blisseTo imitate thee, where thou dost amisse.Here light your muse, you that do onely thinke,And write, and are just Poëts, as you drinke,In whose weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow,Just as your recknings rise, that wee may knowIn your whole carriage of your worke, that hereThis flash you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere,This is to tap your Muse, which running longWrites flat, and takes our eare not halfe so strong;Poore Suburbe wits, who, if you want your cup,Or if a Lord recover, are blowne up.Could you but reach this height, you should not needTo make, each meale, a project ere you feed,Nor walke in reliques, clothes so old and bare,As if left off to you from Ennius were,Nor should your love, in verse, call Mistresse, those,Who are mine hostesse, or your whores in prose;From this Muse learne to Court, whose power could moveA Cloystred coldnesse, or a Vestall love,And would convey such errands to their eare,That Ladies knew no oddes to grant and heare;But I do wrong thee, Donne, and this low praiseIs written onely for thy yonger dayes.I am not growne up, for thy riper parts,Then should I praise thee, through the Tongues, and Arts,And have that deepe Divinity, to know,What mysteries did from thy preaching flow,Who with thy words could charme thy audience,That at thy sermons, eare was all our sense;Yet have I seene thee in the pulpit stand,Where wee might take notes, from thy looke, and hand;And from thy speaking action beare awayMore Sermon, then some teachers use to say.Such was thy carriage, and thy gesture such,As could divide the heart, and conscience touch.Thy motion did confute, and wee might seeAn errour vanquish'd by delivery.Not like our Sonnes of Zeale, who to reformeTheir hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit storme,And beate the cushion into worse estate,Then if they did conclude it reprobate,Who can out pray the glasse, then lay aboutTill all Predestination be runne out.And from the point such tedious uses draw,Their repetitions would make Gospell, Law.No, In such temper would thy Sermons flow,So well did Doctrine, and thy language show,And had that holy feare, as, hearing thee,The Court would mend, and a good Christian bee.And Ladies though unhansome, out of grace,Would heare thee, in their unbought lookes, and face.More I could write, but let this crowne thine Urne,Wee cannot hope the like, till thou returne.

Who dares say thou art dead, when he doth see(Unburied yet) this living part of thee?This part that to thy beeing gives fresh flame,And though th'art Donne, yet will preserve thy name.Thy flesh (whose channels left their crimsen hew,And whey-like ranne at last in a pale blew)May shew thee mortall, a dead palsie maySeise on't, and quickly turne it into clay;Which like the Indian earth, shall rise refin'd:But this great Spirit thou hast left behinde,This Soule of Verse (in it's first pure estate)Shall live, for all the World to imitate,But not come neer, for in thy Fancies flightThou dost not stoope unto the vulgar fight,But, hovering highly in the aire of Wit,Hold'st such a pitch, that few can follow it;Admire they may. Each object that the Spring(Or a more piercing influence) doth bringT'adorne Earths face, thou sweetly did'st contriveTo beauties elements, and thence deriveUnspotted Lillies white; which thou did'st setHand in hand, with the veine-like Violet,Making them soft, and warme, and by thy power,Could'st give both life, and sense, unto a flower.The Cheries thou hast made to speake, will beeSweeter unto the taste, then from the tree.And (spight of winter stormes) amidst the snowThou oft hast made the blushing Rose to grow.The Sea-nimphs, that the watry cavernes keepe,Have sent their Pearles and Rubies from the deepeTo deck thy love, and plac'd by thee, they drewMore lustre to them, then where first they grew.All minerals (that Earths full wombe doth holdPromiscuously) thou couldst convert to gold,And with thy flaming raptures so refine,That it was much more pure then in the Mine.The lights that guild the night, if thou did'st say,They looke like eyes, those did out-shine the day;For there would be more vertue in such spells,Then in Meridians, or crosse Parallels:What ever was of worth in this great Frame,That Art could comprehend, or Wit could name,It was thy theme for Beauty; thou didst see,Woman, was this faire Worlds Epitomie.Thy nimble Satyres too, and every straine(With nervy strength) that issued from thy brain,Will lose the glory of their owne cleare bayes,If they admit of any others praise.But thy diviner Poëms (whose cleare firePurges all drosse away) shall by a QuireOf Cherubims, with heavenly Notes be set(Where flesh and blood could ne'r attaine to yet)There purest Spirits sing such sacred Layes,In Panegyrique Alleluiaes.

Donne dead? 'Tis here reported true, though INe'r yet so much desir'd to heare a lye,'Tis too too true, for so wee finde it still,Good newes are often false, but seldome, ill:But must poore fame tell us his fatall day,And shall we know his death, the common way,Mee thinkes some Comet bright should have foretoldThe death of such a man, for though of old'Tis held, that Comets Princes death foretell,Why should not his, have needed one as well?Who was the Prince of wits, 'mongst whom he reign'd,High as a Prince, and as great State maintain'd?Yet wants he not his signe, for wee have seeneA dearth, the like to which hath never beene,Treading on harvests heeles, which doth presageThe death of wit and learning, which this ageShall finde, now he is gone; for though there beeMuch graine in shew, none brought it forth as he,Or men are misers; or if true want raisesThe dearth, then more that dearth Donnes plenty praises.Of learning, languages, of eloquence,And Poësie, (past rauishing of sense,)He had a magazine, wherein such storeWas laid up, as might hundreds serve of poore.But he is gone, O how will his desireTorture all those that warm'd them by his fire?Mee thinkes I see him in the pulpit standing,Not eares, or eyes, but all mens hearts commanding,Where wee that heard him, to our selves did faineGolden Chrysostome was alive againe;And never were we weari'd, till we sawHis houre (and but an houre) to end did draw.How did he shame the doctrine-men, and use,With helps to boot, for men to beare th'abuseOf their tir'd patience, and endure th'expenceOf time, O spent in hearkning to non-sense,With markes also, enough whereby to know,The speaker is a zealous dunce, or so.'Tis true, they quitted him, to their poore power,They humm'd against him; And with face most sowreCall'd him a strong lin'd man, a Macaroon,And no way fit to speake to clouted shoone,As fine words [truly] as you would desire,But [verily,] but a bad edifier.Thus did these beetles slight in him that good,They could not see, and much lesse understood.But we may say, when we compare the stuffeBoth brought; He was a candle, they the snuffe.Well, Wisedome's of her children justifi'd,Let therefore these poore fellowes stand aside;Nor, though of learning he deserv'd so highly,Would I his booke should save him; Rather slilyI should advise his Clergie not to pray,Though of the learn'dst sort; Me thinkes that theyOf the same trade, are Judges not so fit,There's no such emulation as of wit.Of such, the Envy might as much perchanceWrong him, and more, then th'others ignorance.It was his Fate (I know't) to be envy'dAs much by Clerkes, as lay men magnifi'd;And why? but 'cause he came late in the day,And yet his Penny earn'd, and had as they.No more of this, least some should say, that IAm strai'd to Satyre, meaning Elegie.No, no, had DONNE need to be judg'd or try'd,A Jury I would summon on his side,That had no sides, nor factions, past the touchOf all exceptions, freed from Passion, suchAs nor to feare nor flatter, e'r were bred,These would I bring, though called from the dead:Southampton, Hambleton, Pembrooke, Dorsets Earles,Huntingdon, Bedfords Countesses (the PearlesOnce of each sexe.) If these suffice not, ITen decem tales have of Standers by:All which, for DONNE, would such a verdict give,As can belong to none, that now doth live.But what doe I? A diminution 'tisTo speake of him in verse, so short of his,Whereof he was the master; All indeedCompar'd with him, pip'd on an Oaten reed.O that you had but one 'mongst all your brothersCould write for him, as he hath done for others:(Poets I speake to) When I see't, I'll say,My eye-sight betters, as my yeares decay,Meane time a quarrell I shall ever haveAgainst these doughty keepers from the grave,Who use, it seemes their old Authoritie,When (Verses men immortall make) they cry:Which had it been a Recipe true tri'd,Probatum esset, DONNE had never dy'd.For mee, if e'r I had least sparke at allOf that which they Poetique fire doe call,Here I confesse it fetched from his hearth,Which is gone out, now he is gone to earth.This only a poore flash, a lightning isBefore my Muses death, as after his.Farewell (faire soule) and deigne receive from meeThis Type of that devotion I owe thee,From whom (while living) as by voice and penneI learned more, then from a thousand men:So by thy death, am of one doubt releas'd,And now beleeve that miracles are ceas'd.