Tho: Browne

I Cannot blame those men, that knew thee well,Yet dare not helpe the world, to ring thy knellIn tunefull Elegies; there's not language knowneFit for thy mention, but 'twas first thy owne;The Epitaphs thou writst, have so bereftOur tongue of wit, there is not phansie leftEnough to weepe thee; what henceforth we seeOf Art or Nature, must result from thee.There may perchance some busie gathering friendSteale from thy owne workes, and that, varied, lend,Which thou bestow'st on others, to thy Hearse,And so thou shalt live still in thine owne verse;Hee that shall venture farther, may commitA pitied errour, shew his zeale, not wit.Fate hath done mankinde wrong; vertue may aimeReward of conscience, never can, of fame,Since her great trumpet's broke, could onely giveFaith to the world, command it to beleeve;Hee then must write, that would define thy parts:Here lyes the best Divinitie, All the Arts.

Hee that would write an Epitaph for thee,And do it well, must first beginne to beSuch as thou wert; for, none can truly knowThy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv'd so;He must have wit to spare and to hurle downe:Enough, to keepe the gallants of the towne.He must have learning plenty; both the Lawes,Civill, and Common, to judge any cause;Divinity great store, above the rest;Not of the last Edition, but the best.Hee must have language, travaile, all the Arts;Judgement to use; or else he wants thy parts.He must have friends the highest, able to do;Such as Mecœnas, and Augustus too.He must have such a sicknesse, such a death;Or else his vaine descriptions come beneath;Who then shall write an Epitaph for thee,He must be dead first, let'it alone for mee.

All is not well when such a one as IDare peepe abroad, and write an Elegie;When smaller Starres appeare, and give their light,Phœbus is gone to bed: Were it not night,And the world witlesse now that DONNE is dead,You sooner should have broke, then seene my head.Dead did I say? Forgive this InjuryI doe him, and his worthes Infinity,To say he is but dead; I dare averreIt better may be term'd a Massacre,Then Sleepe or Death; See how the Muses mourneUpon their oaten Reeds, and from his VrneThreaten the World with this Calamity,They shall have Ballads, but no Poetry.Language lyes speechlesse; and Divinity,Lost such a Trump as even to ExtasieCould charme the Soule, and had an InfluenceTo teach best judgements, and please dullest Sense.The Court, the Church, the Vniversitie,Lost Chaplaine, Deane, and Doctor, All these, Three.It was his Merit, that his FunerallCould cause a losse so great and generall.

If there be any Spirit can answer giveOf such as hence depart, to such as live:Speake, Doth his body there vermiculate,Crumble to dust, and feele the lawes of Fate?Me thinkes, Corruption, Wormes, what else is fouleShould spare the Temple of so faire a Soule.I could beleeve they doe; but that I knowWhat inconvenience might hereafter grow:Succeeding ages would Idolatrize,And as his Numbers, so his Reliques prize.

If that Philosopher, which did avowThe world to be but Motes, was living now:He would affirme that th' Atomes of his mouldWere they in severall bodies blended, wouldProduce new worlds of Travellers, Divines,Of Linguists, Poets: sith these severall linesIn him concentred were, and flowing thenceMight fill againe the worlds Circumference.I could beleeve this too; and yet my faithNot want a President: The Phœnix hath(And such was He) a power to animateHer ashes, and herselfe perpetuate.But, busie Soule, thou dost not well to pryInto these Secrets; Griefe, and Iealousie,The more they know, the further still advance,And finde no way so safe as Ignorance.Let this suffice thee, that his Soule which flewA pitch of all admir'd, known but of few,(Save those of purer mould) is now translatedFrom Earth to Heaven, and there Constellated.For, if each Priest of God shine as a Starre,His Glory is as his Gifts, 'bove others farre.

Is Donne, great Donne deceas'd? then England sayThou 'hast lost a man where language chose to stayAnd shew it's gracefull power. I would not praiseThat and his vast wit (which in these vaine dayesMake many proud) but as they serv'd to unlockThat Cabinet, his minde: where such a stockOf knowledge was repos'd, as all lament(Or should) this generall cause of discontent.And I rejoyce I am not so severe,But (as I write a line) to weepe a teareFor his decease; Such sad extremitiesMay make such men as I write Elegies.And wonder not; for, when a generall losseFalls on a nation, and they slight the crosse,God hath rais'd Prophets to awaken themFrom stupifaction; witnesse my milde pen,Not us'd to upbraid the world, though now it mustFreely and boldly, for, the cause is just.Dull age, Oh I would spare thee, but th'art worse,Thou art not onely dull, but hast a curseOf black ingratitude; if not, couldst thouPart with miraculous Donne, and make no vowFor thee and thine, successively to payA sad remembrance to his dying day?Did his youth scatter Poetrie, whereinWas all Philosophie? Was every sinne,Character'd in his Satyres? made so fouleThat some have fear'd their shapes, and kept their souleFreer by reading verse? Did he give dayesPast marble monuments, to those, whose praiseHe would perpetuate? Did hee (I feareThe dull will doubt:) these at his twentieth yeare?But, more matur'd: Did his full soule conceive,And in harmonious-holy-numbers weaveA Crowne of sacred sonets, fit to adorneA dying Martyrs brow: or, to be worneOn that blest head of Mary Magdalen:After she wip'd Christs feet, but not till then?Did hee (fit for such penitents as sheeAnd hee to use) leave us a Litany?Which all devout men love, and sure, it shall,As times grow better, grow more classicall.Did he write Hymnes, for piety and witEquall to those great grave Prudentius writ?Spake he all Languages? knew he all Lawes?The grounds and use of Physicke; but because'Twas mercenary wav'd it? Went to seeThat blessed place of Christs nativity?Did he returne and preach him? preach him soAs none but hee did, or could do? They know(Such as were blest to heare him know) 'tis truth.Did he confirme thy age? convert thy youth?Did he these wonders? And is this deare losseMourn'd by so few? (few for so great a crosse.)But sure the silent are ambitious allTo be Close Mourners at his Funerall;If not; In common pitty they forbareBy repetitions to renew our care;Or, knowing, griefe conceiv'd, conceal'd, consumesMan irreparably, (as poyson'd fumesDo waste the braine) make silence a safe wayTo'inlarge the Soule from these walls, mud and clay,(Materialls of this body) to remaineWith Donne in heaven, where no promiscuous paineLessens the joy wee have, for, with him, allAre satisfyed with joyes essentiall.My thoughts, Dwell on this Ioy, and do not callGriefe backe, by thinking of his Funerall;Forget he lov'd mee; Waste not my sad yeares;(Which haste to Davids seventy, fill'd with fearesAnd sorrow for his death;) Forget his parts,Which finde a living grave in good mens hearts;And, (for, my first is daily paid for sinne)Forget to pay my second sigh for him:Forget his powerfull preaching; and forgetI am his Convert. Oh my frailtie! letMy flesh be no more heard, it will obtrudeThis lethargie: so should my gratitude,My vowes of gratitude should so be broke;Which can no more be, then Donnes vertues spokeBy any but himselfe; for which cause, IWrite no Encomium, but an Elegie.