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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408455" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>AN ELEGY Upon the immature loss of the most vertuous Lady Anne Rich</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I envy not thy mortal triumphs, Death, <br>(Thou enemy to Vertue as to Breath) <br>Nor do I wonder much, nor yet complain <br>The weekly numbers by thy arrow slain. <br>The whole world is thy Factory, and we <br>Like traffick driven and retail'd by Thee: <br>And where the springs of life fill up so fast, <br>Some of the waters needs must run to waste. <br>It is confest, yet must our griefs dispute <br>That which thine own conclusion doth refute <br>Ere we begin. Hearken! for if thy ear <br>Be to thy throat proportion'd, thou canst hear. <br>Is there no order in the work of Fate? <br>Nor rule, but blindly to anticipate <br>Our growing seasons? or think'st thou 'tis just, <br>To sprinkle our fresh blossomes with thy dust, <br>Till by abortive funerals, thou bring <br>That to an Autumn Nature meant a Spring? <br>Is't not enough for thee that wither'd age <br>Lies the unpiti'd subject of thy rage; <br>But like an ugly Amorist, thy crest <br>Must be with spoyles of Youth and Beauty drest? <br>In other Camps, those which sate down to day <br>March first to morrow, and they longest stay <br>Who last came to the service: But in thine, <br>Onely confusion stands for discipline. <br>We fall in such promiscuous heaps, none can <br>Put any diff'rence 'twixt thy Rear or Van; <br>Since oft the youngest lead thy Files. For this <br>The grieved world here thy accuser is, <br>And I a Plaintiff, 'mongst those many ones <br>Who wet this Ladies Urn with zealous moanes; <br>As if her ashes quick'ning into years <br>Might be again embody'd by our tears <br>But all in vain; the moisture we bestow <br>Shall make assoon her curled Marble grow, <br>As render heat, or motion to that blood, <br>Which through her veins branch't like an azure flood; <br>Whose now still Current in the grave is lost, <br>Lock't up, and fetter'd by eternal frost. <br>Desist from hence, doting Astrology! <br>To search for hidden wonders in the sky; <br>Or from the concourse of malignant starres <br>Foretel diseases gen'ral as our warres: <br>What barren droughts, forerunners of lean dearth: <br>Threaten to starve the plenty of the earth: <br>What horrid forms of darkness must affright <br>The sickly world, hast'ning to that long night <br>Where it must end. If there no Portents are, <br>No black eclipses for the Kalendar, <br>Our times sad Annals will remembred be <br>Ith' loss of bright Northumberland and Thee: <br>Two Starres of Court, who in one fatal year <br>By most untimely set dropt from their Sphear. <br>Shee in the winter took her flight, and soon <br>As her perfections reach't the point of Noon, <br>Wrapt in a cloud, contracted her wisht stay <br>Unto the measure of a short-liv'd day. <br>But Thou in Summer, like an early Rose <br>By Deaths cold hand nipp'd as Thou didst disclose, <br>Took'st a long day to run that narrow stage, <br>Which in two gasping minutes summ'd thy age. <br>And, as the fading Rose, when the leaves shed <br>Lies in its native sweetness buried, <br>Thou in thy vertues bedded and inherst <br>Sleep'st with those odours thy pure fame disperst. <br>Where till that Rising Morn thou must remain, <br>In which thy wither'd flowres shall spring again. <br>And greater beauties thy wak't body vest <br>Then were at thy departure here possest. <br>So with full eyes we close thy vault. Content <br>(With what thy loss bequeaths us) to lament, <br>And make that use of thy griev'd funerall, <br>As of a Chrystall broken in the fall; <br>Whose pitti'd fractures gather'd up, and set, <br>May smaller Mirrours for Thy Sex beget; <br>There let them view themselves, untill they see <br>The end of all their glories shew'n in Thee. <br>Whil'st in the truth of this sad tribute, I <br>Thus strive to Canonize thy Memory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+King">Henry King</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408455" data-title="AN ELEGY Upon the immature loss of the most vertuous Lady Anne Rich de Henry King" data-description="I envy not thy mortal triumphs, Death, 
(Thou enemy to Vertue as to Breath) 
Nor do I wonder much, nor yet complain 
The weekly numbers by thy arrow slain. 
The whole world is thy Factory, and we 
Like traffick driven and retail'd by Thee: 
And wh..."></div>
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