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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419563" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On the Memory of Mr. Edward King, Drown'd in the Irish Seas</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like not tears in tune, nor do I prize<br> His artificial grief that scans his eyes;<br> Mine weep down pious beads, but why should I<br> Confine them to the Muses' rosary?<br> I am no poet here; my pen's the spout<br> Where the rain-water of my eyes runs out,<br> In pity of that name, whose fate we see<br> Thus copied out in grief's hydrography.<br> The Muses are not mermaids, though upon<br> His death the ocean might turn Helicon.<br> The sea's too rough for verse; who rhymes upon 't<br> With Xerxes strives to fetter th' Hellespont.<br> My tears will keep no channel, know no laws<br> To guide their streams, but like the waves, their cause,<br> Run with disturbance till they swallow me<br> As a description of his misery.<br> But can his spacious virtue find a grave<br> Within th' imposthum'd bubble of a wave?<br> Whose learning if we sound, we must confess<br> The sea but shallow, and him bottomless.<br> Could not the winds to countermand thy death<br> With their whole card of lungs redeem thy breath?<br> Or some new island in thy rescue peep<br> To heave thy resurrection from the deep,<br> That so the world might see thy safety wrought<br> With no less miracle than thyself was thought?<br> The famous Stagirite, who in his life<br> Had Nature as familiar as his wife,<br> Bequeath'd his widow to survive with thee,<br> Queen Dowager of all philosophy:<br> An ominous legacy, that did portend<br> Thy fate and predecessor's second end.<br> Some have affirm'd, that what on earth we find,<br> The sea can parallel in shape and kind:<br> Books, arts, and tongues were wanting, but in thee<br> Neptune hath got an university.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> We'll dive no more for pearls; the hope to see<br> Thy sacred reliques of mortality<br> Shall welcome storms, and make the seaman prize<br> His shipwreck now, more than his merchandise.<br> He shall embrace the waves and to thy tomb<br> (As to a royaler exchange) shall come.<br> What can we now expect? Water and fire<br> Both elements our ruin do conspire.<br> And that dissolves us which doth us compound,<br> One Vatican was burnt, another drown'd.<br> We of the gown our libraries must toss<br> To understand the greatness of our loss;<br> Be pupils to our grief and so much grow<br> In learning as our sorrows overflow.<br> When we have fill'd the rundlets of our eyes<br> We'll issue 't forth, and vent such elegies<br> As that our tears shall seem the Irish Seas,<br> We, floating islands, living Hebrides.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Cleveland">John Cleveland</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=419563" data-title="On the Memory of Mr. Edward King, Drown'd in the Irish Seas de John Cleveland" data-description="I like not tears in tune, nor do I prize
 His artificial grief that scans his eyes;
 Mine weep down pious beads, but why should I
 Confine them to the Muses' rosary?
 I am no poet here; my pen's the spout
 Where the rain-water of my eyes runs out,..."></div>
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