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Uno Sol Mountioie tuus contentus ocello est,
Cuncta tamen cernit, nihil est oculatious illo.
Omnia qui ut videat magnus quaie continet orbis,
Cernera te potuit toto nil pulchrius orbe.

Iam tuus ab periit pulcher Sol, dulcis ocellus
Penelope, periit nec tamen ille tibi,
Qui Mortalis in explendo te amplexus amore est,
Quid ni Coelestis te quoque factus amet?

Ev'n to thy sweetness pure benign, kind Air
      That first embrac'd these tears, these I present.
Know them, though now transform'd from Crystal air
      Th'appear to thee in Musical ornament:
Free passage to melodious piercing sounds
      Thine open bosom yields: Grief owes to thee
Her groans, and sighs: Through thy swift-healed wounds
      Her shrieks are shot, and thine her clamours be.
Receive then, cheerful Air, these sad laments,
      Though thou art but one Element, and she
That owes them, of all four the quintessence,
      The Star of honour, and the sphere of beauty.
Go, hear her sing these farewells; thou wilt weep,
And moveless ever in thy regions sleep.

Sing Lady, sing thy Dev'nshire's funerals,
      And charm the Air with thy delightful voice;
Let lighter spirits grace their Madrigals,
      Sorrow doth in the saddest notes rejoice.
Fairest of Ladies, since these Songs are thine,
Now make them as thou art thyself, divine.
The devoted servant of
      true nobleness,

In honourable memory of the Right
noble the Earl of Devonshire,
late deceased.
No sooner had the Fates' pale Minister
      At th'high command of stern Necessity
Seiz'd the terrestrial part of Devonshire,
      And render'd his free soul t'Eternity:
But lo, th'imperfect brood of fruitful Fame,
      (That swarming thick as atoms buzz in th'air),
Light-wingéd Rumours, in right of their Dame,
      Claimed great Mountjoy's name, with swift repair
Heaving it up to Fame's high Consistory,
      Where she with doom impartial registers
All names t'eternal fame, or infamy,
      And in her final judgement never errs.
You sacréd seed of Mnemosyne, pardon me
      If in this sudden rapture I reveal
Myst'ries which only ravish'd sprites can see
      And envious time did till this hour conceal.
In crystal chair whn star-like shining Fame
      Her state had plac'd, strait with confuséd noise
The thronging miscreates brought in Dev'nshire's name,
      Some figuring lamentations, others joys:
Some wept, some sobb'd, some howl'd, some laugh'd, some smil'd,
      And as their passions strange, and different were,
So were their shapes; such heaps were never pil'd
      Of monstrous heads as now consortéd here.
For some like apes peer out, like foxes some,
      Many like asses, wolves, and oxen seem'd,
Like hissing serpents, and fell hydras some;
      Rhinoceroes some by their arm'd snouts I deem'd,
Others like crocodiles hang their sly heads down:
      But infinite of human forms appear
Whose simple looks were void of smile or frown,
      Yet somewhat sad they show'd, like skies unclear:
In this confusion the great Registress,
      Commanding silence, sev'rally gave leave
To all reports, and with mild soberness
      Both partial and impartial did receive.
First as accusers spake the busy ape.
      The envious bold wolf, and the spiteful snake,
And divers in the braying asses' shape,
      But all their malice did one period make.
Dev'nshire did love; love was his error made,
      That only 'gainst his virtues was oppos'd,
As if for that his honour'd name should fade,
      Whose breast both virtue, and true love enclos'd.
But now rise high my sprite, while I unfold
      What th'human speakers in defence replied.
To latter ages let this tale be told
      Which is by fame for ever verified.
Did Mountjoy love? And did not Hercules
      Feel beauty's flame, and couch him underneath
The wings of Cupid? or did e'er the less
      His sacred brows deserve a victor's wreath?
Did not he free the trembling world from fear,
      And dire confusion? Who else could subdue
Monsters that innocents did spoil, and tear,
      Or Saturn's ancient golden peace renew?
Did Mountjoy love? And did not Mountjoy's sword,
      When he march'd arm'd with Pallas' dreadful helm,
The rough unquiet Irish rebels curb?
      And the invading Spaniard overwhelm?
Lov'd he? And did not he natheless assist
      Great Britain's councils, and in secret cells
The Muses visit? And alone untwist
      The riddles of deep philosophic spells?
Did Dev'nshire love? And lov'd not Dev'nshire so
      As if all beauty had for him been fram'd?
For beauty more ardorn'd no age shall know
      Then hers whom he his own for ever nam'd.
Let then base envy break, fond rumour sleep,
      Black malice turn to dove-white charity;
Let Dev'nshire triumph, and his honour keep
      Immune, and clear from dark mortality.
This spoken, Fame charg'd Zephirus to sound
      His golden trumpet, after whose smooth blast
These words she made from heav'n to earth rebound:
      Brave Mountjoy's glory shall for ever last.
Then forth was brought a boss'd book destinéd
      For Kings, and Heroes, where with liquid gold
Deceaséd Dev'nshire's name she regist'réd
      In charméd letters that can ne'er grow old.

Omnia vincit Amor, et nos cedamus Amori,

      Scripsit; cuius erant nescia scripta mori.

Annuit huic fortis Mountioius victus Amori

      Cessit; cuius erunt nescia facta mori.

'Tis true that when the Italian Spider stings
      He sings, or laughs, or dances till he dies,
Or spends his short time in such idle things
      As the severer sort call vanities:
Music alone this fury can release,
      This venomous rancour that the flesh doth eat
Like envy which in death doth seldom cease
      To feed upon the honours of the great.
Well have we toll'd in prosperous harmony
      If we the envy-poison'd wounds do cure
Of spiteful adder-tongued hypocrisy
      That speaks wash'd words, but works dark deeds impure.
If such prove past recure, suffice it then
We sing not to brute beasts, but human men.

A Table of the Songs contained in this Book.

1. Oft thou hast
2. O sweet flower.
3. O the unsure hopes.
4. In darkness let me dwell.
5. My joy is dead.
6. Deceitful fancy.
7. Foe of mankind.

Quid mortuos mordes canis? nihil retro
Cernis, neque vides mantica quod in tergo est.

The dead why bit'st thou, dog? Th'art backward blind,
And dost not see the bag thou bear'st behind.

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This Web page is dedicated to the memory of Beverley Harrison.
Requiescat in pace.