Edward Farr, ed. Select Poetry of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth. 1845.
Stanzas from “Queene Elizabeth’s Teares”XXV. Christopher Lever
M
To be the highest of extremities;
When as we die what loose we else but breath?
And many numbers of our miseries,
When this life setts, as better doth arise:
And when to death a holy cause is giuen,
Death is the gate by which we enter heauen.
Vncertaine daies, yet full of certaine griefe,
In number few, but infinite in paine;
O’re chargde with wants, but naked of reliefe,
In ruling it our euill partes are chiefe:
And though our time be not cut short by death,
Olde age will creepe to stop uncertaine breath.
This of the body is a scant compare,
Wherein so many and so much I find,
As would astonne my spirits to declare;
Triall can onely tell us what they are:
For we whom custom hath with griefe acquainted
By vs her sad proportion best is painted.
That stirres sedition in the state of man;
Where when our passions once commanding are,
Our peacefull dayes are desperate, for than
The stirres more hote than when it first began;
For heady passion’s like an vntamed beast,
That riots most when we desire it least.
Like swelling tides that ouerrunne their shore,
Leauing the lawfull current of their streame,
And breake their bankes that bounded them before:
Yet griefe in his great violence is more:
For if that reason bound not griefe with lawes,
In our destruction griefe will be the cause.
Not much regarded, yet regardlesse neuer;
Not much affected, yet we must haue sense
To feele our griefe and apprehend it euer;
Yet let the grieued ever thus indever
To make his burthen easeful as hee may,
And so his griefe with ease is borne away.
As in our choice ourselues do apprehend;
Griefe may present it selfe, but not constraine
That we imbrace what it doth recommend.
Beare it but lightly then; for to that end
Is patience giuen, by whose resolued might
The heauiest loade of griefe is made but light.
That with our patience we support our cares;
Nor we our selues, but God this vertue gaue,
Which our vnworthie life right well declares;
To loose my life is for to loose my cares:
Then what is death that I should feare to die?
Death is the death of all my miserie.
In humane flesh to linger our long daies?
Is it because to honor men aspire,
Or for their name in beautie hath a praise?
Or is’t their greedy auarice them staies?
Honour, beautie, nor desire of golde,
Cannot the certaine of their death withhold.
Often confer’d to men of little merite;
In euery place as common is as fame,
Commonly giuen to euery common spirite;
So little worth as anie one may weare it:
Then why should that be thought of estimation
That giues to base deseruings high creation?
As please the prince in fauour to dispose;
But true deriued honor is from heauen,
And often liues in meane estate with those
That to the courts of princes neuer goes.
How vainly prowd are such as would get fame,
Yet get no more of honor but the name!
He that from enuious eie and full resort
Liues priuate, with a little state content,
Little desires the honour of the court,
Where emulation stirres a discontent;
Men shoote at him that is most eminent,
And whom the prince with hiest grace doth crown,
Enuy brings many hands to pull him downe.
Which we with infinite of care pursue,
Painefull to get, but lost at libertie;
Fatall to many, fortunate to few,
Whereto so many miseries insue
As fills our time with cares: then why should I
For this respect of honour feare to die?