html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Call not the Winds! nor bid the Rivers stay!
For though the sighs, the teares they could repay,
Which injur'd Lovers, Mourners for the Dead,
Captives, and Saints, have breath'd away, and shed;
Yet wee should want to make our sorrow fit
For such a cause, as now doth silence it.
Rutland! the noble, and the just! whose name
Already is, all History, all Fame!
Whom like brave Ancestors in Battaile lost,
Wee mention not in pitty, but in boast!
How did'st thou smile, to see the solemne sport,
Which vexes busie greatnesse in the Court?
T'observe their lawes of faction, place, and Time,
Their precepts how, and where, and when to climbe?
Their rules, to know if the sage meaning lies,
In the deepe Breast, i'th shallow Brow, or Eyes?
Though Titles, and thy blood, made thee appeare,
(Oft'gainst thy ease) where these state-Rabbins were;
Yet their philosophie thou knew'st was fit,
For thee to pitty, more than study it.
Safely thou valu'dst Cunning, as 'thad bin,
Wisdome, long since, distemper'd into Sin:
And knew'st, the actions of th'Ambitious are
But as the fal'se Al'armes in running warre,
Like forlorne Scowts (that raise the coyle) they keepe
Themselves awake, to hinder others sleepe:
And all they gaine, by vex'd expence of breath;
Unquietnesse, and guilt; is at their death,
Wonder, and mighty noyse; whilst things that be
Most deare, and pretious to Mortalitie
(Time, and thy Selfe) impatient here of stay,
With a grave silence, seeme to steale away;
Depart from us unheard, and wee still mourne
In vaine (though piously) for their returne.
Thy Bounties if I name; I'le not admit,
Kings, when they love, or wooe, to equall it:
It shew'd like Nature's selfe, when she doth bring
All she can promise by an early Spring;
Or when she payes that promise, where she best
Makes Summers for Mankind; in the rich East.
And as the wise Sunne, silently imployes
His lib'rall Beames, and ripens without Noyse;
As precious Dewes, doe undiscover'd fall,
And growth, insensibly doth steale on all;
So what he gave, conceal'd, in private came,
(As in the dark) from one that had no name;
Like Fayries wealth, not given to restore,
Or if reveal'd, it visited no more.
If these live, and be read (as who shall dare
Suspect, Truth, and thy Fame, immortall are?)
What need thy noble Brother, or faire She,
That is thy selfe, in purest imagrie;
Whose breath, and Eyes, the fun'rall-spice, and flame,
Continue still, of gentle Buckingham;
What need they send poore Pioners to grone,
In lower Quarries for Corinthian stone?
To dig in Parian Hills? since Statues must,
And Monuments, turne like our selves to dust:
Verse, to all ages can our deeds declare,
Tombs, but a while, shew where our Bodies are.