An Elegy Upon The Death Of Mrs Anne King. Poem by Robert Gomersall

I dare not say that Death in heav'n hath powre,
Or that we have a second fatall howre:
'Tis impious to beleeve that soules doe range,
Or that they can affect that foolish change
Of happinesse, for Earth, (as if they thought
Gadding to be felicity, or sought,
A moderation of their joyes) that heav'n,
The roomes being empty which she first had giv'n,
Strives to make good afresh, that this should be
The cause, deare Ghost, why we are robb'd, of thee.


Yet pardon Heav'n, if I am bold to dare
A question: you doe know how few they are
That sucke your Ayre and goodnesse, how the earth
Lookes like the errour of a monstrous birth,
With scarce one perfect member, and will you
Robbe us of our one peice, and make the few
No number? Pardon then if for this wrong
We leave your precepts, to live ill, and long.
Be we once good, we shall not be at all;
Vertue does onely hast a funerall.
If that a mortall may but give advice,
Teach not the world sinne by your Avarice;
Spare us a while that little which we have,
Let vertue finde somewhat besides a Grave;
You first command us to be good, and then
You take away the goodnesse with the men,
Will not the bad say, Justice here is scant,
To take our store, and punish us for want?


But you are just, and wise, nor will acquaint
Man with your reasons: Why an Embryon Saint
Suddenly droppes into the Earth, which he,
Had he liv'd long, would but have liv'd to see,
And not affect, does pose all earth, and so
Now we may weepe, because we cannot know:
Now I but weep, that we have lost the wife
That Overbury would have fain'd, my strife
About your Iustice I disclaime; for I
Know it is just that what was borne must dye.


Yet without touch at your prerogative,
I may summe up my losse, and dare to grieve
With a full sorrow, I may say there dy'd
One that was Heav'ns, as well as Henries bride;
One that was match'd unto the Church, that she
Might learne a Marriage with the Deity.
Sure there were Velvet-cloakes that woo'd, & those
That could weare Scarlet for a need, and close
Which Ladyes out of play bookes, that could earne
A Mistris with a congy, and could learne
How many sighes must carry her, which she
By her wise choyce, left them to multiply.


And would they onely griev'd, would I could raise
Their teares a fresh, by adding to her dayes
More yeares with Henry, that their envy might
Cause them to burst, and dye for her in spight,
Such funeralls were fit: but since that Heav'n
Has harshly snatch'd what it had kindly giv'n;
And thou must be the Sacrifice, and he
Must have thy sorrow that erewhile had thee,
Ile spare my teares which must of force cause his:
'Tis rudenesse when we cannot restore blisse
To adde more to unhappinesse (then thou
Sometime the happy choice of her, and now
The sad survivor) pardon if my strife
To grieve enough, give thee a griefe, not wife,
If that my sighes could her to life repreeve,


I would create aswell as now I grieve,