AN ELEGIE UPON THE INCOMPARABLE DR. DONNE by HENRY VALENTINE

All is not well when such a one as I
Dare peepe abroad, and write an @3Elegie@1;
When smaller @3Starres@1 appeare, and give their light,
@3Phoebus@1 is gone to bed: Were it not night,
And the world witlesse now that DONNE is dead,
You sooner should have broke, then seene my head.
Dead did I say? Forgive this @3Injury@1
I doe him, and his worthes @3Infinity,@1
To say he is but dead; I dare averre
It better may be term'd a @3Massacre,@1
Then @3Sleepe@1 or @3Death@1; See how @3Muses@1 mourne
Upon their oaten @3Reeds,@1 and from his @3Vrne@1
Threaten the World with this @3Calamity,@1
They shall have @3Ballads,@1 but no @3Poetry.@1

@3Language@1 lyes speechlesse; and @3Divinity,@1
Lost such a @3Trump@1 as even to @3Extasie@1
Could charme the Soule, and had an @3Influence@1
To teach best @3judgements,@1 and please dullest @3Sense.@1
The @3Court,@1 the @3Church,@1 the @3Vniversitie,@1
Lost @3Chaplaine, Deane,@1 and @3Doctor,@1 All these, Three.
It was his @3Merit,@1 that his @3Funerall@1
Could cause a losse so @3great@1 and @3generall.@1

If there be any Spirit can answer give
Of such as hence depart, to such as live:
Speake, Doth his body there vermiculate,
Crumble to dust, and feele the lawes of Fate?
Me thinkes, @3Corruption, Wormes,@1 what else is foule
Should spare the @3Temple@1 of so faire a @3Soule.@1
I could beleeve they doe; but that I know
What inconvenience might hereafter grow:
Succeeding ages would @3Idolatrize,@1
And as his @3Numbers,@1 so his @3Reliques@1 prize.

If that Philosopher, which did avow
The world to be but Motes, was living now:
He would affirme that th'@3Atomes@1 of his mould
Were they in severall bodies blended, would
Produce new worlds of @3Travellers, Divines,@1
Of @3Linguists, Poets@1: sith these severall @3lines@1
In him concentred were, and flowing thence
Might fill againe the worlds @3Circumference.@1
I could beleeve this too; and yet my faith
Not want a @3President@1: The @3Phoenix@1 hath
(And such was He) a power to animate
Her ashes, and herselfe perpetuate.
But, busie Soule, thou dost not well to pry
Into these Secrets; @3Griefe,@1 and @3Jealousie,@1
The more they know, the further still advance,
And finde no way so safe as @3Ignorance.@1
Let this suffice thee, that his @3Soule@1 which flew
A pitch of all admir'd, known but of few,
(Save those of purer mould) is now translated
From Earth to Heaven, and there @3Constellated.@1
For, if each @3Priest@1 of God shine as a @3Starre,@1
His @3Glory@1 is as his @3Gifts,@1 'bove others farre.

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