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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN EPICED ON MR. FISHBOURNE, by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: As some, too far inquisitive, would fain Last Line: You live, and need nor epitaph nor tomb. Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, William Of Tavistock Subject(s): Charity; Fishbourne, Richard (d. 1625); Orphans; Philanthropy; Foundlings | |||
AS some, too far inquisitive, would fain Know how the Ark could so much life contain; Where the ewe fed, and where the lion lay, Both having den and pasture, yet all sea: When fishes had our constellations true, And how the hawk and partridge had one mew; So do I wonder, in these looser times, When men commit more villanies than rhymes, How honour'd Fishbourne, in his lesser Ark, Could so much immortality embark; And take in man too. How his good thoughts lay With wealth and hazard both of them at sea: How when his debtors thought of longer owing, His chiefest care was of that sum's bestowing In pious uses. But to question all; Did this rich man come to an hospital To curb the incomes, or to beg the leads, Or turn to straw more charitable beds? Or gaz'd he on a prison with pretence, More to enthrall than for a prayer thence? Or on the Levites' part, the churches' living, Did he e'er look without the thought of giving? No: as the Angel at Bethesda he Came never in the cells of charity, Unless his mind by Heaven had fraughted bin To help the next poor cripple that came in; And he came often to them; and withal Left there such virtue since his funeral, That, as the ancient prophet's buried bones Made one to know two resurrections: So after death it will be said of him, Fishbourne revived this man, gave that a limb: Such miracles are done in this sad age, And yet we do not go in pilgrimage. When by the graves of men alive he trod, Prisons where souls and bodies have abode Before a judgment; and, as there they lie, Speak their own epitaphs and elegy: Had he a deaf ear then? threw he on more Irons or actions than they had before? Nay: wish'd he not, he had sufficient worth To bid these men, dead to the world, come forth? Or since he had not, did not he anon Provide to keep them from corruption? Made them new shrouds (their clothes are sure no more, Such had the desert wanderers heretofore) Embalm'd them, not with spice and gums, whereby We may less noisome, not more deadly lie; But with a charitable food, and then Hid him from thanks to do the like agen. Methinks I see him in a sweet repair, Some walk, not yet infected with the air Of news or libel, weighing what may be, After all these, his next good legacy; Whether the Church that lies within his ken, With her revenues feeds or beasts or men? Whether, though it equivocally keep A careful shepherd and a flock of sheep, The patron have a soul, and doth entreat His friends more to a sermon than his meat? In fine, if church or steeple have a tongue, Bells by a sexton or a wether rung? Or where depopulations were begun, An almshouse were for men by it undone? Those, Fishbourne, were thy thoughts, the pulse of these Thou felt'st, and hast prescrib'd for the disease. Some thou hast cur'd, and this thy Gilead balm Hath my præludium to thy Angel's Psalm. And now, ye oracles of Heaven, for whom He hath prepar'd a candle, stool, and room, That to St. Mary's, Paul's, or elsewhere come, To send us sighing, and not laughing home; Ye, that the hour may run away more free, Bribe not the clerk, but with your doctrine me; Keep ye on wing his ever honour'd fame, And though our learned Mother want his name, 'Twas modesty in him that his dear BROWNE Might have place for his charity, and crown Their memories together. And though his The City got, the Universities Might have the other's name. You need not call A herald to proclaim your funeral. Nor load your graves with marble, nor expend Upon a statue more than on a friend; Or make stones tell a lie to after times, In prose inscriptions, or in hired rhymes. For whilst there shall a church unruin'd stand, And five blest souls as yours preserve the land; Whilst a good preacher in them hath a room, You live, and need nor epitaph nor tomb. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE by AMELIA OPIE THE MITHERLESS BAIRN by WILLIAM THOM LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 8. THE EVICTION by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM LOOKING FORWARD by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE; A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM TAKE YOUR CHOICE: AS EDGAR LEE MASTERS WOULD HANDLE IT. HILDA HYDE by BERTON BRALEY THE LAMENT OF LAMB'S CONDUIT by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB ORPHAN BORN by ROBERT JONES BURDETTE EPITAPH: IN OBITUM M.S. XO MAIJ, 1614 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |
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