THE
ULTIMUM VALE,
OR,
Last Farewell
Of THOMAS Earle of Strafford.
Written by himselfe a little before his death.
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(I.)
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FArewell vain world, farewell my fleeting joyes,
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Whose best of musick's but an Echo's noyse,
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And all the lustre of your painted light
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But as dull dreams and fantoms of the night.
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Empty your pleasures too, nor can they last
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Longer than aire-puft bubbles, or a blast.
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(II.)
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Farewell you fading Honours, which doe blinde,
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By your false mists the sharpest sighted minde,
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And having rais'd him to his height of cares,
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Tumble him headlong down the slippery staires.
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How shall I praise or prise your glorious ills,
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Which are but poyson put in golden pills.
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(III.)
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Farewell my blustring titles, ne're come backe,
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You've sweld my sailes until my mastings cracke,
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And made my Vessel reele against the rocks
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Of gaping ruine, whose destructive knocks
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Hath helplesse left me, sinking, here to lie:
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The cause? I rais'd my main-top sailes too high.
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(IV.)
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Farewell Ambition (since we needs must part)
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Thou great Inchantresse of mans greater heart:
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Thy guilded titles that do seeme so faire,
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Are but like meteors hanging in the aire:
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In whose false splendor, falling thence, is found
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No worth, but water-like shed on the ground.
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(V.)
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Farewell the Glory, from which all the rest
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Derive the Sweets for which men stile them blest,
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That from one root in severall branches spring,
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I meane, The favor of my gratious King:
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This too, hath led my wandring soule astray,
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Like Ignis Fatuis, from its righter way.
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(VI.)
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Farewell my Friends, I need not bid you go;
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When Fortune flies, you freely will doe so.
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Worship the rising, not the setting Sun.
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The House is falling; Vermin quickly run.
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Bees do from off the wither'd floures make haste;
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The reason is, Because th'ave lost their taste.
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(VII.)
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Farewell the treasures of my tempting store,
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Which of all Idols, least I did adore:
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Haste to some Ideots Coffer, and hee'l bee
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Thy slave, as I have master been to thee.
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Heaven knowes, of all the Suiters that I had,
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I least priz'd thee, as counting none so bad.
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(VIII.)
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Last; To my Foes farewell: for such I have,
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Who do in multitudes wait for my grave;
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'Mongst which I can't beleeve but some there be
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That hate my vices only, and not me:
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Let them passe o're my fame without a blot,
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And let the Vulgar scratch they know not what.
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(IX.)
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Let them besmeare me by the chattering notes
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(Poor silly hearts) which echo through their throtes;
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I'le passe it o're, and pray (with patience too)
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Father forgive; they know not what they do.
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Yet O: I could have woo'd my treacherous Fate
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T'have let me died without the publique hate.
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