Poem by George Chapman

An Address to Death

Partiall devourer ever of the best!
With headlong rapture sparing long the rest,
Could not the precious teares his father shed,
That are with kingdomes to be ransomed,
His bleeding prayer, upon his knees, t' implore
That if for any sin of his, Heaven tore
From his most royall body that chief limme,
It might be ransom'd, for the rest of him?
Could not the sacred eies thou didst prophane
In his great mother's teares? the spightful bane
Thou pour'dst upon the cheekes of all the Graces,
In his most gracious sister's? the defaces
With all the furies' overflowing galles
Cursedly fronting her neere nuptials?
Could not, O could not the Almighty ruth
Of all these force thee to forbeare the youth
Of our incomparable Prince of men,
Whose age had made thy iron forke his pen,
T' eternise what it now doth murder meerely,
And shall have, from my soule, my curses yeerely?
Tyrant! what knew'st thou but the barbarouswound
Thou gav'st the son, the father might confound?
Both liv'd so mixtly, and were joyntly one;
Spirit to spirit cleft; the humor bred
In one heart, straight was with the other fed;
The blood of one the other s heart did fire—
The heart and humour were the son and sire;
The heart yet (void of humour's slender'st part)
May easier live, than humour without heart:
The river needes the helpfull fountaine ever,
More then the fountaine the supplyed river.

1. Opinion
2. Her Coming
3. Courage

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