MARY FAGE

Is authoress of a very rare volume, (entitled Fame's Roule, 1637), in which with the most patient ingenuity she has tortured into anagrams and acrosticks, the names of various illustrious personages, King Charles, his Queen Mary, "his most hopeful posterity," Dukes, Marquesses, &c. &c., to the number of four hundred and twenty.

To the Right Hon. JOHN Earl of CLARE, Lord HOUGHTON of Houghton.

John Hollis,

ANAGRAMMA,

Oh! on hy hills.

In virtue when I see you make such speed,
Oh, it doth then no admiration breed,
Hy, on hy hills of honour that you stand:
Nature commandeth virtue such a band.
Honour on virtue ever should attend :
Oh, on hy hills you may forever wend :
Loving of virtue, which doth shine so clear,
Likely it is, you earl of Clare appear.
Insue then well, what you have well begun,
So on hy hills to stand you well have won.

To the Right Hon. JOHN Earl of WEYMES,

Lord WEYMES.

John Weymes,

ANAGRAMMA,

Shew men joy.

In your great honour free from all alloy,
O truly noble Weymes you shew men joy ;
Having your virtues in their clearer sight,
Nothing there is can breed them more delight.
With joy your wisdom so doth men content;
Ever we pray it might be permanent:

Your virtuous life doth breed so great delight,
Men wish you endless joy, you to requite;
Eternal joy may unto you succeed,

Shewing men joy, who do our comfort breed.

ANNA HUME.

The Triumphs of Love, Chastity, Death: translated out of Petrarch, by Mrs. Anna Hume, Edinburgh, 1644, gives this lady a place in the present selection. She was the daughter of David Hume, of Godscroft.

To the Reader.

READER, I have oft been told,
Verse that speak not Love, are cold.
I would gladly please thine ear,
But am loath to buy't too dear.
And 'tis easier far to borrow
Lovers' tears, than feel their sorrow.
Therefore he hath furnisht me,

Who had enough to serve all three.

From the Triumph of Death. Chap. I.

Lauretta meeting cruel Death,

Mildly resigns her noble breath.

THE fatal hour of her short life drew near,

That doubtful passage which the world doth fear;

Another company, who had not been

Freed from their earthy burden, there were seen,
To try if prayers could appease the wrath,
Or stay th' inexorable hand of death.

That beauteous crowd conven'd to see the end
Which all must taste; each neighbour, every friend
Stood by, when grim death with her hand took hold
And pull'd away one only hair of gold.
Thus from the world this fairest flower is taen
To make her shine more bright, not out of spleen.
How many moaning plaints, what store of cries.
Were utter'd there, when fate shut those fair eyes
For which so oft I sung; whose beauties burn'd
My tortur'd heart so long; whiles others mourn'd
She pleas'd, and quiet did the fruit enjoy
Of her blest life; farewell, without annoy,

True saint on earth, said they; so might she be
Esteem'd, but nothing bates death's cruelty.

Now at what rate I should the sorrow prize,
I know not, nor have art that can suffice
The sad affliction, to relate in verse

Of these fair Dames, that wept about her hearse;
Courtesy, Virtue, Beauty, all are lost,

What shall become of us? none else can boast

Such high perfection, no more we shall

Hear her wise words, nor the angelical

Sweet music of her voice; whiles thus they cried, The parting spirit doth itself divide

With every virtue from the noble breast, As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest; The heavens were clear, and all the ambient air Without a threatening cloud, no adversaire Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright: Death singly did herself conclude the fight; After, when fear, and the extremest plaint Were ceas'd, th' attentive eyes of all were bent On that fair face, and by despair became Secure; she who was spent, not like a flame By force extinguish'd, but as lights decay, And undiscerned waste themselves away: Thus went the soul in peace, so lamps are spent, As the oil fails which gave them nourishment; In sum, her countenance you still might know The same it was, not pale, but white as snow Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakes Falls in a calm, or as a man that takes Desired rest, as if her lovely sight

Were clos'd with sweetest sleep, after the spright Was gone. If this be that fools call to die,

Death seem'd in her exceeding fair to be.