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Bacon's Epitaph and Upon the Death of G. B.
If 't be a sin to think Death bribed can be We must be guilty; say 't was bribery Guided the fatal shaft. Virginia's foes, To whom for secret crimes just vengeance owes Deserved plagues, dreading their just desert, Corrupted Death by Paracelsian art Him to destroy; whose well tried courage such, Their heartless hearts, nor arms, nor strength could touch.
Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that blood The Heathen made, and drew into a flood? Who is 't must plead our cause? nor trump, nor drum Nor Deputation; these, alas! are dumb And cannot speak. Our Arms (though ne'er so strong) Will want the aid of his commanding tongue, Which conquered more than Cæsar. He o'erthrew Only the outward frame: this could subdue The rugged works of nature. Souls replete With dull chill cold, he'd animate with heat Drawn forth of reason's limbec. In a word, Mars and Minerva both in him concurred For arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alike As Cato's did, may admiration strike Into his foes; while they confess withal It was their guilt styled him a criminal. Only this difference does from truth proceed: They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed. While none shall dare his obsequies to sing In deserved measures, until time shall bring Truth crowned with freedom, and from danger free To sound his praises to posterity.
Here let him rest; while we this truth report, He's gone from hence unto a higher Court To plead his cause, where he by this doth know Whether to Cæsar he was friend, or foe.
“Upon the Death of G. B.” Whether to Cæsar he was friend or foe? Pox take such ignorance, do you not know? Can he be friend to Cæsar, that shall bring The arms of Hell to fight against the King? (Treason, rebellion) then what reason have We for to wait upon him to his grave, There to express our passions? Will 't not be Worse than his crimes, to sing his elegy In well tuned numbers; where each Ella bears (To his flagitious name) a flood of tears? A name that hath more souls with sorrow fed, Than reached Niobe, single tears ere shed; A name that fill'd all hearts, all ears, with pain, Until blest fate proclaimed, Death had him slain. Then how can it be counted for a sin Though Death (nay, though myself) had bribed been To guide the fatal shaft? We honor all That lends a hand unto a traitor's fall. What though the well paid Rochit soundly ply And box the pulpit into flattery; Urging his rhetoric and strained eloquence, T' adorn encoffined filth and excrements; Though the defunct (like ours) ne'er tried A well intended deed until he died? 'Twill be nor sin, nor shame, for us to say A twofold passion checkerworks this day Of joy and sorrow; yet the last doth move On feet impotent, wanting strength to prove (Nor can the art of logic yield relief) How joy should be surmounted by our grief. Yet that we grieve it cannot be denied, But 't is because he was, not 'cause he died. So wept the poor distressed Ilium dames Hearing those named their city put in flames, And country ruined. If we thus lament, It is against our present joys' consent.
For if the rule in Physic true doth prove, Remove the cause, th'effects will after move, We have outliv'd our sorrows; since we see The causes shifting of our misery.
Nor is't a single cause that's slipped away, That made us warble out a welladay. The brains to plot, the hands to execute Projected ills, Death jointly did nonsuit At his black Bar. And what no bail could save He hath committed prisoner to the grave; From whence there's no reprieve. Death keep him close; We have too many Devils still go loose.
“Bacon’s Epitaph” and “Upon the Death of G.B.”
Read by Thomas Colechin
Audio engineer Jared Bell
Directed by Walter Evans
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