Selected quad for the lemma: love_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
love_n	death_n	great_a	son_n	3,271	5	4.9791	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A06984	The description, of that euer to be famed knight, Sir Iohn Burgh, Colonell Generall of his Maiesties armie vvith his last seruice at the Isle of Rees, and his vnfortunate death, then when the armie had most need of such a pilote. Written by Robert Markham, captaine of a foote company in the same regiment, and shot also in the same seruice.	Markham, Robert, captain.; Cecil, Thomas, fl. 1630, engraver.	1628 (1628)	STC 17403; ESTC S112196	11,454	34

I will repeate As little as I can of this last blow Into the Isle of Ioyes we made retreate The thought whereof nigh brake my heart in two For there we lost the flowers of our Land Such as would sweate their blood in their Command But he that reades these losses let him know I doe not seeke to vnder value those That in the honourable ranke did goe Of Burgh the spring and author of my woes For I was neuer yet Satyricall My incke was not made blacke with bitter gall Our Colonels that haue yeere after yeere Worne out their time to reape experience That awes the Lord and knowes no other feare But brauely can maintaine a difference Are honoured in my heart and ere t is long I hope to sing their valours in a song I hope I shall out of the horse-hoofe well Procure a loftie flying Muse that shall In a Poeticke thundring fury tell Vnto the world the vertues of them all That they with blooming Laurell may be crown'd And euery little haire of them renown'd But in this Booke I must not sing the praise Of any man but Burgh whom I will striue To keepe in honour to the end of dayes Eternally if possible aliue And if I thought I should not loose my paines I 'de spread my paper with my very braines For here vnto the world I iustifie My loue to him was so intire and true That rather then I would haue had him die I would my selfe haue bid the world adieu Although this penance had beene set vpon My death to adde vnto destruction That I should in some solitarie hole Where fatall Scritch-owles their shrill omen sings Without the comfort of a liuing Soule Saue squeaking Rat-bats with their leather wings Immure my selfe and with a dismall cry Make vp the consort and so pewling die There was not any death in my conceite That was so gastly to haue frighted me Or made my resolution retreate From sauing keeping or preseruing thee For thou wert such another noble man I would haue sau'd thee like a Pellican But whither doe I in affection Runne a wild pilgrimage let me but eye Thy noble fall with more descretion And what I make a mournefull Tragedie I shall to my great ioy perceiue to be Onely a blessing hastened vnto thee For if thy fatall thread had beene so long That thou hadst had a life for to haue knowne Of many noble friends how great a throng Was comming off cut off and ouerthrowne Thy God that tooke thee hence did well fore-see Thy life had then beene worse then death to thee Then since it was in loue thy Fathers will To snatch thee to him into Heauen I dare No longer be so pittifully ill To moane thy absence here and presence there But I will ioy thou wert so good a sonne That for thy good thy Fathers will was done I le ioy thou hadst so gracious a King At home so brauely for to bury thee That farre from home the fame thereof did ring To be a master-piece of Obsequie I le ioy thou hadst so good a Generall That sent thee home for so braue Funerall And as I haue pursu'd thee to thy graue With sorrow in the shaddow of thy Hearse So now let ioy the roome of sorrow haue And let me with a smile conclude my verse Because I know the last best part of thee Is made in Heauen an endlesse commedie Yet though thy blis hath made me glad Thy Epitaph must needes be sad Because the teares that dropt vpon Thy graue were turned into stone In which thy Body was inclos'd Of which alone thy Tombes compos'd The EPITAPH Here lyes within these Nyobaean stones Braue Sir IOHN BVRGH whose body cannot turne To stinking dust like other mortall ones For as he doth desolue within this Vrne His liuing vertues turnes him into spice Which one day must be kept in Parradice The Cuttle is said to spew forth inke