University of Virginia Library

ELEGIES.

On the Death of the young and pious Ladie Mrs C. P.

So yong and ripe in judgement? fit for heaven
A Saint shee was on earth, before eleven.
What Virtue was there lodg'd in this smal world,
Whose soul grew faster then the body could?
Sins shee had none, but what curst Nature gave,
Yet e'r she knew't, shee long'd this world to leave,
Where but new enter'd, she with pious rage
Her Prologue spoke, doth bravely quit the stage.
Oh happy growth, that in so short a time,
This early blossome thus to heav'n could climb!

Epicedium On the beautiful Lady Mrs A. K. unfortunately drowned by chance in the Thames in passing the Bridge.

Drown'd? and i'th' Thames? oh how I grieve to see
Such fair streams act so foul a Tragedie!
Not all thy main which twice a day doth flow,
Can wash this guilt from off thy conscious brow.
Like the dead sea thou look'st; whilst every wave
Thou wear'st, now seems to be another grave.
Forgetful Leche, or the Stygian Lake,
As thou foul Tyber, looks not halfe so black.
How horrid thou appear'st! and thou dost tast
Sowre, and not half so pleasant as thou wast;
Rome now wil fear to drink thee, since thou'rt dyde
With such chast guiltlesse blood, and none wil ride
More on thy ruder waves, thy crueltie
Since 't would not spare so fair a Saint as shee.
How I could flow with anger! chide thee too,
But thou art innocent, as pure, I know:
'Las 'twas her Fate, unhappy Destinie!
Thus to thy streams, to adde more puritie.
Thou'rt become white agen; an Element
Fit to receive a soul so innocent;
Whose body buried in thy Christal tomb
Transparent lies, scorning earths baser womb.
Gilt Tagus banks, nor the Pectolian
Can boast such Golden treasures as you can.
Thou didst but lend her to the Earth awhile,
Thou hast thy Pearl again, now Thamis smile.
'Tis fit such gems should by the makers hands
Shine thus transplanted to their native sands.

On the Death of the excellent fair Lady, the Lady A.R.

How blindly erring were those Painters, that
Did without eies grim Death delineate?
Did he not ayming shoot, and shooting hit
'Midst the Arcadian Nymphs this fairest white,
This whitest Venus Dove? without his light
How had he found this mark, or shot so right?
Thus as he aiming stood, and in his heart
Relenting doubted, whether his fel dart
He should or spare or send, so long he gaz'd
Upon her Beauties splendour all amaz'd,
That the bright raies she darted, did so shine
And dazle the beholding Archers eyne,
That whilst he trembling shot and made her light
Extinct, the beams of that put out his sight.
And so e'r since Death hath been blind indeed;
On her fair Tomb this Epitaph shal be read:
Beautie here on Death reveng'd, Triumphant lies,
Whose Glories won all hearts, put out all eies.

On the losse of Mr N.W. his three finggers cut off at the battel of Edgehil, he being both a Poet and a Musitian.

By some it hath been said,
That the best Musick is by discord made;
But here, (I grieve to see)
By discords we have lost our harmonie.
How cruel was that hand
Depriv'd thee of thy cunning fingers? and
At one unhappy blow
Cut off an Orpheus, and a Poet too?
How sadly the strings rest
E'r since those fingers which before exprest
On them such lively art,
Were thus dissected from their constant part?
Yet though these joynts be gone
To quiet ease, two fingers stil are on,
Which with dexteritie
Can write the Epitaph o'th' t'other three.
And though you cannot play;
Yet stil both sing, and versifie you may.

Nænia Upon the death of my dear friend T.S. Esquire, slain at the first fight at Newbery, 1645.

Pale Ghost! I weep, not 'cause thy precious blood
Honour'd when spilt, a cause so just, so good;
Nor grieve I 'cause so much that suffer'd too,
I'th' losse of such a Champion as you:
This makes my heart afresh with thy wounds bleed,
A Loyal Subject, and my friend, is dead.
One, whose unborrow'd native Wit proclaim'd
Him sole Apollo's heire; whose Vertues fam'd
Him with Pandora's gifts endow'd; whose parts
Did stile him Master of all noble Arts.
One whose Youths sprightful valour did encline
To acts Heroick without help of wine,
One who prefer'd the cause he had in hand
Above his life, before his fathers land:
One that was forward, yet not desp'rate bold,
A coward in ill acts, yet durst behold
Death in his uglyest vizar. This was Hee
Who lov'd his friend, and feard no Enemie.
Who nobly thus did seek an early grave,
Because he scorn'd to live a subjects slave.
Wide was the Orifice sure of thy large wound,
Els had thy great and gallant soul ne'r found
So easie passage thence to sallie out,
And leave her so lov'd seat to range about
Th'Elesian groves. My souls best part adieu,
I'l bathe thy wound in tears, though wounded too.
Drie eies forbear this urn! oh come not neer
To read this Epitaph without a tear.
Spirit of Wit and Valour here doth lie
Doubly entomb'd i'th' Readers heart and eie.

Upon the lingring death of the Virtuous Mrs L.H.

Death! I not blame thy subtiltie
In cutting off this Happy Shee:
Ne'r didst thou yet in thy black list enroul
So fair a soul.
Thy Envie snatcht her hence, lest wee
By her example taught, should be
Immortaliz'd by virtue, and live stil
Against thy wil.
For hadst thou spar'd her yet awhile,
And not prevented by this wile
Our grand design, thou'adst lost thy sting, and wee
Not feared thee.
Coward thou didst by slow degrees
Upon her Vital spirits ceaze,
Els had shee summon'd pow'r, enough to stand
Thy armed hand.
Subtile and envious Coward, thus
Thou 'ast spoiled Nature, robbed us:
Yet I not blame thee, thou'adst no other way,
To get thy prey.

Upon the Death of the truly valiant Sir Bevil Grenvil slain.

See where in Western clouds our Sun is set!
Whilst those thick groves of Pikes of him beset
To guard his Valour, trembled all and shoke
With Aspen fear, soon as this stately Oke
Was cleft with fatal thunder! every head
Droops like pearl'd Violets now Grenvil's dead.
Wee need no Gods of Egypt to exhale
Salt rivers from our eies, and force us waile
His sorrowed absence; no sowre peele, or Rue
To damp our looks to Pharisaick hue.
From Grenvil's Herse each cheek is watered,
And scorns to wear a smile now he is dead.
Did I not view Heav'ns great unarmed bow,
I might suspect Deucælion would o'r-flow
The drenched world again, and in his name
Erect a new eternal Ark of Fame.
What sudden inundation else could thus
As in a second deluge bury us
Alive? and waft us by a quick return
To shades? what fire but that of his bright urne
Could melt each Muse to liquified verse,
And thus dissolve in Elegiack tears?
What Ocean but his Virtues could have drunk
So many flouds from weeping eies, or sunk,
So many drowning hearts? at whose sad fall
A deep groan'd Diapason drowneth all,
And blends at once our Harmonie—
Oh I could curse that Planet that did reign
At thy first birth, and e'r since smiling shine
Til this unluckie hour it frown'd on thee,
Prompting our Stars to bode us miserie.
For if our hopeful cause should gasping lie,
I'de swear it languisht, since she saw thee die.

Upon the unfortunate death of the truly gallant and noble Gent. Ed. Sackvil, Esquire.

Thy pow'r pale envious death I now defie,
Thy rage is spent in this one Tragedie.
Thou'ast purloin'd our chief wealth, and in one hour
Rob'd Honours Garland of its choisest flow'r.
Now do thy worst! thy life-depriving dart,
Can no more Conquest bring, nor deeper smart.
Oft his tri'd. Valour in the open field
Dar'd thee, where since thou couldst not make him yield,
Now by a weak and clandestine surprize
Thou smit'st him unawares by cowardize.
Yet went he arm'd against that fatal blow,
Which sin did print upon his flesh, not you.
Then be not proud of this thy spoil, since he
Did wish to, more then you could make him, die.
For now he lives fam'd to posteritie,
Both for his Virtues and his Loyaltie.
The gallant spirit of whose youthful heat
Doth with his urnes clear oyle perpetuate.
VVe weep not then, because he dy'd; but thus;
The strange chance, doth strange wonder claim in us.
Hee that but newly chang'd his mortal life
In sacred wedlock, with a happy VVife,
Is forc'd by th'ignorant malice of worse men
To change it for a happ'er once agen:
Hee whose rich Virtues gain'd each man his friend
That knew them both, to his untimely end
Thus brought by foes (if any he could have)
Hath with his precious corps enricht the grave.
Hee, Hee, is gone; and nought but sorrow left
To mind us of the good we are bereft.
For 'tis not onely Hee; we all are dead
As when the Sun sets flow'rs seem withered:
Nor doth his Fam'ly onely lose a stem,
The Kingdome suffers in the losse of him.
More I should say; but sullen griefe denies,
I'l sigh, and vent the rest with weeping eies.

Elegie Upon the death of that thrice valiant Lord, the Lord Bernard Stewart, slain in the fight neer VVest-Chester.

Boast not proud death of this thy Victorie!
In killing him who thus resolv'd to die!
Hadst thou a life to lose, I would on thee
Revenge his too too early Destinie.
But Coward! thou nor spirit hast nor heat;
Els thou wouldst neer ha' smit so brave, so great
A Person, that on thy dread Tragick stage
Fought on thy side, and in that bloodie rage
To thy black shades so many breathlesse sent.
Perhaps thou feardst his highborn furie meant
With fierce assault thy conqu'ring selfe disarm,
Sans fear of death he fought so; at which alar'm,
Lest he thy territories should invade,
And so usurp thy pow'r, thou wast afraid,
So 'caus thy jealous fear would admit none,
A Rival in thy Empire, thou so soon
Didst cut him off. Happy unhappy he
Right noble born, and dying; here doth lie,
Whose single Death-despising Valour made
His greatest enemie, Death it selfe afraid.

On the Death of that most famous Musician Mr VV. Lawes, slain in this unhappy Civil Warr.