An Elegie vpon the Trvely Lamented Death of the Right Honorable Sir Julius Caesar Knt. Master of the Rolles, And of Snt Katherins: and One of His Majesties most Honorable Privy Counsell. Wept by Fra: Qva. [i.e. Francis Quarles] |
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 | An Elegie vpon the Trvely Lamented Death of the Right Honorable Sir Julius Caesar |  |
------ Micat inter omnes,
Iulium sidus, velut inter ignes
Luna minores.
Iulium sidus, velut inter ignes
Luna minores.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, AND MOST WORTHY
Of Double Honor, The Lady Cæsar, Wife
to the Right Honorable Sir JVLIVS CÆSAR Knt:
Late Mr. of the Rolles: AND One of His Majesties most
Honorable Privy Counsell.
TO MY HONORABLE FRIENDS, Sir Charles Cæsar Knight,
Sir Iohn Cæsar Knight, Robert Cæsar Esquire.
An Elegie.
Let such invoke the Muses that have Art,
To broach their studied tears, & get by heart
Their ill-weigh'd sorrows; that can scrue their brains
To any tuneing; from Threnodian straines,
To love-sick Sonets; and from thence, can call
Their fancies to a light-foot Madrigall:
Let those invoke, whose mercenary' Affections
Are dry, and cannot give, without directions
From moist Melpomenè, but stick the Herse
With a faire texted lamentable verse,
More sorry then the Makers, trickt with flowers
Of bare Invention, which the twilight showers
Of Nature ne'r bedew'd; Let such as they
Invoke the Muses, whilst we cut our way
Through these our Alpine griefes, and sadly rise
With the sharp vinegre of suffused eyes:
Our high spring-tides are full, no need to borrow
A drop t'encrease the deluge of our sorrow.
O were the triviall subject of our Tears
A private losse, where one dull Mourner beares
His single load, ingenious Grief might find
A golden Meane, and meanes to be confin'd:
A privat sorrow gains a soone reliefe,
And griefe not Common, is a common griefe:
But where a sad calamity shall presse
The publique shoulders, what, ô what redresse
Can full complaints expect? What Member, first,
Shall help to binde, when every Member's burst?
Such are our sorrows; such disasters now
Enforce our melting souls to overflow
The banks of swelling Passion, which appeares
A troubled Sea of Epidemick teares.
O that the hearts of men had equall scales,
To weigh that losse which my sad heart bewailes!
Tis not a Father, or a Friend, or One,
Whose death soft Nature bids us to bemone,
Which we lament; that sorrow would extend
But to our selves, and with our selves would end:
Such losse is load enough; but may be borne
On well prepared shoulders, and outworne:
But this, ô this exceeds; where every brest,
Which hates not Vertue, hath a Interest.
The Church hath lost a Patron; and the State
Bewailes an honourable Potentate;
The King, a Counsellour; the Court
Of Conscience, a just Iudge; the greater Sort,
A sweet familiar; what the Poore has lost,
Reader, the Poore shall tell thee to their cost.
He was the Cripples Staffe; the blind mans Eye,
The Lawyers Curb, the Clients Chauncery.
He priz'd the world, with things that had no price
A Paul to vertue, and a Saul to vice;
A painfull Planter, for the poore to gather;
The Widows Husband and the Orphans Father.
'Tis He, 'tis He, whose honorable Dust
Our eyes embalme, and tender to the trust
Of thanklesse earth, whose relamented death
Estates our griefe, and lends a secret breath
To our faint Quill.
To broach their studied tears, & get by heart
Their ill-weigh'd sorrows; that can scrue their brains
To any tuneing; from Threnodian straines,
To love-sick Sonets; and from thence, can call
Their fancies to a light-foot Madrigall:
Let those invoke, whose mercenary' Affections
Are dry, and cannot give, without directions
From moist Melpomenè, but stick the Herse
With a faire texted lamentable verse,
More sorry then the Makers, trickt with flowers
Of bare Invention, which the twilight showers
Of Nature ne'r bedew'd; Let such as they
Invoke the Muses, whilst we cut our way
With the sharp vinegre of suffused eyes:
Our high spring-tides are full, no need to borrow
A drop t'encrease the deluge of our sorrow.
O were the triviall subject of our Tears
A private losse, where one dull Mourner beares
His single load, ingenious Grief might find
A golden Meane, and meanes to be confin'd:
A privat sorrow gains a soone reliefe,
And griefe not Common, is a common griefe:
But where a sad calamity shall presse
The publique shoulders, what, ô what redresse
Can full complaints expect? What Member, first,
Shall help to binde, when every Member's burst?
Such are our sorrows; such disasters now
Enforce our melting souls to overflow
The banks of swelling Passion, which appeares
A troubled Sea of Epidemick teares.
To weigh that losse which my sad heart bewailes!
Tis not a Father, or a Friend, or One,
Whose death soft Nature bids us to bemone,
Which we lament; that sorrow would extend
But to our selves, and with our selves would end:
Such losse is load enough; but may be borne
On well prepared shoulders, and outworne:
But this, ô this exceeds; where every brest,
Which hates not Vertue, hath a Interest.
The Church hath lost a Patron; and the State
Bewailes an honourable Potentate;
The King, a Counsellour; the Court
Of Conscience, a just Iudge; the greater Sort,
A sweet familiar; what the Poore has lost,
Reader, the Poore shall tell thee to their cost.
He was the Cripples Staffe; the blind mans Eye,
The Lawyers Curb, the Clients Chauncery.
A Paul to vertue, and a Saul to vice;
A painfull Planter, for the poore to gather;
The Widows Husband and the Orphans Father.
'Tis He, 'tis He, whose honorable Dust
Our eyes embalme, and tender to the trust
Of thanklesse earth, whose relamented death
Estates our griefe, and lends a secret breath
To our faint Quill.
'Tis He, whose righteous Balance did while-ere
Deale Iustice so, as if Astræa were
Return'd from heav'n, or Saturns conqu'ring hand
Had new regain'd his long usurp'd Command
From his deposed Son: His heart was Stone
To pleading Vice, and Wax to every Grone:
His Wisdome, Bounty, Love, and Zeale did rise,
Like those soure springs, that watred Paradise,
And with their fruitfull Tides did overflow
This glorious Island, on whose banks doe grow
Faire Grifis of Honor, fragrant Flow'rs of Peace,
Full Crops of plenty, laden with increase.
Deale Iustice so, as if Astræa were
Return'd from heav'n, or Saturns conqu'ring hand
Had new regain'd his long usurp'd Command
From his deposed Son: His heart was Stone
To pleading Vice, and Wax to every Grone:
His Wisdome, Bounty, Love, and Zeale did rise,
Like those soure springs, that watred Paradise,
And with their fruitfull Tides did overflow
Faire Grifis of Honor, fragrant Flow'rs of Peace,
Full Crops of plenty, laden with increase.
Who shares not in our griefe? what eye forbeares
To be a willing Partner in our teares?
What friend of Goodnesse will not claime a part
In our great losse? or not entaile his heart
To plenteous Passion so, that Babes unborne
May hold our Lordships with a Clause to mourne:
But stay! what need, what need we presse a teare,
When every eye becomes a Volunteire?
To be a willing Partner in our teares?
What friend of Goodnesse will not claime a part
In our great losse? or not entaile his heart
To plenteous Passion so, that Babes unborne
May hold our Lordships with a Clause to mourne:
But stay! what need, what need we presse a teare,
When every eye becomes a Volunteire?
Thus wrapt in shades of night, in sheets of Lead,
See, see, our noble Senator lies dead;
Whom Art and Nature, and diviner Grace,
Made far more honourable then his place:
His earth-transcending thoughts, thought scorn to take
Joy in earths Honor, where few years could make
So flat a Period: His aspiring mind
Was free of heav'n, disdain'd to be confin'd;
Who finding earth accustom'd to deprive
Of Honor giv'n (not having more to give)
He bid Goodnight, and sweetly fell asleep,
So left the world, so left us here to weep.
Thus dy'd our noble Cæsar, whose high story
Of earths Advancement prov'd his step to Glory;
Our joys goe with him, whilst sad we return
To lay his Ashes in his peacefull Vrne.
See, see, our noble Senator lies dead;
Whom Art and Nature, and diviner Grace,
Made far more honourable then his place:
His earth-transcending thoughts, thought scorn to take
Joy in earths Honor, where few years could make
So flat a Period: His aspiring mind
Who finding earth accustom'd to deprive
Of Honor giv'n (not having more to give)
He bid Goodnight, and sweetly fell asleep,
So left the world, so left us here to weep.
Thus dy'd our noble Cæsar, whose high story
Of earths Advancement prov'd his step to Glory;
Our joys goe with him, whilst sad we return
To lay his Ashes in his peacefull Vrne.
Rest glorions Soule, (whose now untwisted Cable
Has past the Needles eye) whilst we bedable
Our cheeks in Brine, that ev'n almost repine
At those eternall joyes which now are thine;
O pardon those, whose floods of nature would
Ev'n wast thee from thy Glory, if they could,
And land thee in this Vale of Teares, to tast
That bitter Potion that thy soule has past.
But we have done; our whining breath shall cease
Longer to vi'late thy invi'late peace.
Has past the Needles eye) whilst we bedable
Our cheeks in Brine, that ev'n almost repine
At those eternall joyes which now are thine;
O pardon those, whose floods of nature would
Ev'n wast thee from thy Glory, if they could,
And land thee in this Vale of Teares, to tast
That bitter Potion that thy soule has past.
But we have done; our whining breath shall cease
Now blessed Saint, enjoy the free Reward
Of all thy works; Possesse those Joyes prepar'd
For thy faire Soule; put on th'eternall Wreath
Of glory, promis'd to thy faithfull death,
Repleat thy self with everlasting Manna,
And let thy voice exchange her late Hosanna
For joyfull Allelujahs, now a Guest
Call'd to the Lambs perpetuall Mariage feast.
Of all thy works; Possesse those Joyes prepar'd
For thy faire Soule; put on th'eternall Wreath
Of glory, promis'd to thy faithfull death,
Repleat thy self with everlasting Manna,
And let thy voice exchange her late Hosanna
For joyfull Allelujahs, now a Guest
Call'd to the Lambs perpetuall Mariage feast.
FINIS.
| An Elegie vpon the Trvely Lamented Death of the Right Honorable Sir Julius Caesar | |