Fons Lachrymarum or a fountain of tears: From whence doth flow Englands Complaint, Jeremiahs Lamentations paraphras'd with Divine Meditations and an elegy Upon that Son of Valor Sir Charles Lucas. Written by John Quarles |
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AN ELEGIE Upon that Son of Valor Sir CHARLES LUCAS,
Who was shot to Death by the Command of the Councel of War, before COLCHESTER. |
 | Fons Lachrymarum |  |
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AN ELEGIE Upon that Son of Valor Sir CHARLES LUCAS, Who was shot to Death by the Command of the Councel of War, before COLCHESTER.
To all those that love the memory of Sir Charles Lucas.
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I cannot hold, the Laws of Nature break
The Laws of Reason, and my Cisterns leak.
Pardon my tears (oh Heaven) and let thy pow'r
Subdue my grief, and mitigate this showre:
Restore me to my self, and let my Quill
Weep for me: let it weep until it fill
Whole volumes with sad tears, tears that may flow
From age to age, that all the world may know
It weeps for him, whose never-dying name.
The Laws of Reason, and my Cisterns leak.
Pardon my tears (oh Heaven) and let thy pow'r
Subdue my grief, and mitigate this showre:
Restore me to my self, and let my Quill
Weep for me: let it weep until it fill
Whole volumes with sad tears, tears that may flow
From age to age, that all the world may know
It weeps for him, whose never-dying name.
Gives golden feathers to the wings of fame.
But is it requisite that I alone
Should storm so great a work as this, and none
Invok'd t'assist me? Sorrow hates delay;
Oh hear my hasty call, and come away,
Ye grief-supporting Muses, here is that
Will sublimate your senses; ask not what
It is, for fear, lest melancholly I,
Ravish'd with what I speak, should faint and dye.
Times full-mouth'd Herauld will exactly tell
How Death hath rambl'd from his misty Cell.
And with presumptuous violence hath shot
A Star, whose fall will never be forgot.
Then rouze your down-cast spirits, now, or never,
Shake off your slumbers, or repose for ever:
Lucas has conquer'd Death, he's gone to keep
An everlasting Sabbath, and to sleep
In Abrahams bosom: Ah, methinks this breath
Should re-invite you from the shades of Death
To weep his obsequies; but if there's none
Will be invok'd, my Muse shall walk alone
Into the Wilderness of grief, and there
Condole this loss, till sorrow wants a tear.
But is it requisite that I alone
Should storm so great a work as this, and none
Invok'd t'assist me? Sorrow hates delay;
Oh hear my hasty call, and come away,
Ye grief-supporting Muses, here is that
Will sublimate your senses; ask not what
It is, for fear, lest melancholly I,
Ravish'd with what I speak, should faint and dye.
Times full-mouth'd Herauld will exactly tell
How Death hath rambl'd from his misty Cell.
And with presumptuous violence hath shot
A Star, whose fall will never be forgot.
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Shake off your slumbers, or repose for ever:
Lucas has conquer'd Death, he's gone to keep
An everlasting Sabbath, and to sleep
In Abrahams bosom: Ah, methinks this breath
Should re-invite you from the shades of Death
To weep his obsequies; but if there's none
Will be invok'd, my Muse shall walk alone
Into the Wilderness of grief, and there
Condole this loss, till sorrow wants a tear.
Have I betray'd my self? Am I o'retaken
With folly? Or has Reason quite forsaken
The kingdom of my mind? If he be blest,
How dare my tears thus interrupt his rest?
Oh Times! Oh Manners! Is the world grown mad?
Some I behold rejoycing; others sad
As grief can make them: Sure we have forgot
To sympathize, or else why weep we not,
Or smile together? Has Death got the power
To make us weep, and smile within an hour:
Smile they that please, mine eyes cannot forbear
For every smile of theirs, to shed a tear.
With folly? Or has Reason quite forsaken
The kingdom of my mind? If he be blest,
How dare my tears thus interrupt his rest?
Oh Times! Oh Manners! Is the world grown mad?
Some I behold rejoycing; others sad
As grief can make them: Sure we have forgot
To sympathize, or else why weep we not,
Or smile together? Has Death got the power
To make us weep, and smile within an hour:
Smile they that please, mine eyes cannot forbear
For every smile of theirs, to shed a tear.
Come real-hearted Mourners, and incline
Your ears to my sad story, and confine
Your selves to sorrow, sorrow that shall need
No definition, if your hearts can bleed.
Now, now, they shall, and may that barren eye
That will not weep, prove blind, or always dry:
And they that can, and will not now let fall
Some tears, have hard hearts, or no hearts at all.
Lucas (rare Soul) oh that my tongue might dwel
Upon thy name; 'twas thou that didst excel
The world in Martial Valor: he that can
Forget thy name, forgets to be a Man.
'Tis death to say th'art dead; Thou canst not dye:
If thou art dead, there's no Eternity.
Thou liv'st in spite of Death, yet I condole
Thy murther'd body; but I'm sure thy Soul
Lives above envy, where it shall be blest
In spite of those, whose wisdoms thought it best
To put a period to thy days, and bring
Joy to themselves, and sorrow to their King.
Discreetly done, and sure this Act must be
Recorded in the Rouls of Infamie,
That after Ages, when they do behold,
May blush, what noble Deeds were done of old.
Say Tyrants, say, was't not a shameful strife
To send a Death, after a promis'd Life:
If this be Mercy, Heav'n protect us all
From such a Mercy, so tyrannical.
If this be Justice, may such Justice have
A Hell to act in, or at lest a Cave.
What had he acted that could contradict
The Laws of Justice? Search, and be as strict
As policy can make you, all ye can
Impute, was this, he was a valiant man,
Who lov'd his King, and undertook to play
A noble Game, wherein his honor lay
At stake; what would you have a Gamester do?
Should he surrender up a game to you,
Without contending? such a high-bred shame,
Had left a blur within his spotless name?
Your ears to my sad story, and confine
Your selves to sorrow, sorrow that shall need
No definition, if your hearts can bleed.
Now, now, they shall, and may that barren eye
That will not weep, prove blind, or always dry:
And they that can, and will not now let fall
Some tears, have hard hearts, or no hearts at all.
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Upon thy name; 'twas thou that didst excel
The world in Martial Valor: he that can
Forget thy name, forgets to be a Man.
'Tis death to say th'art dead; Thou canst not dye:
If thou art dead, there's no Eternity.
Thou liv'st in spite of Death, yet I condole
Thy murther'd body; but I'm sure thy Soul
Lives above envy, where it shall be blest
In spite of those, whose wisdoms thought it best
To put a period to thy days, and bring
Joy to themselves, and sorrow to their King.
Discreetly done, and sure this Act must be
Recorded in the Rouls of Infamie,
That after Ages, when they do behold,
May blush, what noble Deeds were done of old.
Say Tyrants, say, was't not a shameful strife
To send a Death, after a promis'd Life:
If this be Mercy, Heav'n protect us all
From such a Mercy, so tyrannical.
If this be Justice, may such Justice have
A Hell to act in, or at lest a Cave.
What had he acted that could contradict
The Laws of Justice? Search, and be as strict
As policy can make you, all ye can
Impute, was this, he was a valiant man,
Who lov'd his King, and undertook to play
A noble Game, wherein his honor lay
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Should he surrender up a game to you,
Without contending? such a high-bred shame,
Had left a blur within his spotless name?
I tremble at my thoughts, I cannot hold,
My quill must run, ye can but term me bold,
As ye are tyrannous: In former times,
Boldness in truths were pardonable crimes.
How could ye chuse but tremble when ye nam'd
His death, whom honor, and the world had fam'd?
Such deeds as these we needs must discommend,
Y'ave murther'd your own honors, & our friend.
How could ye chuse but blush to see him stand
Undaunted at your tragical command?
How could ye chuse but fly, when he was fled,
T'mbrace his death, and dye when he was dead?
How could your will-obeying slaves let fly
A bullet at his brest, and they not dye?
Why dy'd they not, when as they went about
To make those holes, whereat his Soul flew out?
My quill must run, ye can but term me bold,
As ye are tyrannous: In former times,
Boldness in truths were pardonable crimes.
How could ye chuse but tremble when ye nam'd
His death, whom honor, and the world had fam'd?
Such deeds as these we needs must discommend,
Y'ave murther'd your own honors, & our friend.
How could ye chuse but blush to see him stand
Undaunted at your tragical command?
How could ye chuse but fly, when he was fled,
T'mbrace his death, and dye when he was dead?
How could your will-obeying slaves let fly
A bullet at his brest, and they not dye?
Why dy'd they not, when as they went about
To make those holes, whereat his Soul flew out?
Mars frown'd when he observ'd what ye had done,
And perpetrated on his dearest Son:
And thus declares; If any mortal shall
Dare to intitle, or presume to call
Such Rabshecha's his Sons, that they shall be
All voted Traytors to his Majesty:
The Muses, they complain, and are agreed
To vindicate his death, and ever feed
Upon his virtues, and will never more
Smile on your actions, but will still deplore
Their lost-love Lucas; and the earth shall ring
With Ecchoes of his praise, that lov'd his King.
And perpetrated on his dearest Son:
And thus declares; If any mortal shall
Dare to intitle, or presume to call
Such Rabshecha's his Sons, that they shall be
All voted Traytors to his Majesty:
The Muses, they complain, and are agreed
To vindicate his death, and ever feed
Upon his virtues, and will never more
Smile on your actions, but will still deplore
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With Ecchoes of his praise, that lov'd his King.
Apollo weeps, and says, ye have forgot
To cherish vertue, or ye love it not:
And to the world he'l fully make it known
In his destruction, ye have overthrown
Your home-bred honors: Now my Muse retire
And gather breath; 'tis wisdom to enquire
Which way to take our progress; we must know
Whither to go, as well as how to go:
The paths of death are darksom, and we may
Plead an excuse, if we have gone astray:
Errors in grief are incident to all
That truly solemnize a funeral.
But stay my quill, 'tis not my task to crave
Excuses, but to treat upon a grave,
A grave within whose sullen bosom lies
A Jem, contemn'd by those that could not prize
So rare a piece, within whom was repos'd
Virtue, and honor, for he was compos'd
Of both: (kind Reader) know that Lucas had
A Magazin of worth; his Soul was clad
With robes of innocency, and his heart
So sworn to honor; that it could not start
From noble Exercises, though attended
With troops of dangers, dangers that portended
A thousand deaths: his wisdom could descry
Both life, and death, with a contented eye:
Life was his Jewel, yet he did not prize
That life at such a rate, as to despise
A noble Death; he labor'd to express
To both a very equal willingness.
He knew his life was lent him to maintain
The rights of Majesty, and to regain
Those just prerogatives, which do belong
To CHARLS, who patiently sustains the wrong.
His Soul was undivided, and could never
Ramble from Loyalty; his whole endeavor
Was to advance that Cause wherein he stood
Ingag'd, and dy'd it with his crimson blood.
To cherish vertue, or ye love it not:
And to the world he'l fully make it known
In his destruction, ye have overthrown
Your home-bred honors: Now my Muse retire
And gather breath; 'tis wisdom to enquire
Which way to take our progress; we must know
Whither to go, as well as how to go:
The paths of death are darksom, and we may
Plead an excuse, if we have gone astray:
Errors in grief are incident to all
That truly solemnize a funeral.
But stay my quill, 'tis not my task to crave
Excuses, but to treat upon a grave,
A grave within whose sullen bosom lies
A Jem, contemn'd by those that could not prize
So rare a piece, within whom was repos'd
Virtue, and honor, for he was compos'd
Of both: (kind Reader) know that Lucas had
A Magazin of worth; his Soul was clad
With robes of innocency, and his heart
So sworn to honor; that it could not start
From noble Exercises, though attended
With troops of dangers, dangers that portended
A thousand deaths: his wisdom could descry
Both life, and death, with a contented eye:
Life was his Jewel, yet he did not prize
That life at such a rate, as to despise
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To both a very equal willingness.
He knew his life was lent him to maintain
The rights of Majesty, and to regain
Those just prerogatives, which do belong
To CHARLS, who patiently sustains the wrong.
His Soul was undivided, and could never
Ramble from Loyalty; his whole endeavor
Was to advance that Cause wherein he stood
Ingag'd, and dy'd it with his crimson blood.
Since thus he liv'd, since thus he dy'd, oh then
Let's imitate so good a life: and when
We hear the sad relation of his Death,
Let's learn to dye: Let them that live by breath
Examine his brave actions, and they'l find
He had a rare militia in his mind.
But stoutest Lions are at last o'rethrown
By Natures Laws; for Nature needs must own
Her principles: our earthen vessels must
At last dissolve, and turn themselves to dust.
Live we a thousand years, we do but run
In debt to Nature; and when those days are done,
We are but mortal, subject to decay,
And youth and age must go the self-same way.
Let's imitate so good a life: and when
We hear the sad relation of his Death,
Let's learn to dye: Let them that live by breath
Examine his brave actions, and they'l find
He had a rare militia in his mind.
But stoutest Lions are at last o'rethrown
By Natures Laws; for Nature needs must own
Her principles: our earthen vessels must
At last dissolve, and turn themselves to dust.
Live we a thousand years, we do but run
In debt to Nature; and when those days are done,
We are but mortal, subject to decay,
And youth and age must go the self-same way.
Reader, as often as report shall send
Unto thy ears the death of any friend,
Wonder not that he's dead, that's too much wrong,
But rather wonder that he liv'd so long:
For Life's but like a Candle, every wind
May puff it out, and leave a snuff behind.
Unto thy ears the death of any friend,
Wonder not that he's dead, that's too much wrong,
But rather wonder that he liv'd so long:
For Life's but like a Candle, every wind
May puff it out, and leave a snuff behind.
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But whither runs my pen; Does sorrow mean
To make of this an everlasting scean?
Lucas made Sorrow lovely, Death a pleasure,
And Life a trifle, Misery a treasure:
And now let no audatious tongue deny
That he taught Death to live, and Life to dye.
To make of this an everlasting scean?
Lucas made Sorrow lovely, Death a pleasure,
And Life a trifle, Misery a treasure:
And now let no audatious tongue deny
That he taught Death to live, and Life to dye.
Now
gentle Soul, go take thy sweet repose
In Heav'ns eternal bed, where none but those,
Shall sleep, that in their life-times study'd how
To dye: there rest (dear Soul) I'le leave the now.
In Heav'ns eternal bed, where none but those,
Shall sleep, that in their life-times study'd how
To dye: there rest (dear Soul) I'le leave the now.
My heart begins to quake, that word has bred
A palsie in my hand, and grief has spred
A vail upon my Senses; and Confusion
Steps in, and leads me to a sad Conclusion.
Shall I begin, or end, I know whether;
Oh that I could begin, and end together!
Begin, what's that, but to renew a grief:
To end, what's that, but to implore relief.
What shall I do? when as I strive to end,
I still forget to do, what I intend.
When I begin, methinks I am content
Never to end: Distraction is th'event
Of Sorrow. (Reader) pardon this last error,
For I began with grief, and end with terror.
A palsie in my hand, and grief has spred
A vail upon my Senses; and Confusion
Steps in, and leads me to a sad Conclusion.
Shall I begin, or end, I know whether;
Oh that I could begin, and end together!
Begin, what's that, but to renew a grief:
To end, what's that, but to implore relief.
What shall I do? when as I strive to end,
I still forget to do, what I intend.
When I begin, methinks I am content
Never to end: Distraction is th'event
Of Sorrow. (Reader) pardon this last error,
For I began with grief, and end with terror.
| Fons Lachrymarum | |