AN ELEGIE Upon the much lamented Death of that Noble, and Valiant Commander; the Right honourable the Earl of TIVEOT, Governour of Tangiers. Slain by the Moors.
CAn TIVEOT, Britain's glorious victime, dye,
And no Vein bleed with a kind sympathie?
Shall one presumptuous
An Elegie with Pictures.
Ballad-scratching PenFame the worst Bard, to shame the best of men?
Let indignation once a Muse create;
A rage, may mourn, if not revenge his fate:
Whose active soul has not deserv'd to have
A double silence of his Name, and Grave.
Did the stupendious news, like lightning, blast
Our Wits, from Trances to break forth at last?
Never did Eccho strike so many dumb
Since that, first howl'd out the Kings Martyrdome!
Thou Africk Monster, whose unbridled shame
In scorn has borrowed our grand
Gayland calls himself Cromwel.
Rebell's Name;Just heaven thy sanguine humour satiate;
O mayst thou with his Name adopt his Fate:
How canst thou offer, (knowing where he lies)
To his Triangular shrine a sacrifice?
The bloud, flesh, bones, sow'd in that dismal place
In time, shall bring forth a Cadmean race
Of English Gyants, whose high gallantrie
Gayland shall combat, not the gods, but thee.
'Tis not thy Spirit, but thy Spite, w' abhorre:
Villain, thou dost not fight, but massacre.
Ye cruel Serpents, whose low cowardise
Lurks in the woods and grass, but dares not hiss
'Gainst a just foe; save when your Treachery can
Oppose a thousand to each single man!
So Butchers conquert feeble lambs, and thus
Our Cromwel play'd the Cannibal with us.
No Dodonaean grove? no Vocal tree
T' Alarme this miscreant, lawless enemie?
Hence-forth may every Tree, on hills or plains,
Make gallowses for Rebel. Africans:
May Lyons, Panthers, and all natures Evils
Joyn in Battalio to destry these Devils.
The Combat would appear more equal, when
Beasts fight with beasts, not beasts with civil men.
No blade of grass grow near that fatal Wood,
'Till it be dung'd with Mauritanian blood.
But let that sap, fell from the British oaks
Assist next fight with sympathetick stroaks;
Or rise in fiery Meteors, to annoy
These Lyons whelps, both beast and den destroy.
Vain Execrations, now brave Tiveot's lost!
Not to be ransom'd by all Nature's cost:
But Tiviot shall act still, his injur'd Ghost
Shall Van and rear, and flank proud Gayland's Host:
His spirits, (though their soul belodg'd in bliss)
Shall, by a happy Metempsychosis,
Transfuse themselves into each Souldier's breast,
And 'gainst the Moors in every heart contest.
Tangiers her Confines shall extend, as far
As Gayland dares appear, in peace, or war.
If any Region ly without the world,
(As some dispute) he shall be thither hurld.
The Royal Mold, yet under-deck, shall rise
Now Tiveot's Monument, once his Enterprize.
Loud Cannon from the Forts shall issue shot
Doubly inspir'd with flames, and Tiveot.
Dunkirk his nearer glory shall advance,
Whose strength drew out the very bloud of France.
[By him confirm'd against her proudest force;
Was only equal to her conquering purse.]
Let's not the loss of that, but Tiveot weep;
Princes know best, both what to gain, and keep:
Dunkirk was à fair bride, but apt to jar;
Better divorce her, then espouse a War:
But whether she belong to France, or Spain,
Or by new Policie return again;
Tiveot thy Name shall there in garrison rest,
Though not her Governour, yet her glorious guest.
No Satyrs more the Scottish borders tread,
Nor make a wanton Helicon of Tweed:
No Bard, inveigh against that Northern clime,
Unless you bring Cleveland's wit, with his rhyme.
That very guilt the Royal partie scourg'd,
Was after by the bloud of Royalists purg'd.
If there remains yet any national spot,
'Tis now wip'd off by Scotland's Tiveot.
Why should that soil, gave us a Race of Kings,
Be scorn'd by fools, as barren of good things.
England, and Scotland, both to Tangiers flie,
Let not your Tiveot unrevenged die;
Love whet your anger, and this whet your swords;
While both are quickned by persuasive words:
First take up Tiveot's spirit, then his bones;
They'll prove as fruitfull as Deucalion's stones.
Now fight, now plant, and conquerours remain,
'Till Africa be Christian once again:
That quadrant-Region never will be good,
'Till manur'd with this Renegado's bloud.
No wonder Gayland-Cromwel do's survive,
Fate will not let a Cromwel hang alive.
London. Printed for Tho. Palmer, at the Crown in Westminster-Hall. 1664. 50.