AN ELEGY VPON THE Death of The Renowned, Sr. IOHN SVTLIN.
I Had thought (great King of Poets) thy death must
Have rais'd the meanest Stationer from the dust,
Inspir'd with sacred raptures every pen,
Dead Sutlin living in the mouthes of men,
That from they consum'd Pile there would have flowne,
Amazing us, more Phaenixes then one.
[Page 2] All Presses would have groan'd and Presse-men too,
Sweat at the thought, how much they had to doe.
Pardon me Reader, if that I did thinke,
The very drops would have wash'd away the Inke:
As when warm'd Vulcan to make armes was wonne,
Not for his owne, but for faire Venus Sonne.
Such was his ardent and inflam'd desire,
The sweaty streames had almost quensht the fire.
Nought seene in every towne but watry eyes,
And no booke read but Sutlins Elegies.
What not one line, one word, one teare, not any?
To sing him dead, who hath eternizd many.
What is become of Davenant, who alone,
And onely he, is able to bemone
So great a losse, thou too maist praise his wit
With all the skill thou hast, not equall it:
Speake learned Davenant, Speake, what was the reason?
To praise thy friend, I hope will not prove treason:
Or was thy griefe so great, thou didst conceale
What neither tongue, nor penne can well reveale?
Or art thou dead with him? When a true friend
Is dead, what followes, but the others end.
Would not have writ, not sung, but onely cried▪
Or if he needs must sing, as well as cry,
H'ad done as Swans doe, onely sing and dy.
I might conclude, since one's so farre hence fled,
And th'other silent, that they both are dead.
Dead to their Countrey both, the one's not here,
The other present, dares not speake for feare.
Which of these two is surest slave to death.
One breaths not, th'other dares not use his breach:
Pardon, if with the rest, I silent be,
Great Sutlin, since all Poets dyed in thee.
That he was valiant, none can better show,
Then can the valiant Scot that was his Foe.
That he was full fraught with all humane wit,
Will need no proofe of mine, Aglaura doth it.
That hee was constant ever unto the end
Aske Davenant who was once, and still his freind▪
His hundred Horses hoofes, doe yet still ring,
His liberall loyalty to his King.
Rip up this fleshy Casket where there lay
Much gold, much silver, but much more of clay.
[Page 4] Nature did never make a piece so rare
Where all the Vertues met, each hath his share.
Some this, some that, should he give all thats best
To one, that one would laugh at all the rest
That he was noble, generous, open, free,
Is not deny'd, even by his Enemy.
Which might have beene approv'd too, as some say,
Even to the State, had he not runne away.
Ile not maintaine his Faults, if any one
List, may reade these Verses on his Stone.
Whom many thousand Foes could not make fly,
Fled from his Friends to France, and there did dye.
FINIS.
To Sir IOHN SVTLIN upon his Aglaura: First, a bloody Tragaedy, then by the said Sir IOHN, turn'd to a COMEDIE.
WHen first I read thy Book, me thought each word
Seem'd a short Dagger, and each line a Sword.
Where Women, Men, Good, Bad, Rich, Poore, all dy;
That needs must prove a fatall Tragedy.
But when I finde, whom I so late saw slaine,
In thy first Booke, in this revive againe:
I cannot but with others much admire,
In humane shape a more then earthly Fire.
So when Prometheus did informe this Clay,
He stole his Fire from heaven. What shall I say?
First for to kill, and then to life restore,
This Sutlin did, the Gods can doe no more.