[Page] A Congratulatory ELEGIE Offered up to the Earle of ESSEX, Vpon his Investiture with the Dignitie of Lord Chamberlaine.

By Thomas Philipot Master of Arts of Clare Hall in Cambridge.

London printed. 1641.

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE ROBERT DEVOREUX Earle of Essex, Lord Chamberlain of his Majesties Houshold.

My Lord,

BE pleased to accept this grain of Incense, offered up to your name, on the Altar of a reall heart, and if I have erred in my devotion, stile it the sin of an hallowed ig­norance, rather than the crime of any wilde presumption; daigne to confer upon me the Epithete of Superstitious rather than the at­tribute of prophane, since the latter issues from a defect of Wor­ship, and the former results from an excesse of adoration. My Lord, your name is followed with such a train of acclamations, that I should have appeared dull even to stupidity, if I had not been wakened with their alarme, to the expression of my zeal, which I have endeavoured to improve by powring it forth into this Congratulation, and if it be too inconsiderable to intitle it selfe to so great a Patron, set upon it the noble character of your [Page 2] mercy, and let it derive that from your charity, which it could not hope to finde from my selfe, the remission of many errours: The lowest hearts are the fittest sacrifice for the highest. Al­tars. Therefore, though this Poem cannot lay claim to your Lord­ships praise, suffer it to pretend to your Lordships pity: though I have no sublimity of Phansie to marshall me amongst the chiefest of Poets, yet I have humility, which shall ranke me amongst

The humblest of your Lordships adorers,


A Congratulatory Elegie offered up to the Earle of Essex upon his Investiture with the Dignitie of Lord Chamberlaine.

My Lord,

TWere malice to your fame not to comply
With the worlds publike joy, and amplifie
My thoughts to such extent of mirth, they might
Digest themselves to action, and indite
Something to shew that I had found the art,
To write with inke compounded with my heart;
For every vulgar spirit can improve
His joy to shouts, and can exhale his love
To clamorous acclamations, which he
Is eas'ly steer'd to be that sympathy,
[Page 4] Which does the people in one vote combine,
And like a thred does all their hearts entwine:
So when a Lute string is but touch'd, each string
That does confine upon it seemes to ring
A peal of musicke too, and the first note
Repeats, as it 'twas eccho'd forth by rote.
But when a Poet writes, he should distill,
And melt his very brain into his quill,
And strive to shake off all that envious weight
Of earth, which does controwle the growing height
Of his exalted thoughts, that being redeem'd
From that rude heap of drosse, which onely teem'd
With faint and sickly numbers, he might turne
All soules and fire which might so clearly burne.
The flame might from his inke all dregges assoil,[?]
And that dull juyce to air and spirit boil,
So that each drop his flowing pen lets fall
Might be like that too immateriall.
This I pretend to, if it be my crime,
T'ave wrapt my joy up in unseason'd rime,
Ile weep so many teares for this offence,
They shall to every line some salt dispence,
To which, although I could no brain impart,
Into each word I have distill'd my heart,
For my extended joy did so dilate
Each angle of it, it did e'en estate
A Pleurisie upon it, which was then
Dissolv'd and scatter'd when 'twas by my pen
Extracted into verse, to celebrate
Your rising like a star ith' sphear of State,
[Page 5] Who dart such chearfull beames forth that we might
Turne superstitious, and e'en court their light,
Which will to our enlivened State dispense
Such a benigne propitious influence;
It will those clouds of discontent dispell
Which did before in our Horison dwell:
And may you in this Orbe shine ever bright,
Not blear'd with any sullen mist or night,
Exhal'd from blacke detraction, that you may
Still with your beames improve and guild our day,
Still may you in your course as y'ave begun,
Like Mercuries bright star, move nere the Sun,
Like Aarons Rod may your Staffe fruitfull be,
And bud each year, with a new Dignity,
May sprigges of hallow'd Mirtle on it grow,
May peacefull Olive spring from thence, that so
The world may be induc'd at your Decease
To say your Staffe became the tree of peace,
May you be still inskons'd in every heart,
That when pale Envy has discharg'd each dart,
She tipt with malice, 'gainst your name, and found
By their recoil they did her selfe but wound,
She may insert this in your Epitaph,
You innocence was whiter than your Staffe,
And when Deaths frost your blooming Honour nips
And all your star-light suffers an Ecclipse,
By an eternall night, and your great soul
Having throwne off that dust which did controul
Her glorious flight, and purchas'd her release,
Soares up to Heaven, borne on the wings of peace
[Page 6] And innocence, as here a star you shone,
May you shine there a Constellation,
And make it by this brave retreat appear
You chang'd your life, that you might change your Speare,
Which this assertion will with truth improve,
That your decease was onely a Remove,
And if weel'd know the tombe that's put in trust,
To be the Treasurer of your pretious dust,
May it be found after a stocke of cares
Spent in its search, orewhelm'd in good mens teares.

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