(Sonne to the right honourable ARTHƲR Ld CAPELL Baron of Hadham) deceased on Christmas Day 1656.

Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus
Tam Chari Capitis?—

OXFORD, Printed Anno Dom. 1656.

To the Honourable HENRY CAPELL Esq: Son to the Lord CAPELL, Baron of Hadham: These ensuing ELEGIES are Most humbly Dedicated and Presented.

Most Honoured Sr,
WHen I had wept so long, till all their store
Mine Eyes had spent, and so could weep no more;
My Hands turn'd Publicanes, t'recieveth' Arrears,
Such as were sent by other Volunteers.
I know what hazard They, and I may run,
Condemn'd perhaps for strange presumption;
But, view Those Hearts, which through the mourning Dresse
Of reptile Elegies, are crept to th' Presse,
And You'l confesse, as all the World beside,
It was our Duties Product, not our Pride:
Then thinke (for charitie) that all was done
Out of Respect, not Ostentation;
And where the highest Auxesis You see,
Call it ambitious Realitie.
Believe but This; let Hell▪ and Earth let loose
Censures, which might Momus himselfe amuse:
Go angry Billowes, cease to Roare, or Hisse,
Though Castor 's gon, Pollux my Patron is.
Your Honour's most faithfull, most humble, and most oblieged Servant FRANC: TURNER.

To the Right Honourable The Lady CAPELL Baronesse, by occasion of the death of the highly accomplisht her deare Son Mr CHARLES CAPELL.

SHould I'curse Atropos for this,
Or damne Alecto to Whippe Lachesis;
Should I make huge Apostrophe's to Fate,
Or banne pale Death as too Importunate,
I know you'd loath each line: Your Nobler sense
Honour'd by us, Worships a Providence:
You bow to th' Justice, Goodnesse, and the Care
Of that Allmighty Guardian whose you are
And whom you serve▪ and could not chuse but cry
Out Heathenisme! out Fledg'd Blasphemy!
But since your Honour knowes our hearts are cold,
Pardon a sigh or two: We must be bold
To beg 't, and to conceive 't a Veniall Sin
To let those goe no Spirit can keepe in.
Th' are all for Him of whom you thinke and dream,
For as small Brook's are Swallow'd in the streame,
And th' Plague devours Agues: so W' are growne
To have ten thousand greifs, and yet but One.
In Him Was (ah sad Was!) in Him was seene
Our all; more than all Nestor at eighteene:
In's Travails he indulg'd the World; He wan
Affections, gave the Copy of a Man:
At home, I cry to thinke how Coveted
Ith' Feild, ith' Schooles, at Councells, Board, and Bed.
We cannot guesse our losse: The Spaniard know's
As well what ingot in Potosi growes;
Neptune may count his Treasures up assoone;
As we what Glory's buried here in one.
His worth cracks Phancy, and Hyperbolyes:
Fame would performe his Apotheosis,
But Finds her selfe too weake ith' Lungs to hold
Till th' Tith off him toth' listning world be told:
Men cald him Heav'n on earth; but Now we see
That Heav'n on Heav'n makes no False Heraldry.
This was his Scene: he came to be desir'd
And Blush, at's owne deserts to be admir'd.
Yours, Madam, is the Next: and 'tis that Feild
Must to your sexes Valour Trophee's Yeild,
Whose tendernesse hates steele: Tis this must be
Your Marston-moore, Edg-Hill, and Newbury:
Never came Passion so impowr'd, so strong,
Or Mad for Conquest: We here of the throng
All looke at th' Issue. Get the day: and then
Great Xander waits among your serving men.
You'd know how such a Battle might be won:
Heare what your Chaplaine say's, and it is done.
Your Ladyships with all Lowlinesse and Devotion to Serve you R. SHARROCK.

On the Death of the honourable CHARLES CAPELL Esq;, deceased not long be­fore His intended Marriage.

ONe onely Time (that happy Day,
From which I keepe my Epocha)
I saw This Heroe; such a sight
Might rivall Heav'n, and Earth benight.
Let those who knew Him better, praise
His noble Soule; my humbler Bayes.
Aspire no further, then to shew
The strangenesse of that Interview:
Thus to behold the greatnesse of our losse,
His face shall serve me for a Looking glasse,
Whose trickling Eyes did never see
In nature's proudest Imag'ry,
One of so rare a make as HE.
Methoughts His manly visage own'd,
That Love, and Honour there were thron'd,
As if they Two should on that stage,
Get warriours for the future Age:
His Eyes they might be Venus hopes,
And yet Bellona's Telescopes:
One Glance could looke us Dead, and then
Another call us back agen.
Who this should be, my guesse had straggled farre;
He seem'd both Phaebus, and the God of Warr;
But by instinct, at last I hit
That 'twas Prince Arthur's sonne, and yet
That HE himselfe was Charles the Great.
Who e're He was, the standers by
Were all Bedwarft, as well as I;
For what so ere He did, it all
Became Him as a Generall:
O had he bin the Giants Cheife,
To range their Troops and bring reliefe,
To fetch them off, and lead them on,
(Though they cashier'd Oromedon)
Maugre▪ the shrinking Gods, and their allies,
They might have sup't that very night i'th' skies.
And Jove the lesser, poore pedee,
Pressing to serve Him on the Knee,
Resign'd His ill-got Soveraignty.
Say then, interpreter, whose Ey
Uncloud's the mistique Energy
Of things abstruse; come tell us how
Death overcame His courage now;
Was He tan'e napping (as 'tis said)
Upon His almost-Nuptiall bed?
Or did His haughty Soule disdaine,
To fight the dastard Death againe?
Esteeming Him but as a vanquisht foe,
'Bove Sixteene Hundred Christmasses agoe?
No, no such stratagem would take,
For all His valour would awake
For His betrothed Ladie's sake.
But the Triumphant Church on high,
Wanted His presence in the Skie,
And now forsaken we must want
His presence in the Militant:
Thinke then He was unman'd to be
Made Part'ner in That Hierarchie:
And what we nick-nam'd Forward Fate,
A Prologue to His nobler State;
So like Aenaeas He made hast to Die
The fitter to accept a Deity.
But, were not Heav'n His Journey's End,
In One so High, I durst contend
'Twere Condescention to Ascend.
THO: HUSEY Col: Trinit. Gent. Com:

On the much lamented Death, of the honourable CHARLES CAPELL Esq;

SO soone remov'd? can HE be winged Hence
And all the Muses dumb? can He commence
A Saint in Secret? Such a Sun as HE
Be thus invelop'd in the Canopie
Of profound Darknesse, long, and dismall Night,
And shall not we all mourne in Black and White?
It cannot be! for even costive I,
Whose Hide-bound fancy dread's all Poëtrie,
Now strein to weepe a Rythme, and needs must vent
My greife in uncouth language, and lament
The world's sad losse, and Towring Honour's Fall,
In This, so Great a Person's, Funerall.
Generall Catastrophe! the Nation
Seem's to be almost Levell'd, now He's gon:
And, if His Brother did not live to be
All Ages Pattern, and Typographie
Of wondring Europe; Id'e believe henceforth
That there might be a Party in worth;
And none hereafter dare to plead pretence
To anie, 'bove the vulgar Excellence:
But This prodigious HE, finding a Dearth
Of Heroe's, made His Life equall His Birth;
And, not content with native Greatnesse, HE
Improv'd His richer Soile by Industrie;
And ever husbanded His time so well,
He was become full Ripe before He Fell.
But Blasted are our Hopes, let's fruitfully
Water with Teares His Hearse; let every
Pen speake Him truly Great, and Good, and cry
Such are the Ruins of Nobility!

On The Truly Noble CHARLES CAPELL Esq; immaturely taken hence, being with in few weekes of Marriage

VVHen Common men decease, t'will serve then turns,
If with a sigh we waite upon their Urnes;
Wee 'l no such Mourning: who come's here, tis meant
He bring the Bottles of some Penitent:
His eyes and all, like clouds must pregnant be
With Showers to lament This Destiny,
That the Faire Lady, whom His Courtly charmes,
Prevail'd, e're long, t' empale within His Armes,
Betweene Her selfe, and Her dead Lover (As
'Twixt Hero and Leander once it was)
May to bewaile th' Division, see there do'es
An Hellespont of Teares soone interpose.
Nor can we give lesse Passion to condole
The suddaine Flight of so Divine a soule;
As disaffected with the baser waies,
Trod by the Gallants of these lewder dayes,
An higher Walke frequented 'bove the place
Where th' Gyant Planet trot's his lofty pace;
Shooting His thoughts (those arrowes of the mind)
Up to the Pallace of the Unconfin'd.
But this Elogium only shew's we scan
His Christian Parts, Let's speake Him as a man:
Since Madam Nature ha's Her Jewels too,
Those Minion Graces that she doe's bestow.
And breathing on This Theame, who'l not suppose
I' me blowing open a most Fragrant Rose?
For looking thus into Him, what do I
But into a like Garden boldly pry
As that where Poets say men may behold,
A stately Tree laden with Fruit of gold?
His youthfull yeares could we exactly trace
They 'd make a frosty Grandfire hide his Face,
To know the Prudence that enchas'd His breast,
More than by doating Rabbies is possest.
His Temper was so sweete, His wit acute,
'Twould ha' made Fletcher, or Ben-Jonson, mute:
His valour too may well be understood,
When in such times as These, He durst be Good;
Who as in age, so still in vertue rose,
It is no wonder Heav'n would Him engrosse.
Thus the bright Queene, That Regent of the Night▪
As she advance's gathers Greater Light,
Yet must at length (if not dissolve) Away;
The World's not made without a Fatall day.

On the Death of CHARLES CAPELL Esq; second Sonne to the Ld CAPELL of famous memory, hapning on Christmas-Day.

COuld sable Drops from Pen and Eyes distill,
Or Briny Teares b' extracted from a Quill;
Could Greife with Colour'd Accents sighing groane,
Or Words put on a sad Complexion;
I 'ld writing weepe, and weeping write; my Teares
Should speake Thy Death, my words bedew Thine Hearse.
My Genius ('tis confest) vailes to the Rest
In writing Elegies: Mourne's with the best.
Should Heedlesse Greife some faults in Lines incurre,
Teares should wash out the blot; Groanes clense the blurre.
Presumptuous Death! t' insult and Triumph then
On Men Renown'd, and Nobler Spirits; when
Thine owne Captivity thou should'st deplore
Gain'd by our Captains Birth, a Saviour.
So stormes a Calme deface: unhappy we
To mourne, not joy on the Nativity.
But stay; sure 'twas Thy Zeale, Divine desire
To solemnize this Feast among the Quire
Of Saints and Angels; where to Sing thy Part,
And fill the Chorus, these shall give thee Art.
Pardon, Dear Saint, since I've presum'd to be
Partner in Greife, grant an Indemnity
T' a Twilight-fancy, whose bright sunne being sate
Shall cease to write, though not to imitate.
WILL: MILES Batch: of Arts in New. Coll.

On the Death of the truly Noble and no lesse vertuous CHARLES CAPELL Esq; who dyed of the Small-Pox Vpon ChrIstMas Day Last.

TO write your Life were it my Taske Great Sir,
I feare I should subscribe your murderer:
To do 't to Halfes were faire; But t' would be s'ed
I kill'd you, were 't but drawne and quartered;
Yet he 's Long-liv'd, dread Saint, who but procures
Life to improve like You the Tythes of Yours.
So that I dare not say, You Non-ag'd dy'd:
Though it be true, the world would sweare I Ly'd:
Nay, though by what You Liv'd, it might have knowne
Had You Liv'd still, You 'de ner'e beene over-growne,
Yet Under-age it wo'nte allowe, but hold
Your Ripenesse ne're was Non-age'd, but borne Old.
Were 't not that Innocents are Infants style'd
Who saw You Youngest never knew You Childe:
Prose licence me! For Him verse is not meete
Whose Life, though soone run▪ out, out-runs those Feete.
I would dare venture on't; but since I know
To speak to th' Life is not to make Him so,
Nothing but Death I'le breath, I ne're did feare
The Small-Pox could fore-run a Plague but Here:
'Twould Rack a Poet-parliament to sit
And club Invention to speake well of it.
Those spots His Body did bespangle, say
That they were stars fix'd in the milkie-way;
Yet mourning His DECREASE, we must complaine
Stars in this milkie-way prove'd CHARLES His WAINE.
Small-Pox! Thou nick-name'd Evill! I dare not call
That Grape-stone which but choak'd Anacreon, Small,
And shalt Thou be? Thou shouldst have cast about
To play small games; then Here thou hadst stood out.
What? least that Noble Blood should still have gone
Untainted, must Thou bring Infection?
Could I spit venome to blemish thee, I'de trie
To make thy spots more and of deeper Die.
And, Thou Black-day, scarce should I think it fit
To name thee under Black and White with it:
But that I find thee Checkcr'd, for I see
His Death falls in with Christs Nativitie.
And thus 'twas fit. His Life and Death accorde,
He liv'd, the Day speakes, to die in the Lord.
Then quit the day: And 'till we thinke of worse
We'le let the Pox that plagu'd us be a Curse.
EDW: LOWE fellow of New Col.

On the Death of the Eminently Enobled CHARLES CAPELL Esq; Who, after He had honour'd Winton Coll. with His Education, and accomplisht. Himselfe with a voyage into FRANCE, Dyed of the Small-Pox, at LONDON Last Christmas 1656.

SHow'r downe your Ponderous Teares, who e're you be
Dare Write, or Read a CAPELL'S Elegie;
Spangle His Hearse with Pearles, such as are borne
'Twixt the blear'd Eielids of an o're cast Morn:
And (but 'tis vain t' expostulate with Death,
Or vilifie the Fates with frustrate breath)
Pose Destinie with Why's, Why Such a Sun
Should set, before His Noonetide Stage were run?
Why This Faire Volume should be Bound so fast
In Wooden Covers, Clasp't-up in such hast?
Was Nature fond of It's Large Character,
And those Divine Impressions graven There?
Did shee, least we should spoyl't (to wave that Sin)
'Cause 'twas the Best-Edition call-it-in?
Or would our Vaunting Isle that Saints should see
Th' utmost of all our Prodigalitie;
Fearing some detriment by long delay,
Send Heav'n a New-Year's-Gift, Before the Day?
No: th' Empyrean Philomels could sing
Without His voice; no Carolls to their King.
England's Metropolis (for 'twas in Thee
He dy'd) We re-baptize Thee Calvarie,
The Charnel-house of Gallantry; henceforth
We brand Thy Front, with, Golgotha of Worth.
Had He bin Swallow'd in that Curteous Deep
He Travail'd o're, He had bin lull'd asleep
In th' Amorous Sea-Nymphs stately Armes at ease,
His Great Name would Imposthumate the Seas;
That when the Waves should Swell, and Tempests rise,
(Strong Waters challenging the Dastard Skies)
Poore Shipwrack't Mariners, remembring Him
Should court His Asterisme, and cease to swimm;
Abjure the Fatall-Brothers glow-worme-Fires,
And dart at Him their languishing desires.
Had France intomb'd Him (what Our Land forbid's)
Nature had rear'd Him Stately Pyramids
The lofty Alpes, where it had bin most meete
Their harmlesse Snow should be His Windingsheet,
That Alablaster-Coverture might be
An Embleme of His native-Puritie:
Had He fall'n There, it had bin True perchance,
WICCHAM's Third Colledge might be found in FRANCE.
But He return'd from Thence, curb'd Neptune's pride;
And, to our Fame and Greife, came Home, and Dy'd.
Thus, when the Heav'n ha's whee'ld it's Dayly Race
About Our Earth; At Night it's glorious Face
Is Pox't with Starres: Yet Heav'n admits no Blot,
And ev'ry Pimple There's a Beauty-spot.
Shortliv'd Disease, that can'st be cur'd and gon,
By One sweet Morning's Resurrection!
Adieu Great Sir, whose Totall He that will
Describe in Folio need's a Cherub's Quill.
Zealous Posterity Your Tombe shall stirre,
Hoard up Your Dust, Rifle Your Sepulcher;
And (as the Turks did Scanderbeg's of old)
Shall weare your Bones in Annulets of Gold.
But my blasphemous Pen, prophane's His Glory;
I'le say but This to all His Tragique Story:
Were not the World well-nigh it's Funerall,
I'de ne're believe so Bright a Starre could Fall.
THO. FLATMAN. fellow of New Col.

On the lamented death of CHARLES CAPELL Esq; deceased last Christmas. 1656.

FIrst shall the Poles concurre, and joine in one,
And vaulted Snayles the light foot Hare out-run:
First shall the Ocean sinke into a Drop,
And life, and Death t' oppose each other stop;
E're Pen, or Tongue, or Thought, can comprehend
Our boundlesse losses by Great CAPEL's End.
Were the sage Antiquaries Heer combin'd
In Him alone they'd a Non ultrà find.
Could now my power my heart but countermain,
I'de tread the Clouds to view Him in His Wain:
Wer't at my liberty to weep my fill,
Mines Eyes should Bloody Deluges distill,
That heav'n, and Earth might both be dy'd in Red,
'Caus Black's too Light to moan a CAPEL dead.
Thrice happy, Julius, may thy Year be term'd,
Whose Rise and Fall Two Heroes have confirm'd:
Thy January, and December, shall
Be writ henceforth in Letters Capitall.
Royall approximation! These Two Themes
Tell us, the Vertues may be in Extreams:
What t' One Montrosse's learned Sword once gave
Th' Other shall in our Hearts Engraven have
Methinks we all Circumferentiall seeme,
Till meeting we Concentricate in Him.
Nature's Epitome, Our Blazing Starre
In whom like Rayes the vertues gather'd were;
Thus much in Generalls: for He's like Stars
Too comprehensive for Particulars.
His fame (like th' Eagle from a Roman's Hearse)
By Psaphon's Birds, shall fill the Universe.
Thrice happy Wicchamists! on Us were darted
The Morning Beams of This bright Sun departed.
Unhappy world under Death's fatall Law
Thou 'rt Plundred of Thy Cornucopia,
And spendthrifts we Our Stock being brought so Low,
May quite despaire and now a begging go.
Thus our Penfeather'd Lives may seem to be
The Actors of our owne Catastrophe.
Rare, and Divine! too rich for Inhumation
Fitter by farre, for Enoch's high translation.
Boast not Antipodes, though You alone
May say you tread against Two Worlds for one,
Despair of Parallels now Hee's in Heaven,
Till the next great Platonick Fifty seven.
THO: MUSPRAT fellow of New Col.

[...]: Or An ELEGIE On the Death of the Honourable CHARLES CAPELL Esq; Who, after He had grac't Winton Coll. with His Society, made a Voyage into FRANCE, And returning, upon Christmas Day, not long before His intended Marriage, Dyed 1656.

BUt it is true? Nay, then Intomb'd
Wisdome must lie, and Honour Doom'd,
Those Royall Twins that might comprize
The Angels in their Hierarchies:
That Eagle-spread, those Lamps that die
The Azure-spangled-Canopie.
Lo! CHARLES is Dead, 'tis all in all,
The losse is Epidemicall:
Let Orpheus come, or Heraclyte,
Let England club Her Anchorite;
All's inarticulate, as be
The speechlesse signes of Heraldrie.
Had I the Prophet's head, that Floud
Of Sacred Sorrow; could I Bloud,
As Jove did Gold, distill a Pond,
And ev'ry drop a Diamond;
Then would I write, and richly conne
The Deluge of Deucalion;
Then would I blaze the glimm' ring Sun,
And Gild the Fate of Phaëton;
From 's Fall I'de Vigour take, as once
The Corps did from Elisha's Bones:
So limbeck-like, I'de Rhet'rick drain,
And drop it by retail againe.
Thus am I Tantaliz'd, and act
The Mute, within a Cataract:
Fame's Trump is full; but who can size
or Paramount Hyperbolies?
Yet (a) Atys—like I'le speake, and chide
The Fate's disloyall Deicide;
Croesus his dumb Son.
And He, as Christ in swathes, shall lie
Grip't up in This Stenographie.
View then His Non-age, and the store
Of WICCHAM's Mineralls, The Ore
So oft refin'd, You'l change the list,
Our Pioner prove's Alchymist:
Nestor's surviv'd; Here then descry
Old Aeson's Palingenesy.
View Him agen, You'l find i'th' draught
A Planet, or an Argonaut:
The Fleece He gain'd, without a Spell,
Or Palisado 'd Sentinell:
His Hellespont was but a Creek,
His Cholcos, learned Armorik.
Correct your Maps; let Rome recall
The British Colonie: let Gaule
In Him confesse shee did descry
Re-romanized Britanny.
Hence then ye Dorres o'th 'Time, that prize
Your drousy-Gods Idolatries;
That Guard your Lar, and starve the name
Of never-dying Vesta's Flame:
Here's He that grace's both the Crowe
Of Pallas, and Diana's Bowe;
His Dish was Knowledge, all His Meate
Carv'd Labour, and His Sauce was Sweate.
Was not One fam'd who once out-shone
The Blazing-starre of Macedon?
Whose Orientall Vertues made
Sol, Cancer-like, run Retrograde.
This, This is He, that Royall Gage,
Panaretus in 's Minorage:
He that Heav'n's▪ Empresse could disthrone,
And captivate Endymion.
This, This is He, His Heav'n He saw,
His Hymen, and His Naamah.
But ô the Fates! the greet is deare,
The Azure's turn'd a Sable Spheare,
And all reciprocally quaffe
An Hymen, and an Epitaph.
Is this, your promise, Fate? be gon,
'Tis damn'd Prevarication:
Thy Syren's Voice, and Hyen's Guile,
Ha's vanquish't Aegypt's Crocodile.
Fell Tyger Earth! dare'st re-inthrall
Thy Infant's? and turne Caniball?
Doe's not thy conscious Wombe confesse
An un accustom'd Holynesse?
How shall I rate my Greife? Hee's dead,
How shall I be Inspirited?
Oh Niobe were Thy Fate mine,
I'de wring out Gore, and shower Brine,
I'de weepe to Marble, and abide
His Teare▪ distilling Pyramide.
But Stay, tis true; the Prophet's come,
Heavn'd Herauld's borne: Delphos be dumbe,
Thus Ganymede's arising Urne
Portend's the Fall of Capricorne▪
He Falls, Alcides▪ like, to be
The Mirrour of Astronomie.
Could Leo's-Taile a Palace spare
For wanton Berenice's Haire,
And Leo Faile? No, scan the Blisse,
Tis CAPELL'S Apotheosis:
The Hero's lispt, but who can conn
His Threno-thriambeuticon?
WILL. OLDYSS. fellow of New Col.

On the Immature Death of the worthily Honoured, and truly noble, CHARLES CAPELL Esq; who died on Christmas day Anno Dom. 1656.

CEase Rocky Mourners, you whose Flinty eyes
Gush forth no Torrents at these obsequies
If Moses spare his Rod: may none view this
Rich Urne, who weep's without an Emphasis.
A CAPELL'S Set, or He his lustre shrowd's,
Mounting to 's Apogaeum through the Clouds,
For who dares thinke He's mortall, whose great name
Can Entheat Dull-wits, and nonplus Fame?
No, no, that hand that murther's others, is
To Him, but Enoch's Metamorphosis.
Imagine how flaming Elias went,
Coach't like bright Phaebus through the firmament,
Thus Soar'd our Seraphim: no period
Stopt his Career till Centred in his God.
When Heaven's Great Sonne unmaskt his new-borne face,
And like a Gyant, strong to run his race
Flew from the Barriers of the wombe, and hurl'd
Downe Pythons of faint glory, which the world
Ador'd, Augustus humbly ceast to be
Stil'd Lord, ecclipsed by Divinitie:
So Our Augustus Hot with active Zeale
Pluck't off His Body, then began to feele
More vigorous Heat, which made him scorne to be
Honour'd on Earth at Christs Nativitie;
Wherefore undauntedly He cuts His way
Through th' Earths Charybdis, Death's Bulimia:
But (like the Arke) at last he haven's at
The Toppe of that celestiall Ararat;
Where He resides, a Representative
Able to make another world Alive.
Ascended then He is and now His face
Plac't in a better Light, presents each grace
Fairer and more perspicuous to our Eyes,
Then nearnesse can, the Pencill's rarities;
Thus we admire, thus we adore the shrine
That comprehended nought but was Divine.
Farewell Brave Soule; O that Earth had a Nest
To lodg this Dove, where He a while might rest
And then returne! Had He the Phaenix doome
We now might have another in His roome:
Heav'n lent Him but foure Lustres, to which foure
He added Myriads of Lustres more,
And sure this well-improved Talent may
Expect glad Euge's at th' great Audit day.
Weepe then sad World, and with rich Jove, each how'r
Drop from Thy Treasury a Golden showr.
He that lament's in usuall teares, doe's trie
To make a pesant of a Deitie.
Once more Farewell High Spirit, we returne
And bow in adoration to Thine urne,
Before Whose loud Memorialls shall cease,
The fast-barr'd Graves their Pris'ners shall release.
In breife we lastly thus inscribe His Hearse;
Here lye's no Microcosm, but an Universe.
THO: KEN. Hart-Hall Com.

On the untimely Death of the honourable CHARLES CAPELL Esq; (second Sonne to the Ladie CAPELL) deceas'd on Christmas day last.

BUt, shall I trust the Muses on a Theame
Where, if not cautious, they must need's blaspheme?
Will not those Pagans, when they tell His fate
Lowdly with God, and Man expostulate?
Apt to pronounce in one licentious breath,
O Tyrant Heaven, and O Traitour Earth!
Or, if I ought to hope their daring pride
By this sad accident is mortifi'd,
Yet are They not so pin'de with greife, that all
Can scarce clubbe Verses for His Funerall.
Had I that Pen of Mars, His Father's Sword,
Not steept 'ith' Muses Hors-poole, but begoard
In vanquish't Bloud, then with the Point impress't
On the Virgin Paper of my naked-Breast,
I'de grave His Eulogy, but that I feare,
I should assassinate His Image There:
Cheap is the Eye's Hydrography, a Floud
Too low, unlesse (with Jove) we could weep Blood.
Mirrour of Men! shuffled from Earth, and hurld
To Heav'n, to be the Riddle of the World;
With whom rash Nature travail'd in post-hast,
Borne an Old man, just like the Protoplast:
And, but for's Beauties, and refined parts,
Plundring the Caskets of poore Ladies hearts,
His charming graces, and what ever can
Compleat Nobilitie, and write Man, Man;
One so Heroick, Pious, Just, and Good,
We should distrust Him to be Flesh and Bloud;
But, heer's the greatest wonder (strange, and true)
He was a CAPELL, yet a Mortall too.
Thus happy was His life, but nobler bliss
Attended on His Apotheosis:
Have you not seene the Starry Legions rowze
Themselves, to keepe their Nightly Rendezvouze,
And all those Heav'nly Janizaries rise,
To guard the Freckled Empresse of the skies?
Till One (impatient to stand still, and heare
The charming Musick of each warbling Sphaere)
Start's from His Rankes, and with dishevel'd Haire
Mak's an Excursion through the yielding Aire,
Dancing to th' Harmony, as if he He mean't
To frisk Lavaltoes through the Firmament?
So His unshackled Soule, shooting through th' Crowd,
Of Lower thoughts, rode trampling on a Cloud,
Through Convoies of bright Starres, while He out-vy'd
Their starveling glories, whose ecclipsed pride
Carry'd His Torches, but the lesser Seaven
His Linke-boyes were to light him up to Heaven:
Atlas the Elephant preferr'd to beare
On 's brawny back, Heav'ns Castle in the Aire,
Felt then new weight, groan'd thrice, and by degrees
Sinking in Reverence, bent his humble knees,
Whilest lost Chronology, had nought to say
Wondring that Christmas was Ascention Day.

To my Ladie.

But, pardon (Madam) that our verses come
When greife should strike us dead, or manners dumbe;
For though Your sighes perfume Him with a breath
Able t' aromatize the Grave, and Death;
Yet, onely such Confectioners as wee;
Are able to preserve His memorie;
And Your Joint-regent Eyes, whose every Teare
Can re-instate a Broken Jeweller,
(Those Christall-Seas, where when You weepe, 'tis sai'd,
We neede not Dive for Pearls, for there they wade,)
Do piously usurpe Our share, when solely
You would monopolize all Melancholly.
But, if these froathy Torrents of Our Eyes,
Drowne with their Roaring, those Soliloquies,
Snatch't up to Heav'n for matter to make Hymns
By myriads of attendant Seraphims,
Shed but one costly Tear, and You shall see
'Twill instantly Dissolve the Companie.
FRANC. TURNER schollar of New Col.

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