Funerall Elegies.
OR THE Sad Muses in Sables, singing the Epicediums OF
- HIS Highness Prince Maurice, Count Palatine of the Rhine, Duke of Bavaria, &c.
- James Duke of Lenox and Richmond.
- Iohn Earl of Rivers.
- Iohn Cleveland, the much-cry'd up Poet.
Written by S. H.
London, Printed by Tho. Wilson at the Three Foxes in Long-lane. ⟨1655⟩
To the Reader.
I Hope I shall not be pester'd with those stubborn precise Puppies, that turn all usefull and allow'd contentments into scabs and scruples, they are very fairly set out indeed, and so are fore-horses, Aristotles Problems and Powder'd-Beef, are rare dyet; But I shall not care to tell the World, that I despise such painted Momes, such gaudy trifles, indeed these men when they speak, speak Oracles, for no man understands them, nor themselvs neither such Gim-cracks made of mops and motions, a true noble Gentleman is a brave thing, and to such generous Souls I onely vail my Bonnet; the honest and ingenious Citizen shall also command me, but I have Armour of proof to protect me from the proud scornings of the first sort of shallow Pates; These Elegies have taken wing with a full gale, and will flye in the faces of those that shall obstruct their travell about the World. I hope there are some that will give free leave that the sence of these Elegies may sink into their considerations, to such I am
A sincere Servitor.
An Elegie on the report of the Death of the most renowned Prince (as wel for Vertue as Magnanimity.) Prince Maurice, &c.
PRompt me you Imps of Jove and Memory,
I sing his Exit, whose Infinity
Of vertues merit an Angel-like Muse,
O be propitious, please for to infuse
Tragick Melpomene (while I comprise
His large siz'd Volume) thy best Rhapsodies;
He that made Valour slave to Martiall skill;
He that knew how for to command his will
More then his Myrmydons, and could with ease
Teach Talbot, Scipio, and Themistocles;
He the great Master of the Dorick Quire,
The Drum, the Trumpet, and the Phrygian Lyre;
He that like Thunder still his passage wrought,
Who led like Caesar, and like Sceva fought,
Is stoop'd unto the Grave (be proud thou Earth)
More splendid then that Queen that gave him birth;
Forbear ye giddy gang, who Witchcraft prove,
And rip up Tellus womb for Treasure trove,
No more of inhum'd treasure will we babble,
We know where lyes a Jem inestimable;
Glory of Princes, swept away to sate
The insatiate avarice of greedy Fate:
Let Eastern Princes offer unto thee,
Their Crowns, their Scepters, and their Soveraignty;
And at thy Tomb (the glory of thy years)
Pay a due tribute, blood commixt with tears:
Doth not the Genius of the World comply
With Jove himself, to howle thy Elegy?
[Page] Saturnus, as when his Sarpedon fell,
(That Lycian, who save thee wants paralell)
Distill'd salt tears, Homer no doubt comply'd
With Prophesie, and thou wert typifi'd
In his mysterious Poem, Heaven's eye did weep,
While thou wert hurried hence by death and sleep,
Worthy Psymnaticus his Sepulcher,
Thy body Mars, and Pallas did interre,
Whose Vertues, Fame, alternately resounds,
Even from Ganges to Alcides bounds;
Now neer Joves throne with an internall eye,
Thou sit'st and menacest Mortality,
Having by the indulgent will of Fate,
Immolumated the Palatinate:
This he that weeps thy worth is proud to tell,
And he that doubts it, is an Infidell.
AN ELEGIE On the death of the most illustrious Prince JAMES, Duke of Lenox and Richmond, &c.
WHat balefull sounds are thes salute mine eare?
What sadness is't that triumphs every where?
Each loyall face is clouded o're, each eye
Rains tears, what may this sorrow signifie?
Speak thou that tak'st a pride to tell of deeds
Dire and deform'd; what mischief's this that leads
A generall ruine? crack thou mighty frame!
LENOX is dead! LENOX whose honour'd Name,
Gave life to vertue, not so great as good,
And more Ally'd to Kings in worth then Blood:
Had not the Midwise wrapt his Infant Limbs
In Purple studded with the choicest Gems,
Nor Princes Gossipt at his birth; his mind
(So neer of kin to Heaven) had assign'd
[Page] Large Provinces unto his open hand,
For Wise and good men onely should command;
But it was time to travell hence, when we
Have reduc'd all unto a Paritie:
What Hero's heart but cracks, when he must give,
Worship to Wood-Mongers, or cease to live?
Or if he but sigh out his discontent,
Have his bright Star torn from his Firmament?
He that's the God of Honour takes a pride,
To have some more then others dignifide;
Nor can his lustre radiate the Earth,
That is not rais'd by Vertue, or by Birth:
But thou (illustrious Prince) wert born to all
Those glories that illuminate thi [...] Ball,
Wealth worthily impos'd, a glittering pomp
Befits a heart so blest as thine, whose stamp
Was all Aetheriall; every act of thine
Proclaim'd a perpetration most divine:
We were not worthy longer to detain
Such Excellence on Earth, things that are vain
And empty, best befit this sin-swoln Time,
When to be vertuous is a mortall crime;
Peruse the starry Gallery, and there
Behold this semi-Deity appeare,
A Constellation shining 'bove the Poles,
More bright then Myriads of Sainted Soules.
On the Death of the Right Honorable and excellently accomplished, John Earle of Rivers.
TO speak our griefs over thy sacred Urne,
(Unless the whole World were at once to mourn)
Were triviall; could we pin upon thy Herse
The sense of Salust, and the scul of Verse,
We were but lame admirers at the best,
And learnedly our Ignorance confest;
[Page] He that thy death unto the life would moan,
Must claim that very Genius thou didst own;
Hyperion, and the Daughters of high Jove,
We may invoke in vain, for 'tis above
The Epocha of Poesie to tell,
Or find a sit and genuine paralell
For thee, whose life and death shall give renown,
To the great Monarch of the Triple Crown;
A man (though born to fill bright Honours Throne)
Yet humble unto admiration:
No Saffron-guilded Pomp, or gaudy Tire,
Could lift thy constant soul one cubit higher,
Then Piety admits such as might well,
Make the Court-Standard subject to the Cell:
Incomparable Heroe! in thy fall,
All Honour, Worth, and Wit finds funerall:
Time that had sprain'd his feet, now wants his eyes,
Founder'd in thy funebrious Exequies:
Nor since great CHARLS forsook the earth for Heaven,
Has any Heroe trod his path so even
As thou hast done; this then our bliss shall be,
We cannot erre while we contemplate thee,
Whose great and good example shall create
Catholike Christians (who'l accumulate
A Roman constancy) Champions that can,
Rout Armies of the Solifidian,
And (next to Heavens glory) seek no fame,
Save the protection of thy honour'd Name.
On the death of the High-priz'd Poet JOHN CLEAVELAND, Esq
WHat, are all silent! are the Sons of Art,
Afraid to mention this dead Ascapart?
This Colbrand of Castalia, he whose strength,
Takes up nine Acres at the least in length:
Like Titius, every line of his might well,
Serve Faustus, or Agrippa for a Spell;
[Page] Nor durst the Romanist his Numbers mind,
Till with the Cross he had his fore-head sign'd;
Thou great Gargantuan, huge Colossian Bard,
Who shall dare sing thy worth unlesse prepar'd
With Sack and Sulphure, every word should pierce
Like Thunder through the wond'ring Universe;
Although thou art inhum'd (to fancy Fate)
Yet still to us thou dost tonitruate,
Thy words want each an Atlas; we can Rant,
'Tis true, but not like thee (our Termagant)
Whose every syllable a sentence is,
Each word an Axiome, thou hast searcht Abysse,
(The Muses Hercules) and shown to us,
That triple-headed bandog Cerberus,
So by the Magick of thy haughty Rhimes,
The Powers celestiall cringe to mortall crimes:
No marvell thou couldst cramp so many Pens,
Whose face and belly were as big as Bens:
Gyant of Wit as well as Bulk, thy Quill,
(That Maule of minds) rests on the Muses Hill
A sacred Trophey; ye small Wits bow down,
Give worship to this Bashaw of the Gown;
Grand Vizier to Apollo, the Vice-King
Of fair Castalia, when thy Soule took wing,
Why didst thou not appoint who should succeed?
Who now shall dare to wear thy Regall weed?
To put the Lawrell on, or to give Law
In Verse that would keep Lucifer in awe;
Like Alexanders Captains, wanting thee,
We now shall quarrell for Supremacie;
For thou hast left a world of wit behind,
For those to share whom blessings cannot bind;
Thus like some mighty Potentate that dyes
Without an Heir, those Laws and Liberties
So oft confirm'd by Phoebus Parliament,
Shall be made void, yet on thy Monument
We will presume this Epitaph to grave,
Here Cleveland lyes, whose Wit went wondrous brave.
FINIS.