An elegie on the death of Sir Charls Lucas and Sir George Lisle. 1648 Approx. 9 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A84272 Wing E379 Thomason 669.f.13[20] ESTC R210944 99869692 99869692 162915

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A84272) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 162915) Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 246:669f13[20]) An elegie on the death of Sir Charls Lucas and Sir George Lisle. 1 sheet ([1] p.) s.n., [London : 1648] Imprint from Wing. Verse - "Inspire me some prodigious Fury: all". Annotation on Thomason copy: "7ber [i.e. September] 20 1648". Reproduction of the original in the British Library.

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 eng Lisle, George, -- Sir, d. 1648 -- Early works to 1800. Lucas, Charles, -- Sir, 1613-1648 -- Early works to 1800. Elegiac poetry, English. Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. Colchester (England) -- History -- Siege, 1648 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. 2007-09 Assigned for keying and markup 2007-11 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2008-01 Sampled and proofread 2008-01 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
AN ELEGIE On the Death of Sir CHARLS LUCAS and Sir GEORGE LISLE. INſpire me ſome prodigious Fury: all The Muſes are not enough Tragicall. Hither you Leaguer Fiends from your black Tents; Hell has but Three, Fairfax whole Regiments. A Pompy's death Caeſar would choſe t' enjoy, His Butchers were an Eunuch and a Boy. Cannibals thus War not to reduce, but chew, As Maſtiffs fight to worry, not ſubdue. Lightning (heav'ns ſword) blaſts not, if not withſtood, Colcheſter's Bull deales tamely in cold Blood. What plenteous harveſts ſtorming brought the Towne! Each ſhaver Tarquin lopt his poppy downe. All your ſhot, fire, ſteele, ſcarce murdred one, Your Mercy only was deſtruction. Poyſon tooke in our certaine ruine is, Serpents ne're ſting, but when th' embrace, and kiſſe. Scabbards ſtab'd moſt; no harme i'th' Cannons noat, The onely murdring piece was Fairfax throat. Quarter from Rebels, will diſpatch or end; The Devil's moſt pernitious, when our friend. When you ſhould Cure, you bleed us to our grave, The Booke does ne're condemne, but when 't ſhould ſave. If the King ſcape by Rolfe, 'tis to be hurl'd With Paſſe, and Piſtoll, to another world. Muſt ye be fleſht? ſo ſoone faces about, The Town's not ſtarv'd, the famine is without: They're guiltleſſe ſure muſt bid ſo ſoone adieu; Or like the Devill, muſt you damne 'em too? Horſe-fleſh is ſober meat: Fairfax digeſts Tigers and Wolves, and is himſelfe turn'd Beaſt: He keeps a Seſſions, when he takes a Towne, Councels of War are Juries, Buff Coats Gownds. His Standards Gibbets are; he needs muſt fright, His Phyſnomy's a funerall black and white. Th' head quarters alwayes are at Tiburne; all His power makes him but Hangman Generall. Counter-march quickly all this Bloud: home, home Leſt we miſtake the Devill for Black Tom. This League murders more, then Marten could Spawne (in a Holland's Leaguer) Baſtard brood. Muſt the Saints Feaſtivals be writ in Red? Or are ye Gods with bloud and victim's fed? Thus, and ſcarce thus, Turks Conquer, and embrew; Turks are no Saints, yet Conquer more then you. If Executioners 'fore Reformers go, Be Derrick henceforth Generaliſſimo. Fairfax and Eſſex ſpell their Chriſtian brands, You'le find the ſame T. R. in all burnt hands. Strange Parlies, which no Articles diſpenſe, But ſuch as diſpatcht Laud and Strafford hence. If to Capitulate be ſuch a thing, And Treaties muſt end thus, God bleſſe the King. Whilſt Nol, and Tom dividedly doe awe, The Land's beſtrid with th' Devils cloven paw. In Lilly's dreames the King is ſtill undone, If ſo, theſe are his Lancaſheire Mockſuns. For they will both be Kings; Fairfax i'th' dreſſe Of the Rlack Prince, and Cromwell of Q. Beſſe. Roſſiter, Lambert, Ireton too muſt reigne, England will ſuffer Heptarchy againe. Come hallow'd quill, dropt from an Angels wing, Inke from that Font: (we now of Chriſtians ſing) An Oſtridge plume with aquafortis dreſs'd, He that writes Lucas praiſe muſt ſteele digeſt: His Epitaph, i'th' cripled Savoy ſtands, Armeleſſe trunkes there ſhewes you his fatall hands: All Hoſpitals his Monument conſpire, Ev'ry maim'd piece preſents you him intire. Thus his eternall fame ſhall laſt as long As Rebels halt; or Royaliſts have tongue: Search Marſton-moore, and in Yorkes Records ſeeke, You'le find him writ in Stigmatiz'd Toms cheeke. Such were his fierce Sallies, as ſome did doubt Whether he rod, or had been diſcharg'd out: Then at each ſweep he made whole rankes to fall, As if th' had duck't before a Cannon ball. Some he o'retakes and joynts at knees; you'd ſweare Their legs had fled, and left the bodies there. Now they muſt to't the Superſtitious way, Downe (ſaies his Morglay) Villaines kneel and pray. He was the Townes beſt Wall; and O! to glutt Revenge, this Royall Fort is made a Butt. On Cut-throates, on, perfect your gameſome rites, Forward and backward ſhoot, ſet up two whites; Proceed, let not your lucky miſchiefes ſlack; Royaliſts mourne, but your ſoules were the black. Liſle defies Quarter: now his friends bloud's ſpilt, Your Charity's ſin, your mercy will be guilt. Great ſpirit, death's a Miſtriſſe in his eye Or Nuptials; 'tis the ſame to kiſſe and dye. His Grave's as welcome as his Quilt or Downe, Would but his Ghoſt walke, 'twould nigh clear the Towne. Holland's to him a Coate of Maile; what crowds Did his thin Newbery ſhirt ſend to their ſhrowds? They had not Braines to judge, nor hearts to fight, But ran and thought the Devill was turn'd white. He vengance hurl'd like a pale diſmall ſtar, Or th' milkie Genius of an innocent War. No need of ſwords to have the Rebels ſped; H'had ſoul enough to Liſpe whole ſquadrons dead. Farwell brave Twins of valour; may no ſpurne Of Rebels foot light heavy on your Urne: We all ſhall wait upon your fate; this year Starv'd Colcheſter will ſoone be every where. Plenty and Lucas fled at once, this Iſle Together wants a Summer and a Liſle. Your Graves are meritorious, Wharton lies Still in his Sawpit, and will never riſe. Your Loyall hunger, and your leane Alarmes, Was better then to feed Pyms loathſome ſwarmes. Your glorious ſoules are free, whilſt others have A Conquerour who to his Gout's a ſlave. Old Fairfax Corn's ill cut, there goes to wrack Weather-wiſe Booker and an Almanack. Their wounds are ſtill i'th' legges, you know the ſpell O'th' Greek, they were dipt too in Styx and Hell. Roſſiter's halfe dead; 'tis well he's ſo much man; But geldings ſerve for th' worke Eſſex began. Their Church is militant; and doth appeare Triumphant too; for why? their heav'n is here. Th' Army's the holy League; all for Saints go Becauſe their Murders make all others ſo. May they be Angels too; and when they fall Like Jacobs Angels upon ladders all. FINIS.