AN ELEGIE ON THE Most Reverend Father in God VVILLIAM LORD ARCH-BISHOP OF CANTERBƲRY;
Attatched the 18. of Decemb. 1640.
Beheaded the 10. of Ianuary 1644.
Printed, 1644.
AN ELEGIE ON THE MOST REVEREND Father in God WILLIAM, Lord Arch-Bishop of Canterbury, Attatched the 18. of Decemb. 1640.
Beheaded the 10. of Jan. 1644.
Most Reverend. Martyr.
THou, since thy thick Afflictions first begun,
Mak'st Dioclesian's dayes all Calme, and Sun,
And when thy Tragick Annals are compil'd,
Old Persecutions shall be Pitty stil'd,
The Stake and Faggot, shall be Temp'rate names,
And Mercy weare the Character of Flames:
Men knew not then Thrift in the Martyrs breath,
Nor weav'd their lives into a foure years Death,
Few ancient Tyrants doe our stories Taxe,
That slew first by Delayes, then by the Axe,
[Page 2] But these (Tiberius like) alone doe crye,
'Tis to be Reconcil'd to let Thee Dye.
Observe we then a while, into what Maze,
Compasse, and Circle, they contrive Delaies,
What Turnes, and wild Perplexities they chose,
Ere they can forge their slander, and Accuse:
The Sun hath now brought his warme Chariot back,
And rode his Progresse round the Zodiack,
When yet no Crime appeares, when none can tell,
Where thy guilt sleeps, nor when 'twill break the shell,
Why is His shame deferr'd? what is't that bring's
Your Iustice back, spoyles Vengeance of her Wings?
Hath mercy seaz'd you? will you rage no more?
Are Winds grown tame? have seas forgot to Roare?
No, a Wild fiercenesse hath your minds possest,
Which time and sinnes must cherish and digest:
You durst not now let His cleer Blood be spilt,
You were not yet grown up to such a guilt,
You try if Age if seaventy years can Kill;
Then y'have your Ends, and you are Harmlesse still,
But when this fail'd, you doe your Paths enlarge,
But would not yet whole Innocence discharge;
You'l not be Divell All, you fain would prove
Good at faire distance, within some Remove,
"Vertue hath sweets which are good Mens due gaine,
"Which Vice would not Deserve, yet would Retaine.
This was the Cause, why once it was your Care,
That Stormes and Tempests in your sin might share,
You did engage the Waves, and strongly stood
To make the Water Guilty of His Blood,
[Page 3] Boats are dispatcht in Hast. and 'tis His doome,
Not to His charge, but to His shipwrack come;
Fond men, your cruell Project cannot doe,
Tempests and stormes must learne to Kill from you,
When this came short; He must Walk Pilgrimage,
No Coach not mule, that may Sustaine His Age;
Must trace the City (now a Desart rude)
And combate salvage Beasts the multitude.
But when his Guardian Innocence, can fling
A we round about and save Him by that Ring.
When the Just cause can fright the Beast away,
And make the Tyger tremble at her Prey.
When neither Waves dare seize Him, nor the Rout,
The storme with Reason, nor the storme without:
Lost in these streights, when Plots have Vanquisht bin,
And sin perplext hath no Reliefe, but sin.
Agents and Instruments now on you fall,
You must be Iudges, People, Waves and All,
Yet 'cause the Rout will have't perform'd by you,
And long to see done what they dare not Doe.
You pur the Crime to use, it swels your Heape,
Your sin's your Wealth, nor are you Guilty cheape,
You Husband All; there's no Appearance lost,
Nor comes He once to th' Barre but at their cost;
A Constant Rate well Taxt, and Levied right,
And a Iust value set upon each sight.
At last they finde the Dayes by their own purse,
Lesse known from Him then what they do disburse:
But when it now strikes High for Him t'appeare,
And Chapmen see the Bargaine is grown deere;
[Page 4] They Muster hands, and their hot suits enlarge,
Not to pursue the Man, but save the Charge.
Then least you loose their Custome, (a just feare)
Selling your sinnes and others Blood too deare.
You grant their suits, the Manner, and the Time.
And He must Dye for what no Law call's crime.
Th' Afflicted Martyrs, when their paines began,
Their Trajan had, or Dioclesian.
Their Tortures weare some Colour, and Proceed,
Though from no guilt, yet 'cause they disagreed;
What League, what Friendship there? They could not joyne,
And fix the Ark and Dagon, in one Shrine.
Faith, combats Faith, and how agree can they,
That still goe on, but still a severall way?
Zeale, Martyr's Zeale, & Heate' gainst Heate Conspires,
As Theban Brothers fight, though in their fires.
Yet as two diffrent Starres unite their Beames,
And Rivers mingle Waves, and mix their Streames,
And though they challenge each a severall Name,
Conspire, because their moisture is the same.
So Parties knit, though they be diverse knowne,
The men are many, but the Christians, one.
Trajan, no Trajan was to his owne Heard,
And Tygers are not by the Tygers fear'd,
What strange excesse then? what's that menstrous Power,
When flames doe flames, and streames doe streams devoure?
Where the same faith, 'g [...]inst the same faith doth knock,
And sheep, are wolves to sheep of the same flock?
Where Protestant the Protestant defies,
Where both Assent, yet one for Dissent dyes?
[Page 5] Let those that doubt this, through his Actions Wade,
Where some must needs Convince, All may per swade;
Was He Apostate, who your Champion stood,
Bath'd in His Inke before, as now in Blood.
He that unwindes the subtile Iesuit,
That Feels the Serpents Teeth, and is not Bit?
Vnties the snake, findes each Mysterious knot,
And turnes the Poyson into Antidott.
Doth Nicety, with Nicety undoe?
And makes the Labyrinth the Labyrinth's clew?
That sleight by sleight subdues, and cleerly proves,
Truth hath her Serpents too, as well as Doves?
Now, you that blast His Innocence, Survey,
And view the Triumphs of this Glorious day;
Could you (if that might be) if you should come,
To seale God's cause with your own Martyrdome,
Could all the Blood whose tydes move in your veines,
(Which then perhaps were Blood, but now is staines,)
Yeeld it that Force and strength, which it hath took
(Should we except His Blood) from this His Booke,
Your Flame or Axe would lesse evince to Men,
Your Block and Stake would prop lesse then his Pen;
Is He Apostate, whom the Baites of Rome
Cannot seduce, though all her Glories come?
Whom all her specious Honours cannot hold,
Who Hates the snare although the Hook be Gold?
Who Prostituted Titles can despise,
And from despised Titles, greater Rise?
Whom Names cannot Amuse, but feats withall,
The Protestant above the Cardinall▪
[Page 6] Who sure to His own soule, doth scorne to find
A Crimson cap the Purchase of His mind?
"Who is not Great, may blame his Fates Offence,
"Who would not be, is Great in's Conscience.
Next these His Sweat and Care how to advance,
The Church but to Her Just inheritance,
How to gaine back her Own yet none Beguile,
And make her Wealth her purchase, nor her spoile:
Then, shape Gods worship to a joynt consent;
'Till when the seamlesse Coat must still be Rent:
Then, to Repaire the shrines, as Breaches sprung,
Which we should heare, could we lend Pauls a Tongue.
Speake, speake! Great Monument! while thou yet art such,
And Reare Him 'bove their Scandalls, and their Touch;
Had He surviv'd, thou might'st in Time Declare,
Vast things may comely be, and Greatest Faire.
And though thy Limbs spread high, and Bulk exceed,
Thou'dst prov'd that Gyants are no monstrous breed:
Then 'bove Extent, thy Lustre would prevaile,
And 'gainst Dimensions Feature turne the Scale;
But now, like Pyrrha's halfe adopted Birth,
Where th'issue Part was Woman, Part was Earth,
Where Female some, and some to stone was Bent,
And the one halfe, was t'others Monument,
Thou must imperfect lye, and learn to Groane,
Now for His Ruine, straight way for thine owne:
But this and Thousand such Abortives, are,
By Bloody Rebels Ravish't from His care,
But yet though some miscarried in the Wombe,
And Deeds Still-Borne have hastned to their Tombe,
[Page 7] God (that Reward's him now) forbad his store,
Should all lie hid, and He but give i'th Ore;
Many are Stamp't, and shap't, and doe still shine,
Approv'd at Mint, a firme, and Perfect Coyne.
Witnesse that Mart of Books that yonder stands,
Bestow'd by Him, though by anothers Hands:
Those Attick Manuscripts, so rare a Peice,
They tell the Turke, he hath not Conquer'd Greece.
Next these, a second Beauteous Heape is throwne,
Of Easterne Authors, which were all his owne.
Who in so Various Languages appeare,
Babell, could scarce be their Interpreter.
To These, we may that Faire built Colledge bring,
Which proves that Learning's no such Rustick thing;
Whose structure well contriv'd doth not Relate,
To Antick finenesse, but strong, lasting state:
Beauty well mix't with strength, that it complies,
Most with the Gazer's Vse, much with his Eyes,
On Marble Columnes thus the Arts have stood,
As wife Seths Pillars sav'd'em in the Flood.
But did He leave here Walls, and only Owne,
A glorious Heape, and make us Rich in Stone?
Then had our Chanc'lour seem'd to faile, and here
Much Honour due to the Artificer:
But this Our Prudent Patron long foresaw,
When he Refin'd rude Statutes into Law;
Our Arts, and Manners to his Building falls,
And He erects the Men, as well as Walls:
"Thus Solons Lawes his Athens did Renowne,
"And turn'd that throng of Buildings to a Towne.
So strict, as to Himselfe, He made His Owne,
Which in His Actions Inventory Lyes,
Which Hell or Prinne can never Scandalize:
Where every Act His Rigid eye surveyes,
And Night is Barre, and Iudge to all His Dayes;
Where all His secret Thoughts He doth comprize,
And every Dreame is summond to' an Assize▪
Where He Arraignes each Circumstance of Care,
Which never Parts dismiss'd without a Prayer,
See! how He sift's and searches every part,
And Ransackes All the closters of His heart;
He puts the boures upon the Rack and Wheele,
And all His minutes must confesse or Feele:
If they reveale One Act which forth did come.
When Humane Frailty crept into the Leome,
If one Thred staine, or fully, break or saint,
So that the Man does interrupt the Saint,
He hunts it to it's Death nor quitts his feares,
Till't be Embalm'd in Prayers; or drownd in Teares.
The Sunne in all his journeys nere did see,
One more devout, not one more strict then Hee.
Since His Religion then's Vnmixt, and Fine;
And Workes doe warrant Faith, as Ore the Mine:
What can His Crime be now? Now you must say,
The Kingdoms Laws subverted in His way;
See! no such crime doth o're His Conscience grow,
(Without which Witnesse nere can make it so)
A cleere Transparent White, bedecks His Mind,
Where nought but Innocence; can shelter finde,
Wipe freely out, (though Heaven I feare will not)
Witnesse that Calme and Quiet, in His Brest,
Prologue and Preface to His Place of Rest;
When with the World He could undaunted Part,
And see in Death nor Meagre Looks, nor Dart:
When to the Fatall Block His Gray Age goes,
With the same Ease, as when He took Repose.
"He like old Enoch to His Blisse is Gon,
"'Tis not His Death, but His Translation.
FINIS.