AN ALPHABET OF Elegiack Groans, UPON The truly lamented Death of that Rare Exemplar of Youthful Piety, JOHN FORTESCƲE, Of the Inner-Temple, Esquire.

By E. E.


DIes MortIs CharIor est nataLe.


London, Printed for Tho. Heath, in Russel-street near the Piazza's of Covent-Garden. 1656.

AN ALPHABET OF Elegiack Groans.


ALas! why sigh I thus? why do mine eyes
Bubble up sorrow at these obsequies?
Such outward symptomes of my grief are smal,
My soul weeps inward at his Funeral.
That Anguish lurks in secret, whose dread smart
Wrought into th' Bottom, undermines the Heart.
Tears then adieu: only heart-blood can be
Convenient drops for such an Elegie.
I've lost Half of my Soul! Strange Fates that give
To one thus spirit-wounded power to live!
My OTHER I is dead! Could Atrop sever
Two thus made one, so jointly knit together,
Unless by cutting both? Oh no! his Death
Hath wrastled out my Life, though not my Breath.
But what, shall I confine to mine own Brest
This common grief, of which the World s possest?
[Page 2]A springing Cedar's faln, so fair, so tall,
That all our Hearts are earthquak'd at his Fall:
Which was so strangely sudden, as his Rise
To such Perfections was; it doth surprise
Us with Amazement, that our Faces be
Badg'd with that Mark of Grief, Stupiditie.
'Twould seem to ease our sorrows, could we raise
Our words so high as to compleat his Praise.
But this we cannot do, unless we could
Form our rough Brains in so exact a mould,
As that from them might flow in Teary shoures
So many Volumes as He lived houres.
Yet this we must confess; his Parts so rife
Made him far fitter for his death, than life.
Earth scarcely knew them; for, like Stars, they were
Less in her eye, 'cause unto Heav'n more neere.
He was God's Hidden Treasure; no Mans eye
View'd all those Riches which in's soul did lie.
God now has tane him to his proper place;
But wresting out the Gem, He th broke the Case:
Yet 'twill be made agen by sacred Art
The fit Enclosure of his better Part.
Why then lament we at his Funerall?
Ah! though he fell not, yet he seems to fall:
Just like a Star that's darted through the sky,
Which seems to fall, because it shuns our eye.
But, that our Eyes have lost their dearest sight,
May Tears conveigh them to the shades of Night.
My soul oreflows with grief; so full's my Thought,
That, like a Bubble, it is swolne to nought:
I'm grown so stupid, that by silence I
Can only speak so vast Calamity.


BE not my Lines Poetick: let them Faign,
That carry sorrow not in Heart, but Brain.
My waters of Affliction or'eflow
The Banks of Helicon: I cannot show
My solid grief in Verse; no Muses wing
Can bear the weight of my soul-suffering.
Sad groans and sighs are here articulate;
These, only these can signifie such Fate:
For, when the Sisters Three so throw their Darts,
They fill each corner of our trembling Hearts
With helpless anguish; that there be no room
To hatch such words as may set forth our Doom.
What then, what shall we do? Grief streitly pent
Swells up the bigger: Pufft Hearts break, or vent.
Shall Fates, like Cutters, which mens Fortunes drain,
Thus stop our mouths, that we should not complain?
Ah! though our Tongues be ty'd, yet shall our Eyes
Drop down Expression of our Miseries.


COme on Eye-flouds apace: 'tis ease to weep:
Those wounds need washing which are struck so deep;
Least that they putrifie: men in distress
Made blinde with tears do see their grief the less.
O doleful Tragedies, which mortals finde
Shut up within the closet of their minde!
Where Appetite with Will is discontent,
The one would not, the other must lament.
[Page 4]So they distractions raise within our Brest,
And we our selves give to our selves no Rest.
We joy, and mourn, and mourn, and joy again,
Now there is Sun-shine, then Tempestuous Rain;
We joy that he's in Heav'n, agen we mourn
And wish our selves composed in his Urn.
Thus are our Thoughts revolv'd, as tho there were
No fixed Object which might stay them, here
Now He is gone, who was that Rising Sun
Which did attract each Exhalation
Of our endeared Hearts, like Phaebe, He
Seems to these eyes of Flesh ecclips'd to be:
'Cause our inferior sight of Him's bereaven
By interposed Earth 'twixt us and Heaven;
Where now He's firmly seated, and shall be
A Son of Light to all Eternitie.


DEad! oh! and were mine Ears then made to be
A Labyrinth t'inclose mine Agonie;
Which through their winding caverns let in pain
Into my soul, ne're to go out again?
Farewell (if He be dead) farewell our joyes
On sordid Earth; farewell those charming toyes
The world affords: And it shall henceforth be
Our Life to think upon Mortalitie.
Blest Saint that art at rest, now flown above
The reach of Fate, by th'wings o' th' Heav'nly Dove.
Pardon, oh pardon, if our teary eyes
Bemoan not thine, but our own Obsequies,
Who daily die; and (which still makes us grieve)
There's nothing in us, but our Deaths, doth live.
Thy Death is dead, not thou: O may we then
Once die like thee, that we ne're die agen.


EMbleme of Vertue, from whose Noble eye
Heroick Height mixt with Humilitie
Shone forth a peerless Paradox; whose soul
Divinely big swells out of that weak scroul
Which it involv'd: So us our griefs compell,
That since thou went'st to Heav'n, Earth seems our Hell;
And this is our due portion: for 'tis just
That we should faulter with these Clogs of Dust,
Until Gods love, the true Prometheus Fire,
Our Earthen Hearts shall blessedly inspire,
By whose ascendent vertue we may be
(Like Thee) rais'd up to Immortalitie.


FAith is so weak it cannot see
His Joyes; or our perplexitie:
Oh! we have drunk in so much Gall,
That now we have no Taste at all.
Black Sorrows wrapt up in a Mist,
May whiffle us now where they list,
And (like Hob-goblins) they conspire
To lead our thoughts into the Mire
[Page 6]Of stupid anguish, where we finde
Nought else, but that w'have lost our Mind.
But ah, what Friendship is in this;
That we do so deplore his bliss?
O tell us not of that: our Tears
Have (like their cause, his Death) no Ears.


GReat in true Goodness! Rich in Mind
As well's in Lands, and Birth! we find
No Epithite fit to set forth
The full Encomium of his worth.
His Youth was Ag'd with Piety,
Which seem'd of such antiquity,
That whosoever knew it, would
Conceit Him in his Nonage Old.
Er'e He could look abroad to see
The Worlds enticing Vanitie,
God fixt His Eyes on things above,
Which straight way took his chiefest love:
And so on Earth of Earth bereaven,
He hovered 'twixt it, and Heaven.
Fond Ranters shallow Gallantry
He rightly judg'd meer slavery
To Tyrant Sin. Streight-living He
Enlarg'd his Soul to Sanctitie.
Each day he thought upon his last,
And now at length in hast He past
Out of this World; indeed, as tho
He would not tell us that hee'ld go
So quickly from us, lest our Eyes
Should shew His Joyes our Miseries,
And so disturb his pious Breast,
Rejoycing at approaching Rest.
He fitly went to Bed so soon,
Whose very morning was High-noon.


HEre let us stay our mournfull looks, and see
Deaths sums cast up in an Epitome:
For All our Lives are lost in Him: we have
(Strange Fate!) our Souls entombed in his Grave;
Nay, 'tis not so, but thus: our Hearts struck dead
In our (yet walking) Corps lie Buried.


I-nricht with Poverty of Spirit,
O-n nothing less then His own Merit
H-e set his Thoughts: His Soul so bright
N-ere view'd its own Celestiall light.
F-ame He abhor'd; whose feeble wings
O-ft whirleth up the lightest things,
R-are Vertues, as were his, do flye
T-oo lofty for the Worlds squint Eye.
E-ach Gem of His rich Mind did even
S-end up its Sparks as high as Heaven:
C-hrist (seeing it Divinely good)
U-nstrips His Soul of Flesh, and Blood:
Those tiresome Rags: even so away was hurld
Elia's Mantle, when he left the World.


KNow, know we not that Death is gain
To such as liv'd like Him? complain
We then for nought? why should our Eye
Set forth so vain Hydrography,
Wherein describ'd we seem to see
Whole Floods of Sorrow, though there be
No reason for't? are we bedight
With Black for Him, on whom The Light
Of men so shines? are we Distrest;
Perplext, Unquiet at His Rest?
Lets not betear our Eyes, unlesse it be
For want o'th' sight of His Felicitie.


LO, how our Grief rebounds, it rages worse
When we endeavour to restrain its force.
The Flood gates of our Eyes set ope, the spout
Of Tears stopt in, will gush the faster out.
Come; sith necessity will have it so,
Let what gave th'cause, give end unto our wo;
And let's be plung'd in sadnesse till we find
That w'have or'ethrown its resting place our Mind:
Yea so let this distract our Thoughts, that they
Ner'e find contentment in these Vaults of Clay.


MIght we not think 'twould come to This, that he
Spent all his time upon Eternitie,
[Page 9]As if he came into the world t'obtain
An happy passage to get out again?
Ah, how could we expect His longer stay,
When we perceiv'd him to make hast away.
Full fraught with Grace, unto the joyfull Port
Of Bliss, unto the King of Kings great Court?
Where He's in Glory, here in Fame: and thus
His wished Death makes him Amphibious.


NO more be Fates call'd Black, sith through them He
Has gotten his white cope, and liberty
From all that Dungeon-darkness which w'are in
Whiles hudled up within these Clouds of sin.
The Thread of's Life regain'd he now doth see
Stretcht through the Ones of all Eternitie.
Thus Atrop juggleth still with Pious Men,
And cuts their THREAD to make it whole agen.


O That some Seraphim His praise would sing,
Or lend a Quill pluckt from his heavenly wing,
Whereby it might be writ for't does decline
His Commendation that is not Divine.
Young Muses are unskil'd in such grave Theams,
And hardly can acquire the Sov'raign streams
O'th Well of Life, for Helicon, as should
Those that would cast their Verse in such a Mould,
[Page 10]That it might form his Praise. That must not be
Verse Rampant which sets forth Humility.
Pens lightly praising Piety mistake,
And, like bad Pensils, blot the work they make.
Great Ornaments not suited well, deface,
And oft Encomiums mis-exprest, disgrace.
He that would shevv His sacred Worth, must be.
A Limner of Incarnate Sanctitie,
Which if Men knew both it & Him, would sure
Be thought His fit and only Portraicture.


PUmpt Helicon runs muddy; and that strain
Must needs be jarring, that's wrung out'oth' brain
Distracted with true sorrows, vvhich combin'd,
Root out all Concord 'oth' afflicted Mind.
Such Lines as should vvear Mourning, may not be
Drest all-a-mode i'th' garb of Poetry.
Verse prickt vvith grief goes lame. There ner'e appears
A Phoebus 'mongst so many Showres of Tears.
But yet vvee'l vvrite, tho vveakly; some may call
Perhaps our Faults here artificiall:
Men stutter most at greatest things: 'tis fit
At such bright Theams to shut the Eyes o'th' Wit:
That vvhiles (our passage stopt) vv'are at a stay
We may make known the hardnesse of the vvay.


QUake Ranter-Gallants, and despair to bee
Exempt from Deaths untimely stroke, sith he
Is faln so soon, untainted with a Glance
Sparkling from Lust, or vain Intemperance;
Which hasten on your Fate, whose ev'ry Eye,
As well as Mouth 's enslav d to Gluttony.
You live so loosly, that your Lives may be
Slipt from you by the rrue Mortalitie.
Then through His Death cast thoughts upon your ovvn,
And so His Life shall in your lives be shown.


RAge Tyrant Death: whatever thou canst do,
Is but to force Him to o'recome thee too,
As well as this vain World: thou strik'st, but He
Repells thy blow, and gains the victory.
He could not put thee to this shamefull flight,
Untill that thou hadst first began the Fight.
Thou strip'st him of His robes; 'tis true, but He
Now wears these Trophies that He won from thee.


SOon ripe, soon rotten? false! that Bud which springs
So soon in Grace, shall by the King of Kings
(Prun'd by his servant Deaths all-cutting knife)
Ingraffed be into the Tree of Life.
[Page 12]Rotten? Oh no: our soon-ripe Saint puts on
A Life that ne're shall see Corruption.
'Twas time for Him to leave the world, for even
Here upon Earth His soul was fixt on Heaven.


TEll us no more of Lands, and Wealth: we see
They are nought else but winged vanity;
They flye from us, or we from them: but they
Who from the Treasure of Gods Word convey
True wealth into their sacred souls, shall be
Alive in death, and rich in Povertie.
Hence 'twas renowned, peerless Saint, that thou
Wouldst scarce look down upon these things below,
But, shutting thine exterior Eye, didst finde
The sure sight i'th' eye of thy cleer Minde.


VNruly passions! shall we still
Go mourning thus against our will?
We know 'tis vain to grieve; again
Our knowing this is all in vain.
W'are so entrapt i'th' Fates dire gin,
That strugling clasps us faster in
Our hearts with sorrow frozen, thaw
At the Sun-beams of Reason's Law:
And so the Knowledge that our Plaints are vain,
Sith it can't help, makes us the more complain.


WE on this subject can't be dry,
Whiles Helicon flows in our Eye
Our heart's the pumpe of sorrow: so
It's full still of successive woe,
That, when it is exhaust by th' Pen,
There springs up new, to fill 't agen.
Our lighter Thoughts may make us weep;
Some in our souls are sunk So deep,
That they can't be fetcht up by Art,
Unless the Tripod of our Heart
Should be made visible, from whence
Phaebus might spend his Eloquence.
But now, alas, sith that we finde
No Embleme to set forth our Minde,
How shall we shew our griefs, which are
Too weighty to be born i'th' Aire,
Or eke transported by a Quill
To publike view? Go too: we will
Add this grief more unto the rest,
That our vast Griefs can't be exprest.


YOung Saint Farewel! My work is done,
Although it want perfection:
But, when we speak unfaigned grief
The largest Rhet'rick's to be brief.
[Page 14]He that doth thus himself bemoan,
Can't make an artificial Groan.
His shatter'd words he will so state
As shaken by the hand of Fate.
Whoever has a soul like me,
Disturbed with an Extasie,
Thrown on me by Deaths forked Dart
Shot through the White of my sad heart,
Wherein was seated He, in whom
Now dead I see alive my doom.
I le Groan no more by book, the Smart
Of whipping Fate makes me by heart
To learn such groans as do rebound
Upon our Breasts with Silent Sound;
These chiefly mount to Heavens Ears
Accompany'd with unwept Tears,
Which a soul-seeing Eye may finde
Congeal'd within our stupid Minde.
Farewel, Blest Saint! a Farewel's onely true
To them (like thee) that bid the World adieu.

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