A Mournfull Elegie, In pious and perpetuall Memory of the most Honourable, ROBERT, Earle of ESSEX, and EVVE, Viscount Hereford, Lord Ferrers of Chartley, Bourchier, and Lovaine, late Lord chiefe Generall of all the Parliaments Forces, who exchanged his Life Septemb. 14. 1646.
LONDON, Printed for Thomas Banks. 1646.
For the Tombe-Stone.
PAying a tribute teare, admitted be
To view this cover of Mortalitie;
Which because fifty odd years it did detaine
A heavenly soul, within its earthly chaine,
Within this heap of stones is doom'd to be,
Till time submit unto eternitie;
Which notwithstanding, when you see it have
This Marble Statue, say it is a Grave,
Whose out-side, howsoever faire it be,
The inside's putrifi'd deformitie:
This penance ended, 'cause it once was blest,
In entertaining so divine a Ghuest,
In glorious forme it shall presented be
To heavens unknown joyes, by the Majestie
Of God himself; there let his blest soule rest,
Till that his body be with glory blest.
An Elegie on the death of the most honourable Earle of ESSEX.
TO shadow sorrow, seek not tears of brine,
For that's a womans Rhetorique, not mine;
I may paint part of grief, but cannot cry,
The tide's too great, to drop out misery;
Whole floods of tears must like a Cataract
Gush, and affright, when I my sorrowes act.
Shallow streams mutter, silent are the deep;
My flood her flood gate breakes, if I do weep:
Then come Melpomene with thy graving pen,
Sink deep into the iron hearts of men,
What they are sencelesse of, array my Verse
With accents sadder, then this sable Herse.
Let every sine my dull braine shall afford
Rend one good heart at least, let every word
Gaine one poor soule t'accompany to blisse,
This lamp of light, that here ecclipsed is,
To shine in heaven; a traine see that he have
T'attend him there, greater then to his grave
Attends his corps, or if my words may move
None else that do so well his vertue love:
Then let my captiv'd soule infranchis'd be,
To passe with his unto eternitie;
If earth-dull'd spirits such height cannot aspire,
Then for Associates, let the heavenly Quire
Of Angells guard him, and his Requiem sing,
Where unmasqu'd joy, and perfect musicke ring
His happie entrance, S. John, Brooke, Hambden be
Ready to waite with best observancie
On his approach. But say Malignant death,
What caused thee so soon to stop his breath?
Was it that I thy cruelty might find?
Or th' generall hate thou bear'st to all man-kind?
To glut thy intralls, all-devouring grave,
Thou mightst have tane some wretch whom need
A corner in the concave of thy womb, (makes crave
And have made that, not him, to fill the tomb
Of thy inveterate malice, our hearts griefe,
Could none suffice thee, but the Chiefest Chiefe
Of all our Sex? Must Jems of such esteem
Give lustre to thy hated Diadem?
Or was it because things of greatest price
Unfit for earth, inhabit must the skies?
If it were so, yet for a little space
Thou might'st have spared him, till of his race
One branch had issued forth, not at one time
Have crop'd both fruit and tree, even in the prime
Of all his glory, when th'admiring world
Upon his goodnesse every eye had hurld,
When hope lay bedrid, and all comfort dying,
When cruelty her self sate almost crying;
When neighbouring worlds his glory most envi'd,
Then Englands honour, Europes wonder di'd.
Which us to checke, the charitable skies
Embalme him with rich tears, sent from bright eyes,
As if just heaven were pleas'd, that he should have
A second Deluge to attend his grave.
What sad events have happened since his death,
Since much lov'd Essex was depriv'd of breath:
No day, nor night hath past, nay scarce and houre,
In which heaven hath not pleas'd to send a shower
Of tears to celebrate his obsequies,
Which men should pay from over-flowing eies;
Storms have produced shipwracks, shipwracks dearth
Of food and fuell from the teeming earth,
Bread-corn, and firing, both are dearer sold,
As if with him, all charity were grown cold,
As if the axill-tree of the world should crack,
Which Atlas-like, he bore upon his back.
Our Kingdomes being in a tottering State,
God, by his hand, the same did regulate,
Prop, and uphold, which now at six and seven,
Again do hang, as if not swaid by heaven.
The Kings best friend, and eke the Kingdoms too,
Who loving both, to neither could be foe:
The Clergies Patron, and the Souldiers glory,
Both read him, and admire him in his storie.
Germans, both high and low, lament with me,
That Spain and France joyes in your miserie,
Occasion'd through his fall, that Schismatiques,
Tub-Preachers, Anabaptists, Heretiques,
The Independents, Antinomians, Papists,
The Brownists, and (which worst of all) the Atheists
Begin to glory. In thy triumph, death,
Thou might'st have spared his, and stopt my breath:
Thy cruelty had then been kindnesse stil'd,
And death to man-kind had been reconcil'd;
Those few among the multitude of men
That wish me well, had Trophies to thee then
Erected; and instead of bitter Layes,
Thou hadst been crown'd with Encomiastike bayes.
Me that am weary of a wretched life,
Neglected, friendlesse, all compos'd of griefe,
Thou givest leave to see my Lords sad death,
And after him to draw abhorred breath:
Him that was happy in all things under heaven,
By God or nature might to him be given,
Helpfull t'all, open-handed unto merit,
Sober in carriage, of an humble spirit:
Him that (like God of War) in conquering field,
His brandisht sword, ne're force of foe made yeeld;
Him hast thou taken away, and me hast left,
To moan his losse, of so much good bereft:
Could nothing serve thy wrath, for to appease,
To spare his life, and breed our Kingdomes ease?
Could not the plaints of Peers, the Commons fears,
The Churches supplications, souldiers tears,
His sisters scorching sighs, his kindreds groans,
The clamour of his friends, his servants moans,
The votes of Parliament, the orphans cries,
The poors Petitions, nor the weeping eies
Of widowes, move th'impartiall hand to dart
Thy death-wing'd arrow at some others heart?
They could not: why? because his prayer was
That he might be dissolv'd, with Christ, to passe
From hence to heaven; where most victorious he
In triumph treads on sin, and destinie.
Hadst thou with judgements eye but once beheld
His most Majestike face, it would have queld
Thy fearelesse rage, as often it hath done,
When Mars himself, did smile on Mars his sonne:
Let Edgehill-Fight and Glocester witnesse be,
The famous battell fought at Newberie,
And thousand Trophies more of victory,
Of prowess and of magnanimitie,
By him obtain'd, had his unlimited soule
In other Lands been suffered, fans controule,
To actuate what he at home hath done,
It had appear'd more glorious then the Sun.
'Twas he made smooth the rigid path of war,
'Twas he that did remove the enemy far
From our Avenues: Others did but build
On his foundation, he first gain'd the field.
Yet was he sleighted, scoffed, scorn'd and jeer'd
By those that lov'd him not; those he not fear'd:
Stigmatike coxcombs, that durst once to lay
Aspersion on that Sun, whose light made day,
Which now Ecclipst, our Hemispheare is made
All night; our Sun is now become a shade:
And in this shade we now are left to moan,
Not Essex losse, but in his losse our own;
But I do but obnubilate his praise,
Striving unto a higher pitch to raise
What my impolisht quill cannot expresse,
But by expressing, that I make it lesse.
Hadst thou this seen death, thou hadst not then don
What now thou hast, nor I had cause to moane;
But being gone, why do I wast my breath,
'Tis he that triumphs, and not grisly death?
On him thy envie hath gain'd only this,
To change his fading good, for endlesse blisse.
Let us not then as men without hope grieve,
Since that his purer part, his soule doth live,
That would of incredulitie us reprove,
Or challenge us of envie or self-love;
To grieve would argue doubt of his estate,
Or envie that he proved so fortunate;
Or at the least self-love it would expresse,
In prizing our losse, not his happinesse.
But here me thinks, I hear some whispering, ask
How silly I dare undergo this task,
When many hundreds that more able are,
Who in his losse do likewise claime a share,
Have and do daily write in mourning Verse,
With which to garnish this bedewed Herse?
I answer, all that write, write not for love,
Fashion their pens, but passion mine doth move;
My hope doth therefore guide me to believe,
My mite shall be received, with theirs that give
Abundantly: but this digression leaving,
With his pure soule, let prayers fly to heaven,
That all surviving Peers, now left behind,
May be affected in their soul and mind
As he hath been; that when fate ends their dayes,
They may be crown'd with never-dying Bayes
Of good name here, and with that blest renown
Of lasting joy, the everlasting Crowne,
In a far better world, as he now is,
Being possest of never-ending blisse;
I then shall think me truly happy, when
Divinest Ecchoes answer shall AMEN.
J. B.
AN ELEGY VPON the unhappy losse OF THE NOBLE EARLE OF ESSEX.
LONDON, Printed for John Benson, and are to be sold at his shop in Dunstanes Church-yard. 1646.
An Elegy on the Death of the noble Earle of Essex.
I Need no fatall quill that ha's the art
At every line it writes to breake an heart:
For when I shall but once begin t' expresse
The publique cause, and subject of my verse,
More motives may be spar'd our unstrain'd grief
Will need no provocation, but reliefe.
Essex is dead. What thunder strikes our eares,
Threatning an inundation of teares?
This is a judgement more then wee conceiv'd,
To be by our best hope the most deceiv'd:
And that the Noble Cause of our Redresse,
Should now be so of our extreame Distresse.
Or is't a mercy, since Heaven did intend
At last, an exil'd peace back t' us to send?
Thus to make way, by soft'ning our hard hearts
By such a blow; which the successive darts
It shot at our owne persons, could not pierce
Who ne'er had wept but at his frowne or hearse.
That wee exchanging for new griefe, old hate;
(Though sencelesse of our owne) might mourne his fate;
That teares begun for losse might end for sin,
And hearts twice broke let peace and mercy in.
But is he gone from us! Injurious Death
Hast thou depriv'd him of that purer breath
Then quickens vulgar lumps; I then could wish,
That old Pythagoras Metempsychosis
Were not a fable, that the world might boast
A second Phoenix, now the first is lost.
When England lost it's darling in the fate
Of his lov'd Father (though unfortunate
In their desires) their hopes did still surviue,
Whil'st he had left so brave a Son alive.
Whose early youthfull blossomes did presage
Most glorious fruits in his more riper age
But all that then was hop'd was that the Son
Should keepe that honour which his Father wonne.
But he not bounded by strict president
His, as all other patternes quite out went.
Compleatest acts of ancient Hero's were
The essaies of his youth, whereon to reare
Fames highest Stories, their great aimes were found
His first attempts, their battlements his ground.
So that great Essex's name is greater growne
By his Sons honour added to his owne.
For ev'n in them was long time verifi'd
What's said of Kings, for Essex never di'd
Till now. But now the Title too is gone
A Title men will tremble to put on
Though offer'd; since it strongly do's oblige
To courage, councell, combate, storming, seidge,
Devotion, Temp'rance, and what ever can
Render the wearer a most perfect man.
And surely, had Heav'n blest us but so much
As with a Son of his, he had been such:
This envious fiends suspected, and did try
Their utmost skill to barre him progeny.
But he shall live in his more lasting name
Borne on the wings of never-dying Fame.
No Chronicler shall need to write his praise
In mouldy parchment left to after-daies
For as the holy Patriarchs Religion
Was left to them by long-deriv'd tradition;
So shall his acts be handed to those men
Are yet unborne, and they the same agen
shall tell their Childrens Chidren, till it grow
Part of their education to doe so.
In his poore Cottage by a Winter fire
To his great granchildren shall the aged sire
From's easie chaire relate the ancient stories
Of his exploits and vertues; whil'st he glories
T' have trail'd a pike at Keinton, or receiv'd
A shot at Reading, or when 'twas reliev'd
T' have march't to Gloster, then the memory
Of that unparallell'd Newb'ry victory
Shall cause him rake his embers, and proceed
To tell the Generals vertue as his deed.
"And yet my Children, though all this did he
"He courted not the peoples cap or knee.
"Their praise or dispraise he did not regard,
"Virtue that set him on was his reward.
"And though he had (yet was) been prais'd by none;
"He durst in spight of all be good alone.
"He moov'd by his owne principles, for 'tis knowne
"He was not wrought by Royal smile or frowne.
"Like to the trusty Sun he kept his line
"Pursuing still his first and knowne designe,
"He was not made for changes, nor could lend
"An I. in Parliament for a by-end.
"If he had foes they durst not mak't appeare,
"His frowne alone would strike them dead with feare.
"And if they wisp'rd any thing amisse
"They guard his name with a parenthesis.
"Still [He was faithfull] who so e'r offended
"Tis much to be by All so well commended.
"But they were wise; who durst the same deny
"Sure he was desp'rate and resolv'd to dye.
"Who so durst meet him, durst doe more then Death
"That ravish'd not, but stole away his breath
"Ah treacherous coward that did'st slily creepe
"And unawares, to kill him in his sleepe.
Now Noble Peeres after his Hearse march on,
Mourne as you go, your great exampl's gone.
And you grave Patriots learne to know your losse,
He was your blessing whom some thought your crosse.
You reverend Synod, cannot chuse but shed
Some Fun'rall teares since your stout Patron's dead.
And you brave Souldiers will have moistned eyes
For he is fall'n by whom you all did rise.
Weepe Widdows weepe, he's gone that was of late
Your most indulgent, constant Advocate.
And you that once were foes some teares bestow
On your owne selves, your fines will not be low.
Weepe England now, thou se'st thy Champion's end,
Scotland weepe too, for thou hast lost a Friend.
But Ireland most of all, expresse thy griefe
For he is dead that long'd to send reliefe.
Weepe Vertue too, for thou a Widdow art,
And well mai'st act the chiefest mourners part:
And Envy weepe, and starve, now he is gone
Thoul't scarce find goodnesse heere to feed upon.
An Epitaph on the Earle of Essex.
BOast Marble, that conceal'st this Dust
Not of thy Lastingnesse, but Trust.
Ten thousand unto thee shall bring
Of vowed teares their offering.
The driest eye shall drop a Gem
T' enrich death's envi'd Diadem.
To thine, great Essex's Memory
Shall adde it's owne eternity:
Thereby thou shalt thy selfe out last
Which else, like other stones, would'st waste
And mix thy Dust with them, that deepe
Thou unprophaned now do'st keepe.
Nay Death it selfe will sure prevent
Of His and Essex Monument
The least decay: For neer did he
More glory in a victory.
On thee Death sits in state, and braves
Himselfe more then on neighbour-graves.
To kill a Prince, or Duke, or so,
Is counted but Death's common blow.
But when he slew brave Essex, he
Did triumph ore Humanity.
The Virger that's wont to relate
This Princes valour, that's estate,
The vertuous life and famous acts
Of Peeres deceased, the extracts
Of every noble Family;
May finde all in Epitome:
And save the labour of Retaile
And tell the people, HERE LIES, ALL.
An Elegie upon the most lamented death of the Right Honourable and truly valiant, ROBERT Earle of Essex, &c.
I Thanke thee, Griefe, that thou hast found a voice:
Some thinke there runs no streame, where's heard no noise;
And yet Ile beare thee witnesse, when there stood
No water in thine Eye, thy Heart wept Blood;
So may the stealing Brooke mourne under ground,
When on the surface, nought but Flint is found.
Advance my Teares then, and your Office bee
To bring the Reare up of this Obsequie.
A Reare of Mourners, which shall reach from hence
To Doomes-day, mourning not for Forme, but Sense.
We now but see the Pompe; but after times
Shall make us feele our Losse, due to our-Crimes;
VVhen Monarchy shall faint, and Faction thrive,
How shall we then wish Devereux alive?
VVhen there is none to dry up Widdowes Teares;
None to Repulse our Jealousies and Feares:
When Justice selfe shall want an Advocate,
And truth in coward silence read her Fate;
When those daies come, (O never come those Daies;
Never to us!) that he shall weare the Bayes,
And be accounted valiant, who shall dare
To whisper Truth, though onely to the Aire:
When the meane Feet shall trample ore the Head;
How shall we then feele Devereux is dead?
Devereux, the Nobles Orbe, the Gentries Starr,
The Cities Altar, the wrong'd Countries Barr:
Devereux, the Just, Devereux, the Stout, the Wise,
The maimed Souldiers Limbes, the Blind mans Eyes.
The Armies faithfull Alm'ner; or what's more
Devereux, the very Devereux of their Poore;
Yet He, this Cedar's fall'n: or rather, is
Transplanted, for to grow in Paradise.
How the Ghosts throng to see their great new Ghuest;
Talbot, Vere, Norris, Williams, and the rest,
Those valiant Shades, England's best Sonnes! each one
Courting Him to their Bowers; (Bowers, whereof none
But was of conquering Laurell) there to heare
A storie, which would force from Ghosts a Teare.
(Their Mothers Tragedy) as 'twas acted late
By her owne Children, to make sport for Fate;
For they had seen the Stygian Boats e'vn sinke,
Laden with Soules up to the very brinke;
Had known their Charon tugg and sweat, and say;
England did find him most work and best pay.
He (the new Ghuest) who (since he did afford
To hold in peace the Scales, in War the Sword,
Could therefore give best Judgment: the pure stampe
How things'ith Senate pass'd, how in the Camp:)
Dissects the Body politique, and with weight
Laies ope the Griefes and Maladies of State.
Shewes how those hands that held the Scales were numb,
And how that Tongue which should preach Peace was dumb;
The Feet (saith He) went staggering, and 'tis sed,
Some Clouds and Vapours did possesse the Head,
Whose little finger, had the poyson mov'd,
Heavier then all his Fathers Loynes had prov'd;
The Eyes grew dim and darkish, whiles the Eare
Deafe to sage Counsell, yet strange Tales could heare;
And the whole Frame did so with Feaver burne,
Feaver might serve for Piles to fill the Urne;
And England mouldring thus through Feaverish Ire,
Save Heaven the labour of a Doomes-day Fire.
All now was turning into Ashes: so
Consuming Flames Incendiaries blow,
Hence Englands best Physitians judg'd it need
(To save the Body) that some veines should bleed;
Surgeons from all parts come to work the Cure
(She now was patient and must all endure.)
Leeches and Emp'ricks (Colledge fulls) all came,
To cure? no, but to practise on their Dame.
And thus they let her bleed too much: so they
Can gaine, no matter though she bloodlesse lay.
Yet some there came, Artists, and honest too;
Men that without a plot their work would do:
Men, that to stop her blood, their own did give,
And paid their Deathlesse Lives to make her live.
So sharp a Pill is War, that some have thought
Even Health it selfe, at this price, too deare bought;
Physick on a Swords point can seldome please,
Men count such Remedies worse then the Disease.
And thus as he was blazning States, and Men,
Persons, and Things, the Cause; why? how? and when?
Still passing ore Himselfe, as if he were,
Though others Trumpet, His own Silencer:
Still his own Mute, whilst yet he Trumpets forth
Great Warwicks, and Northumberlands great Worth:
VVith other Heroes plac'd in high Command,
Neptunes at Sea, and Marses on the Land;
But who was He, cry'd some, (not but they knew:
But that they long'd to heare those gests anew
Which they so dearly lov'd) who's he that fought
So much for Peace 'bove Victory? that thought
The bloodlesse Bayes the best? He that aim'd moe
To save one Citizen, then kill many a Foe?
He that knew how to value Lives? the Man,
So much good Souldier, and good Christian;
That kill'd and sigh'd, mourn'd as he Trophies wore,
Mingling his own Teares with his Enemies gore?
As if his Grand Commission did not give
Him power to kill and slay, but kill and grieve.
And yet agen, that most undaunted Hee,
(When th' Armies were to joyne, to disagree)
VVho speech'd his Souldiers first with Voyce and Drum,
Then Caesar-like bad them, not go, but come?
He, who Himselfe an Army was alone!
He, who was then most Generall, when yet none?
And had whole Legions ever at his need,
Legions of Souldiers not to Fight, but Feed:
Yea but who's He, cry'd one among the throng,
That with so few men rais'd a Siege so strong?
That made Retreat from twice his odds, the while,
As he Retreated, fighting, threescore mile?
And this, not through fenc'd Lanes, and in thick nights,
The Downes and Midday Sun saw all his fights.
An honour, we could envy, could this place
(Loves Throne) admit a wrinckled Heart or Face.
VVith that, some Cavalier Ghosts (for there come
Of them to rest here in Elysium)
The Learned Faulkland, and Carnarvan stout,
Fierce Lindsey, (Spartan shades, above the Rout;)
Such as had paid him Homage with their Blood,
And fallen his Sacrifices, when he stood
Pointed at our deare losse, and said; all this,
And more is Devereux; this, and more is His;
Which made him blush; His pale Ghost blush'd; and then
He look'd, as if he had been alive agen.
But when such prayses even from Enemies come,
It were a sin in us, should we stand dumbe?
And is't not pitty so Fam'd worth should dye
Without an Heire? No Sonne to close his Eye?
No Child to weare his vertue with his Name?
None to inherit his well-gotten Fame?
But as great 'Paminondas answered those
His Friends, that mourn'd his Fall, (mourn'd by his Foes)
'Cause he fell Childlesse; as if Greece were done
Since so much vertue dyed without a Sonne:
But yet (saith He) still beare it in your mind,
I've left two Daughters with you here behind,
Leuctra and Mantinea; who shall keep
Their Fathers Name from Death, and Thebes from sleep;
So when our Devereux, (Devereux, a word
Great as that Greek's, and keener then his Sword:
A Name that fils the Mouth, and wounds the Eare:
A Name that Machiavell would be pleas'd to heare.
He, who admires the Pagans large-siz'd Name
'Bove Christians; as if words could create Fame.)
So when our Devereux is bemoan'd in Death,
As one that leaves no Sonne to breath his Breath,
Answer is made, He leaves two Daughters faire,
Reading and Glocester, Daughters such as are
Sans parallell; and which will cost the State
Millions to match them with an equall Mate.
Or should this Issue faile, yet how can He
Want Sonnes and Heires, who's Pater Patriae.
C. G.