OBSEQUIES: ON That Ʋnexemplar Champion of Chivalrie and perfect Patern of true Prowesse, ARTHUR, Lord Capell.
TIS false Astronomy: wee are not yet
In utter-darknesse, though the Sun be set;
Since thy star-beaming-influence proves all
Those Rules Excentrique, and Apocryphall.
Thou 'rt heighthn'd by thy Fall; and dost now shine
With doubled lustre, since thy last Decline.
Bright mirrour of our Spheare! who wer't no lesse
Then Valours wonder: Vertues Master-peece;
Filling whole Volumes with thy Fame; to tell
The World Thy Worth was Hir owne Chronicle.
To tell the World, those Prayses in the Wars
Thou'ast purchas'd, might be numbred with the Stars;
And had thy well-proportion'd-Dayes beene Spunne
Out by thy Deeds, thou had'st out-liv'd the Sunne;
Forcing the Worlds great Luminary t' have
His Chaos climacterick with thy Grave.
Thus thy renowned Meeds like Incense hurl'd
On flaming Altars have Perfum'd the World,
With such rich Odours, that scarce envie knew
Whether thou wert to King, or Realme most true;
Let State-Chronographers admire, and plead
Those Rites they owe to Honour; when they read
Thy rare Atchievements; studying to refine
The truth of Moderne Historie by Thine.
Carthage bee dumb! our Colchester stands now
Corrivall with thee, and dares more then Thou;
And all those Punick warres thy walls could boast,
Have o're and o're beene travers'd on Hir coast.
Romes three Horatij are Pos'd; our Isle
Hath bred a Capell, Lucas, and a Lisle:
Whose matchlesse Deeds have Dubd them with that late
And glorious title of Triumvirate;
Whiles their transcendent merit struts, and strives
To stand on tip-toe in Superlatives.
And still there's somthing more; for, what was mixt
Promiscuously in these, in Thee was fixt.
In Thee that Pythagorean Maxime's true;
And what was State Philosophie, proves new
Divinitie, since th' Soules of all those Nine
Renowned Ones Transmigrated to Thine.
But why doe wee Adore thee, made immense
And farre sublim'd above our Spheare of sense?
Scorning bright Obelisques of Brasse, or Stone
Should raise thy Monument, who ar't thine owne.
Yet should'st thou expect a shrine on Earth, wee must
Make Colchester th' Exchequer of thy dust.
Nor is it more then Reason, since 'twere pity
To give thee a lesse Church-yard then that City
T' Interre thee in hir Breaches, and o'returne
Hir stately Bulwarks, and support thine Urne;
Whil'st the throng'd streets would justle to make room
And spread their Towres, as Trophies, o're thy Tombe.
But this grand taske I recommend to those
Who can limme Fancies in more lively Prose;
Whose Rhetorique may richly guild this Pile
And raise Invention to a lofty stile;
Such as may Conjure Horrour, and obliege
Beliefe (from our nice Zelots) of that Siege,
That fatall Siege, whose tre [...]ches were o'respread
With mangled truncks, and Bodies of the Dead,
Till the discolour'd Earth, thus dy'd in Graine,
Blush't to behold such Shambles of the Slaine:
And the pale Furies stood, like heartlesse Elves,
Trembling; to see Men doe more then Themselves.
The Center-shaking-Brasse grew hot, and spoke
In Flames of Lightning, and in clouds of smoke;
And Charon fainted, Ferrying Soules to Hell,
When Hecatombs of the Besiegers fell.
Amidst these Tragick triumphs didst thou reare
Thy brave Top-gallant 'bove the reach of Feare,
Undauntedly exposing thy bold Head
To shock of Thunder, and thick showres of Lead.
Those Bullets were then Tame; and wee may taxe
The partiall Sword that spar'd thee for the Axe.
The Field (th' Asylum of great Spirits) clean
Is now transferr'd; the City is the Scaene;
The Cannon shewd faire-play; But thou wert packt
Away, not by an Ordnance but an Act.
The Scaffold turn'd a Stage: Where, 'tis confest,
The last Act (though most Bloody) prov'd Thy Best:
It prov'd Thy solemn Coronation, since
The Yard's thy Pallace; and a glorious Prince
Thy President: Who after Him art hurl'd
To meet thy Soveraigne in another World.
Where Thou art Fix'd a glorious Starre, to gaine
Neerer accesse, and waite on CHARLES his Wayne.