On the sad Losse of the truly Honourable ROBERT Lord BROOK:
An Elegie, To his Vertuous and Noble Lady.
SWEET LADY,
Can your weeping Eye behold
A paper, sadly offer'd, where 'tis told,
Your Lord is Dead? And so Vntimely too?
Treble to You, to Vs a double Woe.
'Tis Sad to Say; Sadder to you to Heare:
Vnhappy he, must be the Messenger.
Yet since you Know so True, so Sad a Woe,
Give leave to let you know, We know it too.
we first your Losse, and then your Griefe bemone;
(Some Ease, in Sadnesse, not to weep Alone:)
Our Tears (ambitious) make their sad addresse;
(we'd bear a part, that You might weep the lesse.)
Give leave, we pray, to joyne in Tears with You,
(Yet weep we shall, whether with leave, or no:)
And make this paper blest to kisse your hand,
From him who's prest,
MADAME,
At Your Command, JOHN WALLIS.
AN ELEGIE On the much Lamented Death of the Right Honorable ROBERT Lord BROOK.
MIght I have seen what was desir'd by all:
How glad would I, or not compose at all,
Or in another stile; and not reherse
Heroïck Worth in Elegeïck Verse.
Or else, might I, and they to whom as dear,
Weep him Alive that's Dead, though every teare
Were teares of Bloud, how willing would we poure
A farre more precious, then love's Golden, Shower
On this Sad Object, on this Bloudy sight,
And with our teares or Guild, or wash him White.
But Now (unhappy) cannot but complain,
With sad bemoaning tears, (though tears in vain)
What's past recall, and we, though no redresse
Can be expected, must not hold our peace.
But how (alas!) should I begin to speak,
(Where all Hyperbole's will seem too weak
To equalize) in Measures to expresse
What knows no other measure but Excesse?
Or who can Bound over-abounding Tears,
Within the streightnesse of an even Verse?
If then perhaps I hardly weep in Rhime;
If not in Consort; (Tears can keep no Time)
If no melodious Harmony be shewn;
Think but, 'Tis Hard, to put a Teare in Tune.
(Yet harder, not to Weep.—) Imperfect Tones
Serve well enough to signifie our Grones.
A Long, a Large, are all the Notes we know;
(Minim and Sembrief Rests are long enow)
Our Accents tuned to the Highest Key;
(And yet our Sighs deeper then Gam-ut be:)
Nor curious are to make the Consort sweet,
That all keep equall Time, that Closes meet;
None tunes his Voyce unto anothers String;
(This Verse was made to Weep, and not to Sing)
All weep a Part, but no Accord can keep,
(Save onely thus, That all agree to weep;)
Oft weep a Sharp, when our sad Thoughts be Flat;
If Discords oft appear, yet wonder not;
Some Harmony may Disproportion give,
Discordant Accents shew Concent in Grief.
Then weep we must. That Heart is too too hard,
That in a publike Sadnesse would be spar'd.
Publike, I say, yet more then Common, Grief;
(Else might a Common Cordiall yeeld relief,)
'Tis not a Lady mourns, not I, alone,
I am but Speaker of a Kingdoms mone:
A Kingdomes publike losse it is; all those
Have lost in Him, that had but ought to loose.
Yea those (as yet) that count his Losse a Gain,
Will (after) say, 'Twas pitty Brook was slain.
Such Meeknesse lodg'd in a so Noble Breast;
Such Candour mixt with such Heroicknesse;
His Thoughts so Low joyn'd with Deserts so High;
Practise of Truth as well as Theory;
Not quick (as some) to Bid and slow to Act,
Praising to others what themselves detrect;
His thoughts the same with what he did pretend;
A Course direct as well as upright End;
An Active Vigour with Integrity,
Strait Aims pursu'd not with an Oblique Eye:
Should I or this or more dilate, yet lesse
Is said in Words, then what our Tears expresse.
How gladly would my pen persist to tell,
How willing would my pleased Fancie dwell
On this so sweet a subject, as to say
How Good he was, how well deserving He;
His Learning, Wisdome, Worth, and Piety,
Worthy how long to live, how late to dye;
To speak his Praise, of his Deserts to boast:
But that 'tis sad to think, All this is lost.
Counting His Worth, we count our Losses too;
That we Admire, This doth encrease our Woe.
All this, and more then this, is lost in One,
All this is lost when Noble Brook is gone.
Might sad intreating Tears at any hand
Availe with Death, or who doth Death command,
To spare his Life; what flouds of these had been,
To purchase it, long since bestow'd on him▪
For those which now lament him caught away,
With more advantage might obtaine his stay.
Or might some Others death have Him excus'd,
There were, no doubt, who would not have refus'd
To rescue him, and purchase by their Death,
That He (more worthy) might have longer breath.
But no entreaties can (though ne're so just)
Either Reprieve or Ransome him: But must
Himselfe, arrested, (None by Proxy Dies)
Appeare in Person: Death accepts no price.
If naked Death alone, who can withstand?
Much more appearing with an Armed hand.
But is there left us no return from death?
Doth not each breath we breathe breathe out our breath,
Which yet the next recalls? Not so in all:
This last exspiring breath is past recall.
Which if a Single Losse, the losse were lesse;
(Though Great) but when it forwards the successe
Of our contrived woe; What shall we say?
May He be more bewail'd that's caught away,
Or we that stay behinde, reserv'd to see
The sadder sequel of that Tragedy?
He shall not see (whatever we may doe)
A Glorious Kingdomes sad approaching Woe.
He shall not see, not seeing shall bemone
An (once renowned) Land soone overthrown.
This shall not now perplex his resting Eye,
Blest with a better sight than Misery.
But what remaineth Us we cannot see;
The safer he, the neerer danger wee:
And what approaching danger might descry,
In losing his, the Kingdome lost an Eye.
An Eye so deare, had we but known its price,
It had beene ransom'd, though with both our Eyes.
How glad might we (a happy change 't had beene)
Weep out our owne, could we but weep his in.
But weep we may; yet Teares will nought availe:
Who grants no Quarter, will accept no Baile.
Nor can distinguish by our different teares,
'Twixt Poore and Noble; all in death are peeres.
Then why complaine? could we or lesse expect,
Or think for Him Death would decline his tract?
Is't not determin'd, all must here agree?
Then sure He must, as well as others, die.
'Tis true, he must: But must he die so soone?
Before his Strength, before his Work be done?
If so; must one so meane effect his end?
Shall Hector die not by Achilles hand?
If die he must; if so untimely too;
Is Noble Bloud spilt by we know not who?
Then weep we may; not that we think't unfit,
(Not envy Heaven to Him, or Him to it)
That he, of whom the Earth unworthy was,
Should be advanc't to a more Happy place:
But that we want his help, or to compose
Our sad distracted times, or quell our foes.
When those pull down that ought to underprop;
When Forraign starvelings come to eat Us. up.
When Popish Armies (more then one) in sight,
Do for the Protestant Religion fight,
(To take it from us;) when (a viperous brood)
Who sometimes suckt our Breasts, now suck our Bloud,
(Be it a poison'd draught;) and thus requite,
For what they have, and what expect they might.
Like her that once (be their successe as bad)
A precious Hen (though undeserved) had,
That laid a Golden Egge each day but once,
Willing (so greedy) to have all at once
By a compendious way, she kild her Hen,
Thinking to finde those precious Eggs within:
As was her Gain, let their Successe be such;
So disappointed; not, prevaile so much.
The readiest way, they thought, by which they might
Effect their Plot, was to put out our Sight:
A tender Eye must be the mark design'd:
'Twas (sure) they meant to make Religion Blind.
No marvell then: They thought (as well they might)
The way to Darknesse was to quench the Light.
A Moat, perhaps, they might pretend to see,
Which only to remove, their care should be;
And, first concluding, he might see amisse,
They only meant to work a cure by this.
But if a Beam they could as soone descry,
They might have seen, theirs was the Evill Eye:
(Which if't offend they may pluck out) not His,
Which saw aright, though saw what was amisse.
Truth is, indeed, they thought it saw too much,
And therefore pluckt it out, their rage was such:
Loth to be seen they were, and could not brook,
Their deeds of darknesse he should over-look:
But take his Eye from Him, and Him from Us,
Their ends the better to accomplish thus.
But must we Die? And Unrevenged too?
By Such a Hand? Such miscreants work our Woe?
Let me die first, and not survive to see,
Before I die, sad Englands obsequy.
'Tis Death to Think; 'tis Worse then death to See;
To bear a Part, is the least death of Three.
This to prevent, who saw too much before,
He clos'd his Eyes, willing to see no more.
Yet first bewail'd our woe with Tears of Bloud,
(A sad prefage) 'twas the last thing he did.
Anagram.
- GREVILIUS.
- VERGILIUS.
And if * VERGILIUS, why not MARO too?
Our AMOR sure he was, we Lov'd him so.
FINIS.