A FUNERALL ELEGIE On the unfortunate death of that worthy Major EDWARD GREY, Iuly 26. 1644.
Anagram.
Regard I die.
No longer J shall foyle the Cavalry:
But be ye watchfull, stout, regard, I die.
SAd Prodigy I Can famous valiant Grey
Thus silently slide to his bed of Clay?
Returne our sorrows, sigh we forth a Verse,
May deck the Pomp, and mournings of his Herse.
But 'twere detraction to suppose a Teare,
A Sigh, or Blacks, which the sad Mourners weare,
Our losse could value: He that names but thee,
Must bring an Eye, that can weepe Elegie:
Who in his face must weare a Funerall,
Clouded with griefe for thy untimely fall.
What ill aspected Planet then did lowre?
Which then transcendent in that fatall houre?
The splendent Sunne could not looke on and shine,
But's clouded, whiles thy glory did decline.
Hath irefull Mars his spightfull influence bent
'Gainst his owne sonne? He's still malevolent.
Thy part t'hast acted well; but Tragedie
Ill prov'd, having a sad Catastrophe.
Thy sable Curtaine was too soon o'respread,
Even at thy noone to bring thee to thy bed.
Unlucky hand, and heart with fury fir'd,
Which passage made whereby thy soule expir'd.
Yet we applaud the wisdome of thy fate,
Which knew to value thee at such a rate,
That for thy fall an Hecatombe it cost,
Colonell Mynne shine the same day.
And Mynne was offered to appease thy ghost.Thou needst no gilded Tombe, whereon t' engrave,
The name of worthy Grey, which thou shalt have,
So long as Glouc'ster shall that name retaine,
Besieged erst by Brittaines Charlemaigne.
Thy conqueting Arme made thy stout foe to yeeld;
Thy Sword had wonne the Trophies in the field.
Thy Coate speaks thy high birth, but thine own praise
Shall crowne thine Armes with never-fading Bayes.
See the Argent-Lyon which hath Rampant stood,
Now Couchant lie in Field of Gules and Blood.
The Crescent Or, Greys second House doth marke,
Of famous ancestry the House of Werke:
But now decrescent is, it's Or's or'espread
With Colour Sable, Or is turn'd to Lead.
Farewell heroicke spirit, who art to be
Of publique sorrow the epitome;
All sigh forth grones, meethinkes the Coats of Blew
Are strangely changed into a Sable hew.
But sorrow stops me, and my griefe's undrest,
And rude in language I'le sigh out the rest.
J. A.
EDWARD GREY, Major. Anagrams III
I.
Though just reward 'mongst men I never may
Attaine, yet sure God's Mi rewarder ay.
II.
For of Eternity I'me not discarded,
Though hence-from men I may goe irrewarded.
III.
Though great I was, now in the dust I lie.
Great ones your selves, regard, a Worme I die.
Respice sinem. Psal. 22.6. Job 25.6.
Chronog. stren VVs, & eXpert Vs MaIor Grey CaDIt & eXpIra VIt. 1644.
J. A.
Printed at London for [...] the old Baylie. 1644.