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 lest 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 Children, 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 fire
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
"At 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.
Th. Twiss.