A Mournful Elegy, In pious and perpetual Memory of the most Honourable, ROBERT, Earl of ESSEX, and EWE, Viscount Hereford, Lord Ferrer of Chartley, Bourchier, and Louvain, late Lord chief General of all the Parliaments Forces, who exchanged his Life Septemb. 14. 1646.  
LONDON, Printed for Thomas Banks. 1646.   

For the Tombstone.  
PAying a tribute tear, admitted be  
To view this cover of Mortality;  
Which because fifty odd years it did detain  
A heavenly soul, within its earthly chain,  
Within this heap of stones is doomed to be,  
Till time submit unto eternity;  
Which notwithstanding, when you see it have  
This Marble Statue, say it is a Grave,  
Whose outside, howsoever fair it be,  
The inside's putrified deformity:  
This penance ended, 'cause it once was blest,  
In entertaining so divine a Guest,  
In glorious form it shall presented be  
To heavens unknown joys, by the Majesty  
Of God himself; there let his blessed soul rest,  
Till that his body be with glory blest.   

An Elegy on the death of the most honourable Earl of ESSEX.  
TO shadow sorrow, seek not tears of brine,  
For that's a woman's Rhetoric, 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 sorrow's act.  
Shallow streams mutter, silent are the deep;  
My flood her flood gate breaks, if I do weep:  
Then come Melpomene with thy graving pen,  
Sink deep into the iron hearts of men,  
What they are senseless of, array my Verse  
With accents sadder, than this sable Hearse.  
Let every sine my dull brain shall afford  
Rend one good heart at least, let every word  
Gaine one poor soul t'accompany to bliss,  
This lamp of light, that here eclipsed is,  
To shine in heaven; a train see that he have  
T'attend him there, greater than to his grave  
Attends his corpse, or if my words may move  
None else that do so well his virtue love:  
Then let my captived soul enfranchised be,  
To pass with his unto eternity;  
If earth-dulled spirits such height cannot aspire,  
Then for Associates, let the heavenly Choir  
Of Angels guard him, and his Requiem sing,  
Where unmasqued joy, and perfect music ring  
His happy entrance, S. John, Brooke, Hambden be  
Ready to wait with best observancy  
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' general hate thou bearest to all mankind?  
To glut thy entrails, alldevouring grave,  
Thou mightst have ta'en 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 heart's grief,  
Can none suffice thee, but the Chiefest Chief  
Of all our Sex? Must Gems 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 mightst have spared him, till of his race  
One branch had issued forth, not at one time  
Have cropped both fruit and tree, even in the prime  
Of all his glory, when th'admiring world  
Upon his goodness every eye had hurled,  
When hope lay bedrid, and all comfort dying,  
When cruelty herself sat almost crying;  
When neighbouring worlds his glory most envied,  
Then England's honour, Europe's wonder died.  
Which us to check, the charitable skies  
Embalm him with rich tears, sent from bright eyes,  
As if just heaven were pleased, that he should have  
A second Deluge to attend his grave.  
What sad events have happened since his death,  
Since much loved Essex was deprived of breath:  
No day, nor night hath past, nay scarce and hour,  
In which heaven hath not pleased to send a shower  
Of tears to celebrate his obsequies,  
Which men should pay from overflowing eyes;  
Storms have produced shipwrecks, shipwrecks dearth  
Of food and fuel from the teeming earth,  
Breadcorn, 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 Kingdoms 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 swayed by heaven.  
The King's best friend, and eke the Kingdoms too,  
Who loving both, to neither could be foe:  
The Clergies Patron, and the Soldier's glory,  
Both read him, and admire him in his story.  
Germans, both high and low, lament with me,  
That Spain and France joys in your misery,  
Occasioned through his fall, that Schismatics,  
Tub-Preachers, Anabaptists, Heretics,  
The Independents, Antinomians, Papists,  
The Brownists, and (which worst of all) the Atheists  
Begin to glory. In thy triumph, death,  
Thou mightst have spared his, and stopped my breath:  
Thy cruelty had then been kindness styled,  
And death to mankind had been reconciled;  
Those few among the multitude of men  
That wish me well, had Trophies to thee then  
Erected; and instead of bitter Lays,  
Thou hadst been crowned with Encomiastike bays.  
Me that am weary of a wretched life,  
Neglected, friendless, all composed of grief,  
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,  
Helpful t'all, openhanded unto merit,  
Sober in carriage, of an humble spirit:  
Him that (like God of War) in conquering field,  
His brandished sword, ne'er force of foe made yield;  
Him hast thou taken away, and me hast left,  
To moan his loss, of so much good bereft:  
Can nothing serve thy wrath, for to appease,  
To spare his life, and breed our Kingdom's ease?  
Can not the plaints of Peers, the Commons fears,  
The Church's supplications, soldiers tears,  
His sister's scorching sighs, his kindred's groans,  
The clamour of his friends, his servants moans,  
The votes of Parliament, the orphans cries,  
The poors Petitions, nor the weeping eyes  
Of widows, move th'impartial hand to dart  
Thy death-winged arrow at some others heart?  
They could not: why? because his prayer was  
That he might be dissolved, with Christ, to pass  
From hence to heaven; where most victorious he  
In triumph treads on sin, and destiny.  
Hadst thou with judgements eye but once beheld  
His most Majestic face, it would have quelled  
Thy fearless rage, as often it hath done,  
When Mars himself, did smile on Mars his son:  
Let Edgehill-Fight and Gloucester witness be,  
The famous battle fought at Newberie,  
And thousand Trophies more of victory,  
Of prowess and of magnanimity,  
By him obtained, had his unlimited soul  
In other Lands been suffered, fans control,  
To actuate what he at home hath done,  
It had appeared more glorious than 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 gained the field.  
Yet was he slighted, scoffed, scorned and jeered  
By those that loved him not; those he not feared:  
Stigmatic coxcombs, that durst once to lay  
Aspersion on that Sun, whose light made day,  
Which now Eclipsed, our Hemisphere is made  
All night; our Sun is now become a shade:  
And in this shade we now are left to moan,  
Not Essex loss, but in his loss our own;  
But I do but obnubilate his praise,  
Striving unto a higher pitch to raise  
What my impolish quill cannot express,  
But by expressing, that I make it less.  
Hadst thou this seen death, thou hadst not then done  
What now thou hast, nor I had cause to moan;  
But being gone, why do I wast my breath,  
'Tis he that triumphs, and not grisly death?  
On him thy envy hath gained only this,  
To change his fading good, for endless bliss.  
Let us not then as men without hope grieve,  
Since that his purer part, his soul doth live,  
That would of incredulity us reprove,  
Or challenge us of envy or self-love;  
To grieve would argue doubt of his estate,  
Or envy that he proved so fortunate;  
Or at the least self-love it would express,  
In prising our loss, not his happiness.  
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 loss do likewise claim a share,  
Have and do daily write in mourning Verse,  
With which to garnish this bedewed Hearse?  
I answer, all that writ, writ 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 soul, 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 days,  
They may be crowned with neverdying Bays  
Of good name here, and with that blessed renown  
Of lasting joy, the everlasting Crown,  
In a far better world, as he now is,  
Being possessed of never-ending bliss;  
I then shall think me truly happy, when  
Divinest Echoes answer shall AMEN.  J. B.  

AN ELEGY UPON the unhappy loss OF THE NOBLE EARL 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 Earl of Essex.  

I Need no fatal quill that has the art  
At every line it writes to break an heart:  
For when I shall but once begin t' express  
The public cause, and subject of my verse,  
More motives may be spared our unstrained grief  
Will need no provocation, but relief.  
Essex is dead. What thunder strikes our ears,  
Threatening an inundation of tears?  
This is a judgement more than we conceived,  
To be by our best hope the most deceived:  
And that the Noble Cause of our Redress,  
Should now be so of our extreme Distress.  
Or is't a mercy, since Heaven did intent  
At last, an exiled peace back t' us to send?  
Thus to make way, by softening our hard hearts  
By such a blow; which the successive darts  
It shot at our own persons, could not pierce  
Who ne'er had wept but at his frown or hearse.  
That we exchanging for new grief, old hate;  
(Though senseless of our own) might mourn his fate;  
That tears begun for loss might end for sin,  
And hearts twice broke let peace and mercy in.   

But is he gone from us! Injurious Death  
Hast thou deprived him of that purer breath  
Than 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 its darling in the fate  
Of his loved Father (though unfortunate  
In their desires) their hopes did still survive,  
Whilst he had left so brave a Son alive.  
Whose early youthful blossoms did presage  
Most glorious fruits in his more riper age  
But all that then was hoped was that the Son  
Should keep that honour which his Father won.  
But he not bounded by strict precedent  
His, as all other patterns quite out went.  
Compleatest acts of ancient Hero's were  
The essays of his youth, whereon to rear  
Fame's highest Stories, their great aims were found  
His first attempts, their battlements his ground.  
So that great Essex's name is greater grown  
By his Sons honour added to his own.  
For even in them was long time verified  
What's said of Kings, for Essex never died  
Till now. But now the Title too is gone  
A Title men will tremble to put on  
Though offered; since it strongly does oblige  
To courage, council, combat, storming, siege,  
Devotion, Temperance, and what ever can  
Render the wearer a most perfect man.  
And surely, had Heaven 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 bar him progeny.   

But he shall live in his more lasting name  
Borne on the wings of neverdying Fame.  
No Chronicler shall need to write his praise  
In mouldy parchment left to after-days  
For as the holy Patriarches Religion  
Was left to them by long-derived tradition;  
So shall his acts be handed to those men  
Are yet unborn, and they the same again  
shall tell their children's Chidrens, till it grow  
Part of their education to do so.  
In his poor Cottage by a Winter fire  
To his great granchildrens shall the aged sire  
From's easy chair relate the ancient stories  
Of his exploits and virtues; whilst he glories  
T' have trailed a pike at Keinton, or received  
A shot at Reading, or when 'twas relieved  
T' have marched to Gloster, than the memory  
Of that unparallelled Newb'ry victory  
Shall cause him rake his embers, and proceed  
To tell the General's virtue as his deed.  
" And yet my Children, though all this did he  
" He courted not the people's 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 praised by none;  
" He durst in spite of all be good alone.  
" He moved by his own principles, for 'tis known  
" He was not wrought by Royal smile or frown.  
" Like to the trusty Sun he kept his line  
" Pursuing still his first and known design,  
" He was not made for changes, nor could lend  
" An I. in Parliament for a by-end.  
" If he had foes they durst not make't appear,  
" His frown alone would strike them dead with fear.  
" And if they wisp'rd any thing amiss  
" They guard his name with a parenthesis.  
" Still [He was faithful] who so e'er offended  
" 'tis much to be by All so well commended.  
" But they were wise; who durst the same deny  
" Sure he was  and resolved to die.  
" Who so durst meet him, durst do more than Death  
" That ravished not, but stole away his breath  
" Ah treacherous coward that didst slily creep  
" And unawares, to kill him in his sleep.   

Now Noble Peers after his Hearse march on,  
Mourn as you go, your great exampl's gone.  
And you grave Patriots learn to know your loss,  
He was your blessing whom some thought your cross.  
You reverend Synod, cannot choose but shed  
Some Funeral tears since your stout Patron's dead.  
And you brave Soldiers will have moistened eyes  
For he is fallen by whom you all did rise.  
Weep Widows weep, he's gone that was of late  
Your most indulgent, constant Advocate.  
And you that once were foes some tears bestow  
On your own selves, your fines will not be low.  
Weep England now, thou seest thy Champion's end,  
Scotland weep too, for thou hast lost a Friend.  
But Ireland most of all, express thy grief  
For he is dead that longed to send relief.  
Weep Virtue too, for thou a Widow art,  
And well may'st act the chiefest mourners part:  
And Envy weep, and starve, now he is gone  
Thou'lt scarce find goodness here to feed upon.    

An Epitaph on the Earl of Essex.  
BOast Marble, that concealest this Dust  
Not of thy lastingness, but Trust.  
Ten thousand unto thee shall bring  
Of vowed tears their offering.  
The driest eye shall drop a Gem  
T' enrich death's envied Diadem.  
To thine, great Essex's Memory  
Shall add it's own eternity:  
Thereby thou shalt thyself out last  
Which else, like other stones, wouldst waste  
And mix thy Dust with them, that deep  
Thou unprofaned now dost keep.  
Nay Death itself will sure prevent  
Of His and Essex Monument  
The least decay: For near did he  
More glory in a victory.  
On thee Death sits in state, and braves  
Himself more than 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 o'er Humanity.  
The Virger that's wont to relate  
This Prince's valour, that's estate,  
The virtuous life and famous acts  
Of Peers deceased, the extracts  
Of every noble Family;  
May find all in Epitome:  
And save the labour of Retail  
And tell the people, HERE LIES, ALL.   

An Elegy upon the most lamented death of the Right Honourable and truly valiant, ROBERT Earl of Essex, etc.  

I Thank thee, Grief, that thou hast found a voice:  
Some think there runs no stream, where's heard no noise;  
And yet I'll bear thee witness, when there stood  
No water in thine Eye, thy Heart wept Blood;   

So may the stealing Brook mourn under ground,  
When on the surface, nought but Flint is found.   

Advance my Tears then, and your Office be  
To bring the Rear up of this Obsequy.   

A Rear of Mourners, which shall reach from hence  
To Doomsday, mourning not for Form, but Sense.  
We now but see the Pomp; but after times  
Shall make us feel our Loss, due to our-Crimes;  
When Monarchy shall faint, and Faction thrive,  
How shall we then wish Devereux alive?  
When there is none to dry up Widow's Tears;  
None to Repulse our Jealousies and Fears:  
When Justice self shall want an Advocate,  
And truth in coward silence read her Fate;  
When those days come, (O never come those Days;  
Never to us!) that he shall wear the Bays,  
And be accounted valiant, who shall dare  
To whisper Truth, though only to the Air:  
When the mean Feet shall trample over the Head;  
How shall we then feel Devereux is dead?  
Devereux, the Nobles Orb, the Gentry's Star,  
The City's Altar, the wronged Country's Bar:  
Devereux, the Just, Devereux, the Stout, the Wise,  
The maimed Soldiers Limbs, the Blind man's Eyes.  
The Armies faithful Alm'ner; or what's more  
Devereux, the very Devereux of their Poor;   

Yet He, this Cedar's fallen: or rather, is  
Transplanted, for to grow in Paradise.   

How the Ghosts throng to see their great new Guest;  
Talbot, Vere, Norris, Williams, and the rest,  
Those valiant Shades, England's best Sons! each one  
Courting Him to their Bowers; (Bowers, whereof none  
But was of conquering Laurel) there to hear  
A story, which would force from Ghosts a Tear.  
(Their Mother's Tragedy) as 'twas acted late  
By her own Children, to make sport for Fate;   

For they had seen the Stygian Boats even sink,  
Laden with Souls up to the very brink;  
Had known their Charon tug and sweat, and say;  
England did find him most work and best pay.   

He (the new Guest) who (since he did afford  
To hold in peace the Scales, in War the Sword,  
Can therefore give best Judgement: the pure stamp  
How things'ith Senate passed, how in the Camp:)  
Dissects the Body politic, and with weight  
Lays open the Griefs and Maladies of State.   

Shows 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 said,  
Some Clouds and Vapours did possess the Head,  
Whose little finger, had the poison moved,  
Heavier than all his Father's Loins had proved;  
The Eyes grew dim and darkish, whiles the Ear  
Deaf to sage Counsel, yet strange Tales could hear;  
And the whole Frame did so with Fever burn,  
Fever might serve for Piles to fill the Urn;  
And England mouldering thus through Feverish Ire,  
Save Heaven the labour of a Doomsday Fire.  
All now was turning into Ashes: so  
Consuming Flames Incendiaries blow,   

Hence England's best Physicians judged it need  
(To save the Body) that some veins should bleed;  
Surgeons from all parts come to work the Cure  
(She now was patiented and must all endure.)  
Leeches and empirics (College fulls) all came,  
To cure? no, but to practise on their Dame.  
And thus they let her bleed too much: so they  
Can gain, no matter though she bloodless 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 Deathless Lives to make her live.  
So sharp a Pill is War, that some have thought  
Even Health itself, at this price, too dear bought;  
Physic on a Sword's point can seldom please,  
Men count such Remedies worse than the Disease.   

And thus as he was blazning States, and Men,  
Persons, and Things, the Cause; why? how? and when?  
Still passing o'er Himself, as if he were,  
Though others Trumpet, His own Silencer:  
Still his own Mute, whilst yet he Trumpets forth  
Great Warwick's, and Northumberlands great Worth:  
With other Heroes placed in high Command,  
Neptune's at Sea, and Marses on the Land;   

But who was He, cried some, (not but they knew:  
But that they longed to hear those gests anew  
Which they so dearly loved) who's he that fought  
So much for Peace 'bove Victory? that thought  
The bloodless Bays the best? He that aimed more  
To save one Citizen, then kill many a Foe?  
He that knew how to value Lives? the Man,  
So much good Soldier, and good Christian;  
That killed and sighed, mourned as he Trophies wore,  
Mingling his own Tears with his Enemy's gore?  
As if his Grand Commission did not give  
Him power to kill and slay, but kill and grieve.   

And yet again, that most undaunted He,  
(When th' Armies were to join, to disagree)  
Who speeched his Soldiers first with Voice and Drum,  
Then Caesar-like bade them, not go, but come?  
He, who Himself an Army was alone!  
He, who was then most General, when yet none?  
And had whole Legions ever at his need,  
Legions of Soldiers not to Fight, but Feed:   

Yea but who's He, cried one among the throng,  
That with so few men raised a Siege so strong?  
That made Retreat from twice his odds, the while,  
As he Retreated, fight, threescore mile?  
And this, not through fenced Lanes, and in thick nights,  
The Downs and Midday Sun saw all his fights.  
An honour, we could envy, could this place  
(Love's Throne) admit a wrinkled Heart or Face.   

With 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 dear loss, and said; all this,  
And more is Devereux; this, and more is His;  
Which made him blush; His pale Ghost blushed; and then  
He looked, as if he had been alive again.   

But when such praises even from Enemies come,  
It were a sin in us, should we stand dumb?   

And is't not pity so Famed worth should die  
Without an Heir? No Son to close his Eye?  
No Child to wear his virtue with his Name?  
None to inherit his well-gotten Fame?  
But as great ‛ Paminondas answered those  
His Friends, that mourned his Fall, (mourned by his Foes)  
'Cause he fell Childless; as if Greece were done  
Since so much virtue died without a Son:  
But yet (saith He) still bear it in your mind,  
I've left two Daughters with you here behind,  
Leuctra and Mantinaea; who shall keep  
Their Father's Name from Death, and Thebes from sleep;  
So when our Devereux, (Devereux, a word  
Great as that Greek's, and keener than his Sword:  
A Name that fills the Mouth, and wounds the Ear:  
A Name that Machiavelli would be pleased to hear.  
He, who admires the Pagans large-sized Name  
'Bove Christians; as if words could create Fame.)  
So when our Devereux is bemoaned in Death,  
As one that leaves no Son to breathe his Breath,  
Answer is made, He leaves two Daughters fair,  
Reading and Gloucester, Daughters such as are  
Sans parallel; and which will cost the State  
Millions to match them with an equal Mate.  
Or should this Issue fail, yet how can He  
Want Sons and Heirs, who's Pater Patriae.   C. G.