Piæ juventuti sacrum, an elegie on the death of the most vertuous and hopefull young gentleman, George Pitt, esq.

To THE MOST VERTVOVS AND THEREFORE MOST DESERVEDLY HONOURED LADY, M^ris ALICE PITT, With all due Service and Devotion is hum∣bly Dedicated the following Elegy: At the Funerals of her onely, and worthily Beloved Sonne M^r G. P.

MADAM,

SInce You can be so Charitably kind, To let us share the Blessings of your Mind; Since of the Comforts of your Wombe, your Son, You could allow me part; and still had done, Had not our wretched lives curs'd Mistresses His Progresse Fear'd, Envy'd our Happinesse.

It seems But just, I should be sharer to, As of your Ioyes before, soe sorrows now. Not then to joy with you, it had but bin My Misery; 'twere, not to grieve, my sin. That was my Priv'ledge, This my duety is; That Gratitude Commands, Religion this. Nor dare I mourne by halves, The whole man he, Must weare noe party-colour'd livory: Such as indeed the joy-dissembling Heire Too oft at's Father's funerall seems to weare; when turne him inside out, you'll eas'ly find Much diff'ring colours in his cloak and Mind. My sorrow's die'd in graine I onely have Just so much life as keeps me from the grave. Your Bounty cloaths the outward man in black, His Death would not allow my soule to lack Her Mourning-suit; who in respect to you Has clad her Maid all in close mourning too Your Goodnesse calls on one; and here you see, My bold griefe multiplies that one to three.

Upon the weak staffe of a splitted Quill, My Creeple Muse comes halting up the Hill; And humbly at your feet does prostrate fall, The devout'st mourner at this Funerall. Your sorrows rais'd her from that Bed of ease, Where she so long had hugg'd her own disease; And had expir'd long siuce, a prey to death, But that your sighs brought a supply of breath Hearing your groans, she started up, and see No Sun appear, she straight cries out-'Tis he! And with a trembling eye, roaving about, At length she spies that mournfull HARROVV out. Seeing this* 1.1 two-top'd Hill (for now there's odds Betwixt your house, and that which once was God's: Though these made one, 'till some more wise then we Durst preach it Schisme to live in unity.) Seeing these tops two blackest clouds o'reshade (God's frown the one, your sadnesle t'other made:) She calls it her Parnassus, and does run In hast, to take leave of her setting sun.

The Deity inspir'd her was your Son, Whose vertues made your teares her Helicon. But may this fountaine soon run dry! that streame No more occasion'd on so sad a theme! O rather may my Muses last breath be Exhal'd in this unwelcome Elegie! O may she rather spend her rustick Rithme Upon the reigning vices of the time; And with her betters only reap these gaines, An happy Curse of Silence for her pains! Had she not in this sin which she has done, Serv'd the sad mother more then happy son; She had not in so deep a note sat down, And groan'd: But up to Heav'n had flown In lofty numbers; such as might become The Sainted off-spring of your happy wombe. I cannot blame your love, which did contrive So many waies to keep this Flow'r alive: Though in a lovely garden here he grew, Made for such Flow'rs alone as he and you:

Though you did well those lawfull hopes to nourish, To see him in this garden thrive and flourish: Though such endeavours with Religion stand, Yet did your pray'rs still contradict your hand: You wish'd him blest, your own experience shows That no man's so before to heav'n he goes. I know you grudge him not his early rest, Nor think his blessing lesse, 'cause so soon blest. Who soonest goes this journey, runs his race With as much ease as speed, and takes his place Highest in Heav'n; we who stay here behind, Laden with sins and sorrows, we shall find The entrance much more hard, and there must be Content to sit lower by much then he. This is your Blessing, that for seav'nteen yeares You have possess'd what now you lose with teares. That heav'n intrusted you with that rich prize, In love of which it selfe did sympathize With you and us: That you have been so long His Nurse, 'till he can speak the Angells tongue.

And beares his part in that sweet quire, that siug Loud Halleluiahs to their God and King. May that bright Glory, which now Crownes the Son, Attend the Mother when her race is run! There may you meet where endlesse comforts may, And shall mak't an aeternall Holiday. Till when my alter'd Calender shall b•••• Two letters for this day in every yeare. A black one for your losse, an other Red To signifie the happy day he sped In Heav'n; May all the vertuous family Still live so innocent, so happy die! May Heav'ns warme rayes revive your joies and keep Your Hopes awake, untill your Bodies sleep In peacefull Graves, and all your Soules do flye In triumph up to Immortality!

Notes

• * 1.1

  The two tops are the Church and your house.