Elegie on the untimely death of the incomparably valiant and noble, Francis, Lord Villiers, brother to the Duke of Buckingham. Slaine by the rebells neere Kingstone upon Thames, July the 7. 1648.

ELEGIE On the untimely Death of the incomparably Valiant and Noble, FRANCIS, Lord VILLIERS, Brother to the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

Slaine by the Rebells neere Kingstone upon Thames, July the 7. 1648.

REader! who here lies dead, may give Thee cause to weep for all that live. Since in him, Courage, Beauty, Blood, All that is Great, and Sweet, and Good, All youth's contracted Glories, have— (Weep, pittying Reader! Weep.)—their (Grave. That so it may be justly sed, (These gone) the Living are the Dead. But when the sadder voice of Fame Shall to all this, adde Villiers Name, And my unwilling Pen shall tell That by a Rebell hand he fell; What Soule, will not his Fate ingage At once with Pitty, and with Rage: So in his height of youthfull Pride Fore Troy the beauteous Memnon dy'd. Nor with such teares bewail'd was he, Though wept for by a Deitie. But you, brave souls! whom the same sense Of Honour moves, the same Pretence, Shrinke not to see his sadder fall. But (whilst to mind others recall His hopefull vertues, and his yeares Cropt in their bud, lament with teares, Whilst some perhaps, whose Forme might move His noble Heart, sigh for his Love. Others his early valour sing, And Loyaltie unto his King) Let the example of his Fame Your Bloods to great Attempts inflame. And a Resolve to every Heart As high as your high Cause impart. Hark! from his Grave his Martiall sprite Your Loyall Valours doth excite.

On! 'till a Death like that I found, Each of your conquering Swords hath crown'd, And my glad Ashes then shall rise, And triumph in your Victories. There is no salve can cure agen Your Honors wounds: think not you then Gaine Life, when you by flying, yeeld; But when you dying, win the field.

This unto future Times make good, Or beare the guilt of his lost Bloud.

FINIS.