An elegie offer'd up to the memory of His Excellencie Robert Earle of Essex and Ewe Viscount Hereford, Lord Ferrers of Chartley, Bourchier and Lovaine, late generall of the Parliaments forces. / Thomas Philipot.

AN ELEGIE OFFER'D UP TO THE Memory of his Excellencie ROBERT Earle of Essex and Ewe, Viscount Hereford, Lord Ferrers of Chartley, Bourchier and Lovaine, late GENERALL of the PARLIAMENTS Forces.

[illustration] portrait of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, Lord General

THE MOST NOBLE ROBERT EARLE OF ESSEX AND LO: GEN: OF THE FORCES FOR K: & PARL.

AS some tall Oake 'gainst whom the envious Wind Oft in impetuous Hurricans combin'd Does stand unmov'd, although assaild by all The angry Gales, yet of it selfe does fall When there's scarce Breath enough i'th sullen Aire To ravell or disturb a Virgins Haire: So this brave Lord who like a swelling Rock At Keynton, Newbury, had stood the Shock Of death, unmov'd, where he himselfe had flung Amidst his Troops with all his Terrors Hung This death at last did like a drousie sleepe O're his becalm'd unguarded Sences creepe. What Springs of Teares shall we disburse? what Terse Curld Metaphors now stick upon his Hearse? Tears are but dull and, common rights they are The stipend of each vulgar Sepulcher Here Seas themselvs should be lav'd out, and streams Be lick'd up by the Sun's refulgent Beams That in the day's great Eye there might appear For this great Ruine too, a Funerall Tear Whole Cataracts should bee exhald, and then Distill'd in liquid Obsequies agen, Such shoures are most proportion'd to his Fate And to his losse such Teares Commensurate, What Shrine or Trophies shall our lavish Art As Tribute to his Ashes now impart? What Dole of Obelisqu's shall wee entrust To stand as Alphabets unto his Dust? Alas (Great Lord) what Urne is fit for thee? Who to thy selfe art Urne and Elegie And for Supporters wee our selves become Congeal'd with Sighs Supporters to his Tombe. What Gummes or Spices shall wee now prepare T'enshrine his Dust? since they but fluid are And obvious to Decay so soone, they'l bee Transform'd themselves into more Dust then Hee, No, Hee has left his Name, which shall embalme His Earth, and all Corruption so becalme This when, his Sear-cloath is Dissolv'd and Spent, Shall to it selfe bee its own Monument; What Tapers now shall wee afford his Shrine? About the Chaos of his Dust to shine 〈…〉〈…〉 his Honor'd Breast And is lock'd up now in his Marble Chest Shall fill their Roome, and from the gloomy Night Of his dark Vault, Dart a perpetuall Light. What Heaps of Palme and Laurell shall wee lay As Chaplets drop'd upon his livelesse Clay? No let us rather Sprigs of Olives strow Upon his Monument, which there will grow, And by our Teares manur'd shall so increase It shall bee stil'd by all the Arke of Peace. How Crippled now Nature does seeme, her Frame Is disproportion'd and her Junctures lame Since from her Bulke this mighty Limb is lop'd; And as when Flowers by early Fate are crop'd From off their Stalke the mourning Stem appeares As if it wept their losse bath'd ore with Teares: So now when Hee that seem'd even to Cement Nature's vast Fabrick, from her Building's rent By Death's unthrifty Hand, the whole Compact By this one Blow is so resolv'd and slack'd 'Tis fear'd 'twill languish into Dust, and all The heap of Men entomb too in its fall, For at that Breach thy Soul flew out at, wee Our selves (Great Lord) must bleed to Death with Thee Since then (Fair Soul) thou by thy Fate doest gaine Triumphs and Palmes, and wee alone sustaine The Losse, and Death attempting to benight With his blind Clouds the Glory of thy Light With which so long amidst our Orbe you shone Has fix'd thee now a Constellation In Heaven above, look from thy brighter Sphere On us, who like dull Ants lye groveling here Maim'd by thy Death, and if leane Envie dare To rake or paddle in thy Sepulcher May shee grope out her way to that, and find Thou with thy Spotlesse Beams didst strike her Blind; Enjoy thy Crowne of Glory then, and bee As from all Guilt, so from all Envie free, And if in after ages, any Stone Shall bee by bold Detractors at thee throwne T'will turne a precious one, and so combine To make this Crowne of Glory brighter shine.

Thomas Philipot.