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         Philipot, Thomas, d. 1682.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A90651 of text R40096 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Thomason 669.f.10[82]). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A90651
         Wing P1995
         Thomason 669.f.10[82]
         ESTC R40096
         99872566
         99872566
         162616
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A90651)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 162616)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 246:669f10[82])
      
       
         
           
             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.
             Philipot, Thomas, d. 1682.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.) : ill. (port.)
           
             Printed for William Ley at his shop in Pauls Chaine,
             London :
             [1646]
          
           
             With engraved portrait of the Earl of Essex.
             In verse: "As some tall Oake 'gainst whom the envious Wind" ...
             Date of publication suggested by Wing.
             Annotation on Thomason copy: [illegible, cropped]th 1646.
             Reproductions of the originals in the Harvard University Library (Early English books) and the British Library (Thomason Tracts).
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Essex, Robert Devereux, -- Earl of, 1591-1646 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
       A90651  R40096  (Thomason 669.f.10[82]).  civilwar no An elegie offer'd up to the memory of His Excellencie Robert Earle of Essex and Ewe, Viscount Hereford, Lord Ferrers of Chartley, Bourchier Philipot, Thomas 1646    794 1 0 0 0 0 0 13 C  The  rate of 13 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the C category of texts with between 10 and 35 defects per 10,000 words. 
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           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
           .
        
         
           
             
               THE
               MOST
               NOBLE
               ROBERT
               EARLE
               OF
               ESSEX
               AND
               LO:
               GEN
               :
               OF
               THE
               FORCES
               FOR
               K
               :
               &
               PARL.
            
             portrait of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, Lord General
          
        
         
           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
        
         
           'T
           is
           fear'd
           't
           will
           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
             .
          
        
      
    
    

