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         Alleyn, Thomas.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A75033 of text R211070 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Thomason 669.f.13[41]). 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
         A75033
         Wing A1200
         Thomason 669.f.13[41]
         ESTC R211070
         99869807
         99869807
         162937
         
           
            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. A75033)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 162937)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 246:669f13[41])
      
       
         
           
             An elegie upon the death of that renovvned heroe Coll. Rainsborrow. Who vvas traiterously murthered on Munday Octob. 19. 1648.
             Alleyn, Thomas.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             for Robert Ibbitson,
             Printed at London :
             1648.
          
           
             Signed at end: Tho. Alleyn.
             Verse - "Something it was, that made the envious stars".
             Annotation on Thomason copy: "Nouemb 14".
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Rainborow, Thomas, d. 1648 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
           Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
       A75033  R211070  (Thomason 669.f.13[41]).  civilwar no An elegie upon the death of that renovvned heroe Coll. Rainsborrow. Who vvas traiterously murthered on Munday Octob. 19. 1648. Alleyn, Thomas.  1648    530 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 A This text  has no known defects that were recorded as gap elements at the time of transcription.  
        2008-06 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2008-09 SPi Global
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
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        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
         
           AN
           ELEGIE
           UPON
           The
           Death
           of
           that
           Renowned
           HEROE
           Coll.
           
             RAINSBORROW
             .
          
        
         
           WHO
           VVas
           most
           Traiterously
           Murthered
           on
           Munday
           
             Octob.
          
           29.1648
        
         
           SOmthing
           it
           was
           ,
           that
           made
           the
           envious
           Stars
        
         
           To
           mutinie
           ,
           and
           discord
           into
           Warres
           ,
        
         
           In
           that
           great
           Constellation
           —
           48.
           
        
         
           Whose
           brows
           with
           curled
           flashings
           yet
           affright
        
         
           The
           reeling
           Universe
           :
           It
           was
           thy
           Fame
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           peerlesse
           Valour
           and
           thy
           precious
           Name
           ,
        
         
           O
           
             Rainsborrow
             ,
          
           something
           it
           was
           the
           Sun
           ,
        
         
           Did
           walk
           in
           mourning
           since
           thy
           day
           was
           done
           ,
        
         
           In
           Sable
           Clouds
           ,
           masking
           his
           glorious
           face
           ,
        
         
           As
           loathing
           to
           behold
           that
           fatall
           place
           ,
        
         
           Wherein
           thy
           righteous
           blood
           (
           yet
           reeking
           )
           cryes
        
         
           Against
           those
           bloody
           
             Caines
          
           butcheries
           .
        
         
           But
           didst
           thou
           dye
           as
           fooles
           ,
           or
           were
           thy
           hands
        
         
           (
           The
           Twins
           of
           prowesse
           )
           braceletted
           with
           bands
           ?
        
         
           (
           Whereof
           each
           singer
           was
           a
           charme
           to
           still
        
         
           The
           balls
           of
           Death
           ,
           and
           whole
           Campania's
           fill
        
         
           With
           palmed
           Trophies
           )
           No
           ,
           as
           Vertue
           fares
        
         
           Loathed
           by
           vicious
           Hell-born
           Councellers
           ,
        
         
           Such
           was
           thy
           fall
           ,
           such
           thy
           bewailed
           fate
           ,
        
         
           Though
           blood-gorg'd
           Envy
           could
           but
           Antedate
        
         
           Thy
           mortall
           peece
           ,
           Shryne
           to
           that
           purer
           part
           ,
        
         
           Not
           to
           be
           pensill'd
           by
           Seraphick
           Art
           .
        
         
           Therefore
           the
           Heavens
           ,
           grown
           covetous
           to
           see
        
         
           The
           Earth
           inrich'd
           with
           such
           a
           Gemme
           as
           thee
           ,
        
         
           Down
           glydes
           a
           winged
           Cherub
           in
           all
           hast
           ,
        
         
           To
           snatch
           thee
           hence
           ,
           in
           triumph
           to
           be
           grac'd
           ,
        
         
           A
           fixed
           Star
           ;
           where
           though
           the
           Quires
           doe
           sing
        
         
           For
           joy
           ,
           we
           (
           steep'd
           in
           tears
           )
           our
           hands
           doe
           wring
        
         
           Like
           melting
           
             Niobes
             ,
          
           though
           from
           our
           eyes
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           worth
           may
           claime
           as
           debt
           such
           sacrifice
           ,
        
         
           Mirrour
           of
           men
           ,
           Arts
           abstract
           ,
           Souldiers
           glory
           .
        
         
           True
           Graces
           splendor
           ,
           and
           sweet
           peace's
           story
           ,
        
         
           Engine
           of
           Warre
           ,
           a
           valour
           double
           edg'd
           .
        
         
           Not
           to
           be
           blunted
           ,
           though
           with
           Armies
           hedg'd
           ,
        
         
           (
           Nor
           durst
           grim
           
             Atropos
             ,
          
           presum'd
           thee
           harm
           ,
        
         
           Had
           not
           the
           subtle
           Hagge
           ,
           us'd
           Treasons
           Arm
           )
        
         
           Whom
           all
           succeeding
           Ages
           may
           admire
        
         
           Not
           imitate
           ,
           yet
           there
           is
           living
           fire
        
         
           Within
           thy
           name
           ,
           enough
           to
           blaze
           on
           high
           ,
        
         
           Coward
           Succession
           ,
           into
           Chivalry
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           doth
           the
           languish'd
           Land
           lament
           alone
           ,
        
         
           But
           
             Neptunes
          
           Court
           ,
           where
           thy
           great
           name
           is
           known
           ,
        
         
           Are
           all
           in
           mourning
           ,
           there
           the
           Sea-Nimphs
           weep
        
         
           Vailing
           their
           beauties
           in
           the
           curled
           deep
           :
        
         
           The
           showres
           unto
           the
           Billows
           mourn
           ,
           and
           they
        
         
           Unto
           the
           shoares
           return
           ,
           a
           Welladay
           .
        
         
           The
           burthen
           of
           whose
           Eccoes
           passing
           knell
        
         
           Is
           this
           :
           
             A
             great
             Man
             's
             falne
             ,
             in
             Israel
             .
          
        
         
           Farewell
           dear
           Patriot
           ,
           since
           
           th'art
           gone
           ,
           we
           have
        
         
           But
           two
           things
           to
           be
           proud
           of
           ,
           first
           a
           Grave
           ,
        
         
           And
           then
           thy
           name
           ,
           in
           that
           wee
           'l
           happy
           be
           ,
        
         
           In
           this
           more
           Active
           through
           thy
           memory
           .
        
         
           
             And
             thus
             our
             Teares
             of
             Joy
             and
             Griefe
             ,
             wee
             shed
             ,
          
           
             Glad
             
             th'art
             in
             Heaven
             ,
             yet
             sorry
             thou
             art
             Dead
             .
          
        
         
           Virtus
           post
           Funera
           .
           
             THO.
             ALLEYN
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           Printed
           at
           
             London
          
           for
           
             Robert
             Ibbitson
             .
          
           1648.
           
        
      
      
  

