







 
   
     
       
         A funerall elegie on the unfortunate death of that worthy major Edward Grey, Iuly 26. 1644.
         J. A.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription B01314 of text990 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing A13). 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 
       Approx. 4 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image.
       
         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         B01314
         Wing A13
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.3[52]
         99885187
         ocm99885187
         182537
         
           
            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. B01314)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 182537)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A4:1[52])
      
       
         
           
             A funerall elegie on the unfortunate death of that worthy major Edward Grey, Iuly 26. 1644.
             J. A.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             for I.W. at the old Baylie,
             [Printed at London :
             1644]
          
           
             Signed: J.A.
             Verse: "Sad prodigy! Can famous valiant Grey ..."
             Imperfect: Stained, affecting imprint; imprint suggested by Wing.
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Grey, Edward, d. 1644 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English -- 17th century.
        
      
    
       B01314 990  (Wing A13).  civilwar no A funerall elegie on the unfortunate death of that worthy major Edward Grey, Iuly 26. 1644. J. A.  1644    586 1 0 0 0 0 0 17 C  The  rate of 17 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the C category of texts with between 10 and 35 defects per 10,000 words. 
        2008-06 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2008-09 SPi Global
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2008-11 John Pas
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2008-11 John Pas
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2009-02 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
         
           A
           FUNERALL
           ELEGIE
           On
           the
           unfortunate
           death
           of
           that
           worthy
           Major
           EDWARD
           GREY
           ,
           Iuly
           26.
           1644.
           
        
         
           
             Anagram
             .
          
           
             
               Regard
               I
               die
               .
            
          
           
             No
             longer
             J
             shall
             foyle
             the
             Cavalry
             :
          
           
             But
             be
             ye
             watchfull
             ,
             stout
             ,
             
               regard
               ,
               I
               die
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             SAd
             Prodigy
             I
             Can
             famous
             valiant
             
               Grey
            
          
           
             Thus
             silently
             slide
             to
             his
             bed
             of
             Clay
             ?
          
           
             Returne
             our
             sorrows
             ,
             sigh
             we
             forth
             a
             Verse
             ,
          
           
             May
             deck
             the
             Pomp
             ,
             and
             mournings
             of
             his
             Herse
             .
          
           
             But
             't
             were
             detraction
             to
             suppose
             a
             Teare
             ,
          
           
             A
             Sigh
             ,
             or
             Blacks
             ,
             which
             the
             sad
             Mourners
             weare
             ,
          
           
             Our
             losse
             could
             value
             :
             He
             that
             names
             but
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Must
             bring
             an
             Eye
             ,
             that
             can
             weepe
             Elegie
             :
          
           
             Who
             in
             his
             face
             must
             weare
             a
             Funerall
             ,
          
           
             Clouded
             with
             griefe
             for
             thy
             untimely
             fall
             .
          
           
             What
             ill
             aspected
             Planet
             then
             did
             lowre
             ?
          
           
             Which
             then
             transcendent
             in
             that
             fatall
             houre
             ?
          
           
             The
             splendent
             Sunne
             could
             not
             looke
             on
             and
             shine
             ,
          
           
             But
             's
             clouded
             ,
             whiles
             thy
             glory
             did
             decline
             .
          
           
             Hath
             irefull
             Mars
             his
             spightfull
             influence
             bent
          
           
             'gainst
             his
             owne
             sonne
             ?
             He
             's
             still
             malevolent
             .
          
           
             Thy
             part
             
             t'hast
             acted
             well
             ;
             but
             Tragedie
          
           
             Ill
             prov'd
             ,
             having
             a
             sad
             Catastrophe
             .
          
           
             Thy
             sable
             Curtaine
             was
             too
             soon
             o'respread
             ,
          
           
             Even
             at
             thy
             noone
             to
             bring
             thee
             to
             thy
             bed
             .
          
           
             Unlucky
             hand
             ,
             and
             heart
             with
             fury
             fir'd
             ,
          
           
             Which
             passage
             made
             whereby
             thy
             soule
             expir'd
             .
          
           
             Yet
             we
             applaud
             the
             wisdome
             of
             thy
             fate
             ,
          
           
             Which
             knew
             to
             value
             thee
             at
             such
             a
             rate
             ,
          
           
             That
             for
             thy
             fall
             an
             Hecatombe
             it
             cost
             ,
          
           
             
             And
             
               Mynne
            
             was
             offered
             to
             appease
             thy
             ghost
             .
          
           
             Thou
             needst
             no
             gilded
             Tombe
             ,
             whereon
             t'
             engrave
             ,
          
           
             The
             name
             of
             worthy
             
               Grey
               ,
            
             which
             thou
             shalt
             have
             ,
          
           
             So
             long
             as
             Glouc'ster
             shall
             that
             name
             retaine
             ,
          
           
             Besieged
             erst
             by
             Brittaines
             
               Charlemaigne
               .
            
          
           
             Thy
             conqueting
             Arme
             made
             thy
             stout
             foe
             to
             yeeld
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             Sword
             had
             wonne
             the
             Trophies
             in
             the
             field
             .
          
           
             Thy
             Coate
             speaks
             thy
             high
             birth
             ,
             but
             thine
             own
             praise
          
           
             Shall
             crowne
             thine
             Armes
             with
             never-fading
             Bayes
             .
          
           
             See
             the
             Argent-Lyon
             which
             hath
             Rampant
             stood
             ,
          
           
             Now
             Couchant
             lie
             in
             Field
             of
             Gules
             and
             Blood
             .
          
           
             The
             Crescent
             Or
             ,
             
               Greys
            
             second
             House
             doth
             marke
             ,
          
           
             Of
             famous
             ancestry
             the
             House
             of
             Werke
             :
          
           
             But
             now
             decrescent
             is
             ,
             it
             's
             Or
             's
             or'espread
          
           
             With
             Colour
             Sable
             ,
             Or
             is
             turn'd
             to
             Lead
             .
          
           
             Farewell
             heroicke
             spirit
             ,
             who
             art
             to
             be
          
           
             Of
             publique
             sorrow
             the
             epitome
             ;
          
           
             All
             sigh
             forth
             grones
             ,
             meethinkes
             the
             Coats
             of
             Blew
          
           
             Are
             strangely
             changed
             into
             a
             Sable
             hew
             .
          
           
             But
             sorrow
             stops
             me
             ,
             and
             my
             griefe
             's
             undrest
             ,
          
           
             And
             rude
             in
             language
             I
             'le
             sigh
             out
             the
             rest
             .
          
        
         
           
             J.
             A.
             
          
        
      
       
         
           EDWARD
           GREY
           ,
           Major
           .
           Anagrams
           III
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             Though
             just
             reward
             mongst
             men
             I
             never
             may
          
           
             Attaine
             ,
             yet
             sure
             God's
             
               Mi
               rewarder
               ay
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             For
             of
             Eternity
             I
             'me
             not
             discarded
             ,
          
           
             Though
             hence-from
             men
             I
             may
             
               goe
               irrewarded
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             Though
             great
             I
             was
             ,
             now
             in
             the
             dust
             I
             lie
             .
          
           
             Great
             ones
             your selves
             ,
             regard
             ,
             
               a
               Worme
               I
               die
               .
            
          
        
         
           Respice
           sinem
           .
           
             Psal.
             22.6
             .
             Job
             25.6
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           
             Chronog
             .
          
           stren
           VVs
           ,
           &
           eXpert
           Vs
           MaIor
           Grey
           CaDIt
           &
           eXpIra
           VIt.
           1644.
           
        
         
           
             J.
             A.
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           Printed
           at
           
             London
          
           for
           〈…〉
           the
           old
           Baylie
           .
           1644.
           
        
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div B01314e-30
           
             Colonell
             
               Mynne
            
             shine
             the
             same
             day
             .
          
        
      
      
  

