







 
   
     
       
         Lachrymæ musarum The tears of the muses : exprest in elegies / written by divers persons of nobility and worth upon the death of the most hopefull, Henry Lord Hastings ... ; collected and set forth by R.B.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A29640 of text R2243 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing B4876). 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
         A29640
         Wing B4876
         ESTC R2243
         12015140
         ocm 12015140
         52510
         
           
            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
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         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A29640)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 52510)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 84:8)
      
       
         
           
             Lachrymæ musarum The tears of the muses : exprest in elegies / written by divers persons of nobility and worth upon the death of the most hopefull, Henry Lord Hastings ... ; collected and set forth by R.B.
             Brome, Richard, d. 1652?
             Dryden, John, 1631-1700.
          
           [2], 98 [i.e. 96] p., [1] folded leaf of plates : ill.
           
             Printed by Tho. Newcomb,
             London :
             1649.
          
           
             Particularly notable for containing the first published work of John Dryden.
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Huntingdon, Henry Hastings, -- Earl of, 1586-1643 -- Poetry.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
       A29640  R2243  (Wing B4876).  civilwar no Lachrymæ Musarum; = the tears of the Muses: exprest in elegies; written by divers persons of nobility and worth, upon the death of the most [no entry] 1649    17813 33 70 0 0 0 0 58 D  The  rate of 58 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the D category of texts with between 35 and 100 defects per 10,000 words. 
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        2003-11 Judith Siefring
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        2003-12 pfs
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               LACHRYMAE
               MVSARVM
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Quam
                   cu●eret
                   ,
                   ●acrymans
                   augusti
                   Herois
                   in
                   vruam
                   ,
                
                 
                   Musa
                   tuum
                   Niobe
                   corpus
                   ▪
                   et
                   Arge
                   tuum
                   !
                
                 
                   Vt
                   fiueret
                   Morbi
                   Dolor
                   aemulus
                   ;
                   utque
                   tume●at
                
                 
                   Pustula
                   ,
                   sic
                   tumeat
                   Lachryma
                   ,
                   mille
                   oculis
                
                 
                   Flete
                   De●e
                   :
                   Britonum
                   hunc
                   Florem
                   tellure
                   repostū
                
                 
                   Expromta
                   in
                   Lachrymas
                   Castalis
                   unda
                   riget
                
              
            
          
        
      
       
       
         
           LACHRYMAE
           MUSARUM
           ;
           The
           Tears
           of
           the
           MUSES
           :
           Exprest
           in
           ELEGIES
           ;
           
             WRITTEN
          
           By
           divers
           persons
           of
           Nobility
           and
           Worth
           ,
           Upon
           the
           death
           of
           the
           most
           hopefull
           ,
           
             Henry
          
           Lord
           
             Hastings
             ,
          
           Onely
           Sonn
           of
           the
           Right
           Honourable
           FERDINANDO
           Earl
           of
           
             Huntingdon
          
           Heir-generall
           of
           the
           high-born
           Prince
           GEORGE
           Duke
           of
           
             Clarence
             ,
          
           Brother
           to
           King
           EDWARD
           the
           fourth
           .
        
         
           Collected
           and
           set
           forth
           by
           
             R.
             B.
             
          
        
         
           
             Dignum
             laude
             virum
             Musae
             vetant
             mori
             .
          
           
             Hor.
             
          
        
         
           London
           ,
           
             Printed
             by
          
           Tho.
           Newcomb
           .
           1649.
           
        
      
       
       
         
           
             The
             Names
             of
             the
             Writers
             of
             these
             following
             ELEGIES
             .
          
           
             Earl
             of
             
               Westmorland
               .
            
          
           
             Lord
             
               Falkland
               .
            
          
           
             Sir
             
               Aston
               Cokaine
               .
            
          
           
             Sir
             
               Arthur
               Gorges
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Robert
               Millward
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Tho.
               Higgons
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Charles
               Cotton
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Tho.
               Pestel
            
             sen.
          
           
             M.
             
               George
               Fairfax
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Francis
               Standish
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               I.
               Ioynes
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Samuel
               Bold
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               I.
               Cave
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Phil.
               Kindar
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Robert
               Herrick
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Iohn
               Denham
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Io.
               Hall
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               I.
               B.
               
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Iohn
               Benson
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               I.
               Bancroft
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Will.
               Pestel
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Tho.
               Pestel
            
             jun.
          
           
             M.
             
               R.
               P.
               
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Io.
               Rosse
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Alex.
               Brome
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Edward
               Standish
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               R.
               Brome
               .
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           
             Upon
             the
             death
             of
             the
             most
             hopeful
             young
             Lord
             ,
             The
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             :
             A
             Remembrance
             from
             a
             Kinsman
             .
          
           
             IS
             there
             a
             bright
             Star
             faln
             from
             this
             our
             Sphere
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             none
             sets
             out
             some
             newer
             Kalender
             ?
          
           
             Do
             the
             Orbs
             sleep
             in
             silence
             ?
             Is
             the
             Scheme
          
           
             Struck
             dumb
             at
             th'
             apprehension
             of
             the
             Theme
             ?
          
           
             I
             shall
             not
             challenge
             
               Booker
            
             here
             ;
             nor
             will
             I
          
           
             Call
             up
             the
             Mathemat-like
             dreams
             of
             
               Lilly
               ,
            
          
           
             To
             search
             the
             reason
             ,
             sift
             Prognosticks
             out
             ,
          
           
             How
             this
             so
             sad
             Disaster
             came
             about
             ;
          
           
             Since
             that
             to
             every
             one
             it
             is
             well
             known
             ,
          
           
             The
             best
             and
             precious
             things
             are
             soonest
             gone
             .
          
           
           
             Such
             Grief
             by
             
             th'cause
             is
             heightned
             to
             excess
             ;
          
           
             And
             where
             that
             falls
             ,
             expression
             goes
             less
             .
          
           
             Yet
             if
             we
             'd
             scan
             why
             thus
             he
             's
             Hasting
             hence
             ,
          
           
             His
             name
             may
             give
             you
             some
             intelligence
             .
          
           
             The
             World
             with
             him
             this
             opposition
             had
             ;
          
           
             He
             was
             too
             good
             for
             it
             ,
             and
             that
             too
             bad
             .
          
           
             
               WESTMORLAND
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             the
             death
             of
             my
             worthy
             Friend
             and
             Kinsman
             ,
             the
             Noble
             ,
             Vertuous
             ,
             and
             Learned
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             FArewel
             ,
             dear
             Lord
             and
             Friend
             ,
             since
             thou
             hast
             chose
          
           
             Rather
             the
             Phoenix
             life
             ,
             then
             death
             of
             Crows
             :
          
           
             Though
             Death
             hath
             ta'n
             thee
             ,
             yet
             I
             'm
             glad
             thy
             Fame
          
           
             Must
             still
             survive
             in
             Learned
             
               Hastings
            
             Name
             .
          
           
             For
             thy
             great
             loss
             ,
             my
             Fortune
             I
             'll
             condole
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             that
             
               Elizium
            
             enjoys
             thy
             soul
             .
          
           
             
               FALKLAND
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             Funeral-Elegie
             upon
             the
             death
             of
             Henry
             Lord
             Hastings
             ,
             Son
             to
             the
             Right
             Honorable
             ,
             Ferdinando
             Earl
             of
             HUNTINGDON
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             KNow
             all
             to
             whom
             these
             few
             sad
             Lines
             shall
             come
             ,
          
           
             This
             melancholy
             
               Epicedium
               ,
            
          
           
             The
             young
             Lord
             
               Hastings
            
             death
             occasion'd
             it
             ,
          
           
             Amidst
             a
             storm
             of
             Lamentations
             writ
             ;
          
           
             Tempests
             of
             sighs
             and
             groans
             ,
             and
             flowing
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             yeelding
             balls
             dissolve
             to
             Delugies
             ;
          
           
             And
             mournful
             Numbers
             that
             with
             dreadful
             sound
          
           
             Wait
             this
             bemoaned
             Body
             to
             the
             ground
             ,
          
           
             Are
             all
             ,
             and
             the
             last
             Duties
             we
             can
             pay
          
           
             That
             Noble
             Spirit
             that
             is
             fled
             away
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             gone
             ,
             alas
             !
             't
             is
             gone
             ,
             though
             it
             did
             leave
          
           
             A
             body
             rich
             in
             all
             Nature
             could
             give
             :
          
           
             Superiour
             in
             beauty
             to
             the
             Youth
          
           
             That
             won
             the
             
               Spartan
            
             Queen
             to
             forfeit
             truth
             ,
          
           
             Break
             Wedlocks
             strictest
             bonds
             ,
             and
             be
             his
             wife
             ,
          
           
             Invironed
             with
             tumults
             all
             her
             life
             .
          
           
           
             His
             yeers
             were
             in
             the
             Balmy
             Spring
             of
             age
             ,
          
           
             Adorn'd
             with
             blossoms
             ripe
             for
             Marriage
             ,
          
           
             And
             but
             mature
             :
             His
             sweet
             Conditions
             known
          
           
             To
             be
             so
             good
             ,
             they
             could
             be
             none
             but
             's
             own
             .
          
           
             Our
             English
             Nation
             was
             enamour'd
             more
          
           
             Of
             his
             full
             Worths
             ,
             then
             
               Rome
            
             was
             heretofore
          
           
             Of
             great
             
               Vespatian's
            
             Jew-subduing
             Heir
             ,
          
           
             The
             love
             and
             the
             delight
             of
             Mankinde
             here
             .
          
           
             After
             a
             large
             survey
             of
             Histories
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Criticks
             (
             curious
             in
             Honour
             ,
             wise
          
           
             In
             parallelling
             generous
             souls
             )
             will
             finde
             ,
          
           
             This
             youthful
             Lord
             did
             bear
             as
             brave
             a
             minde
             :
          
           
             His
             few
             ,
             but
             well-spent
             yeers
             ,
             had
             master'd
             all
          
           
             The
             Liberal
             Arts
             ;
             and
             his
             sweet
             tongue
             could
             fall
          
           
             Into
             the
             ancient
             Dialects
             ;
             dispence
          
           
             Sacred
             
               Iudaea's
            
             amplest
             Eloquence
             ,
          
           
             The
             Latine
             Idiome
             elegantly
             true
             ,
          
           
             And
             Greek
             as
             rich
             as
             
               Athens
            
             ever
             knew
             :
          
           
             The
             
               Italian
            
             and
             the
             
               French
            
             do
             both
             confess
          
           
             Him
             perfect
             in
             their
             Modern
             Languages
             .
          
           
             At
             his
             Nativity
             ,
             what
             angry
             Star
          
           
             Malignant
             Influences
             flung
             so
             far
             ?
          
           
             What
             
               Caput
               Algols
               ,
            
             and
             what
             dire
             Aspects
          
           
             Occasioned
             so
             Tragical
             Effects
             ?
          
           
           
             As
             soon
             as
             Death
             this
             fatal
             blowe
             had
             given
             ,
          
           
             I
             fancy
             mighty
             
               Clarence
            
             sigh'd
             in
             heaven
             ;
          
           
             And
             (
             till
             this
             glorious
             soul
             arrived
             there
             )
          
           
             Recover'd
             not
             from
             his
             Amaze
             and
             Fear
             .
          
           
             Had
             this
             befaln
             in
             antient
             credulous
             times
             ,
          
           
             He
             had
             been
             Deifi'd
             by
             Poets
             Rhymes
             :
          
           
             That
             Age
             (
             enamour'd
             on
             his
             Graces
             )
             soon
          
           
             Majestick
             Fanes
             in
             Adoration
          
           
             Would
             have
             rais'd
             to
             his
             Memory
             ,
             and
             there
          
           
             On
             Golden
             Altars
             ,
             yeer
             succeeding
             yeer
             ,
          
           
             Burnt
             holy
             Incense
             ,
             and
             
               Sabaean
            
             Gums
             ,
          
           
             That
             Curls
             of
             Vapour
             from
             those
             Hecatoms
             ,
          
           
             Should
             reach
             his
             soul
             in
             heaven
             .
             But
             we
             must
             pay
          
           
             No
             such
             Oblations
             in
             our
             purer
             Way
             :
          
           
             A
             nobler
             Service
             we
             him
             owe
             then
             that
             ,
          
           
             His
             fair
             Example
             ever
             t'
             emulate
             :
          
           
             With
             the
             advantage
             of
             our
             double
             yeers
             ,
          
           
             Let
             's
             imitate
             him
             ;
             and
             (
             through
             all
             affairs
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             encounters
             of
             our
             lives
             )
             intend
          
           
             To
             live
             like
             him
             ,
             and
             make
             so
             good
             an
             end
             .
          
           
             To
             aim
             at
             brave
             things
             ,
             is
             an
             evident
             signe
             ,
          
           
             In
             Spirits
             ,
             that
             to
             Honour
             they
             incline
             ;
          
           
             And
             (
             though
             they
             do
             come
             short
             in
             the
             Contest
             )
          
           
             'T
             is
             full
             of
             glory
             to
             have
             done
             ones
             best
             .
          
           
           
             You
             mournful
             Parents
             ,
             whom
             the
             Fates
             compel
          
           
             To
             bear
             the
             loss
             of
             this
             great
             Miracle
             ,
          
           
             This
             Wonder
             of
             our
             times
             ;
             amidst
             a
             sigh
             ,
          
           
             (
             Surrounded
             with
             your
             thickst
             Calamity
             )
          
           
             Reflect
             on
             Joy
             ;
             think
             what
             an
             happiness
          
           
             (
             Though
             Humane
             Nature
             here
             conceits
             it
             less
             )
          
           
             It
             was
             to
             have
             a
             son
             of
             so
             much
             worth
             ,
          
           
             He
             was
             too
             good
             to
             grace
             the
             wretched
             Earth
             .
          
           
             As
             silver
             
               Trent
            
             through
             our
             North
             Counties
             glides
             ,
          
           
             Adorn'd
             with
             Swans
             ,
             and
             crown'd
             with
             flowry
             sides
             ;
          
           
             And
             rushing
             into
             mightier
             
               Humber's
            
             waves
             ,
          
           
             Augments
             the
             Regal
             
               Aestuarium's
            
             braves
             :
          
           
             So
             he
             ,
             after
             a
             Life
             of
             Eighteen
             yeers
             ,
          
           
             Well
             manag'd
             ,
             (
             as
             Example
             to
             our
             Peers
             )
          
           
             In
             's
             early
             youth
             (
             encountring
             sullen
             Fate
             )
          
           
             Orecome
             ,
             became
             a
             Trophey
             to
             his
             state
             .
          
           
             Didst
             thou
             sleep
             ,
             
               Hymen
               ?
            
             or
             art
             lately
             grown
          
           
             T'
             affect
             the
             Subterranean
             Region
             ?
          
           
             Enamour'd
             on
             blear'd
             
               Libentina's
            
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Hoarse
             howling
             Dirges
             ,
             and
             the
             baleful
             cries
          
           
             Of
             inauspicious
             voices
             ,
             and
             (
             above
          
           
             Thy
             Star-like
             Torch
             )
             with
             horrid
             Tombs
             in
             love
             ?
          
           
             Thou
             art
             ;
             or
             surely
             hadst
             oppos'd
             this
             hie
          
           
             Affront
             of
             Death
             against
             thy
             Deitie
             ;
          
           
           
             Nor
             wrong'd
             an
             excellent
             Virgin
             ,
             who
             had
             given
          
           
             Her
             heart
             to
             him
             ,
             who
             hath
             his
             soul
             to
             heaven
             :
          
           
             Whose
             Beauties
             thou
             hast
             clouded
             ,
             and
             whose
             eyes
          
           
             Drowned
             in
             tears
             of
             these
             sad
             Exequies
             .
          
           
             Those
             fam'd
             Heroes
             of
             the
             Golden
             Age
             ,
          
           
             Those
             Demi-gods
             ,
             whose
             Vertues
             did
             asswage
          
           
             And
             calm
             the
             furies
             of
             the
             wildest
             Mindes
             ,
          
           
             That
             were
             grown
             salvage
             ,
             ev'n
             against
             their
             kindes
             ;
          
           
             Might
             from
             their
             Constellations
             have
             look'd
             down
             ,
          
           
             And
             (
             by
             this
             young
             Lord
             )
             seen
             themselves
             out-gone
             .
          
           
             Farewel
             ,
             admired
             Spirit
             ,
             that
             art
             free
          
           
             From
             this
             strict
             prison
             of
             Mortality
             .
          
           
             
               Ashby
               ,
            
             proud
             of
             the
             honour
             to
             enshrine
          
           
             The
             beauteous
             Body
             ,
             (
             whence
             the
             Soul
             divine
          
           
             Did
             lately
             part
             )
             be
             careful
             of
             thy
             Trust
             ,
          
           
             That
             no
             profane
             hand
             wrong
             that
             hallowed
             Dust
             .
          
           
             The
             costly
             Marble
             needs
             no
             friend
             t'
             engrave
          
           
             Upon
             it
             any
             doleful
             Epitaph
             :
          
           
             No
             good
             man's
             tongue
             that
             office
             will
             decline
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             yeers
             succeeding
             reach
             the
             end
             of
             Time
             .
          
           
             
               ASTON
               COKAINE
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Upon
             the
             Death
             of
             HENRY
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             SInce
             that
             young
             
               Hastings
            
             bove
             our
             
               Hemisphear
            
          
           
             Is
             snatch'd
             away
             ,
             O
             let
             some
             
               Angels
            
             Wing
          
           
             Lend
             me
             a
             Quill
             ,
             his
             Noble
             Fame
             to
             rear
          
           
             Up
             to
             that
             Quire
             which
             Hallelujah
             sing
             .
          
           
             Sure
             
               Heaven
            
             it self
             for
             us
             thought
             him
             too
             good
             ,
          
           
             And
             took
             him
             hence
             just
             in
             his
             strength
             and
             prime
             ,
          
           
             When
             Vertue
             'gan
             to
             make
             him
             understood
             ,
          
           
             Beyond
             the
             Peers
             and
             Nobles
             of
             his
             time
             .
          
           
             Wherefore
             't
             will
             ask
             more
             then
             a
             Mortal
             Pen
             ,
          
           
             To
             speak
             his
             worth
             unto
             
               Posterity
               ;
            
          
           
             Whose
             judgment
             shin'd
             'mongst
             grave
             and
             learned
             men
             ,
          
           
             With
             true
             Devotion
             ,
             and
             integrity
             :
          
           
             For
             which
             ,
             in
             heaven
             ,
             the
             Joys
             of
             lasting
             Bliss
          
           
             He
             reaps
             ,
             whilst
             we
             sowe
             Tears
             for
             him
             we
             miss
             .
          
           
           
             But
             I
             no
             praise
             for
             
               Poesie
            
             affect
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Flatteries
             hoped
             meed
             doth
             me
             incite
             ;
          
           
             Such
             base-born
             thoughts
             ,
             as
             servile
             ,
             I
             reject
             :
          
           
             
               Sorrow
            
             doth
             dictate
             what
             my
             
               Zeal
            
             doth
             write
             :
          
           
             
               Sorrow
            
             for
             that
             rich
             Treasure
             we
             have
             lost
             ,
          
           
             
               Zeal
            
             to
             the
             Memory
             of
             what
             we
             had
             :
          
           
             And
             that
             is
             all
             they
             can
             ,
             that
             can
             say
             most
             .
          
           
             So
             sings
             my
             
               Muse
            
             in
             
               Zeal
            
             and
             
               Sorrow
            
             clad
             ;
          
           
             So
             sang
             
               Achilles
            
             to
             his
             silver
             Harp
             ,
          
           
             When
             foul
             affront
             had
             '
             reft
             his
             fair
             delight
             ;
          
           
             So
             sings
             sweet
             
               Philomel
            
             against
             the
             Sharp
             ;
          
           
             So
             sings
             the
             
               Swan
               ,
            
             when
             life
             is
             taking
             flight
             :
          
           
             So
             sings
             my
             
               Muse
            
             the
             notes
             which
             
               Sorrow
            
             weeps
             ;
          
           
             Which
             
               Antheme
            
             sung
             ,
             my
             
               Muse
            
             for
             ever
             sleeps
             .
          
           
             
               ARTHUR
               GORGES
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             EPIGRAM
             Upon
             the
             death
             of
             the
             most
             hopeful
             ,
             Henry
             Lord
             Hastings
             ,
             Eldest
             son
             of
             the
             Right
             Honorable
             ,
             FERDINANDO
             Earl
             of
             Huntingdon
             ,
             Heir
             general
             of
             the
             high-born
             Prince
             ,
             GEORGE
             Duke
             of
             Clarence
             ,
             Brother
             to
             King
             Edward
             4.
             
          
           
             'T
             Is
             a
             Mistake
             ;
             Lord
             
               Hastings
            
             did
             not
             die
             ,
          
           
             But
             't
             was
             our
             Hopes
             ,
             and
             his
             great
             Parents
             Joy
          
           
             That
             did
             depart
             .
             Is
             he
             said
             to
             decease
             ,
          
           
             That
             raigns
             in
             Glory
             now
             ,
             and
             lives
             in
             Peace
             ?
          
           
             Yet
             may
             we
             gently
             mourn
             ,
             not
             that
             he
             's
             gone
             ,
          
           
             But
             left
             us
             till
             the
             Resurrection
             .
          
           
             Our
             Joy
             ought
             to
             be
             more
             ,
             since
             he
             doth
             get
          
           
             A
             Heavenly
             Crown
             ,
             for
             an
             Earths
             Coronet
             .
          
           
             Then
             let
             us
             cease
             our
             Tears
             :
             for
             if
             we
             grieve
          
           
             Too
             much
             ,
             too
             little
             surely
             we
             believe
             .
          
           
             
               ROB.
               MILLWARD
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Upon
             the
             death
             of
             my
             Lord
             Hastings
             .
          
           
             THese
             are
             thy
             Triumphs
             ,
             Death
             ,
             who
             prid'st
             to
             give
          
           
             Their
             lives
             an
             end
             ,
             who
             best
             deserve
             to
             live
             .
          
           
             Dull
             ,
             useless
             men
             ,
             whom
             Nature
             makes
             in
             vain
             ,
          
           
             Or
             but
             to
             fill
             her
             Number
             and
             her
             Train
             ;
          
           
             Men
             by
             the
             world
             remembred
             but
             till
             Death
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             empty
             story
             endeth
             with
             their
             breath
             ,
          
           
             Stay
             till
             Old-age
             consume
             them
             ;
             when
             the
             Good
             ,
          
           
             The
             Noble
             ,
             and
             the
             Wise
             ,
             are
             kill'd
             i'
             th'
             bud
             .
          
           
             Such
             was
             the
             Subject
             of
             our
             Grief
             ,
             in
             whom
          
           
             All
             that
             times
             past
             can
             boast
             ,
             or
             times
             to
             come
          
           
             Can
             hope
             ,
             is
             lost
             :
             whose
             Blood
             ,
             although
             its
             Springs
          
           
             Stream
             from
             the
             Royal
             loyns
             of
             
               Englands
            
             Kings
             ,
          
           
             His
             Vertue
             hath
             exalted
             and
             refin'd
             ;
          
           
             For
             his
             high
             Birth
             was
             lower
             then
             his
             Minde
          
           
             But
             that
             the
             Fates
             ,
             inexorably
             bent
          
           
             To
             mischief
             Man
             ,
             and
             ruine
             his
             Content
             ,
          
           
             Would
             have
             this
             Sacrifice
             ,
             the
             Sisters
             might
          
           
             Have
             been
             affected
             with
             so
             sweet
             a
             sight
             ,
          
           
             And
             thought
             their
             hastie
             Cruelty
             a
             Crime
             ,
          
           
             To
             tear
             him
             from
             his
             Friends
             before
             his
             Time
             .
          
           
             
               THOMAS
               HIGGONS
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             An
             Elegie
             upon
             the
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             AMongst
             the
             Mourners
             that
             attend
             his
             Herse
          
           
             With
             flowing
             eyes
             ,
             and
             wish
             each
             Tear
             a
             Verse
             ,
          
           
             T'
             embalm
             his
             Fame
             ,
             and
             his
             dear
             Merit
             save
          
           
             Uninjur'd
             from
             th'
             oblivion
             of
             the
             Grave
             ;
          
           
             A
             Sacrificer
             I
             am
             come
             to
             be
             ,
          
           
             Of
             this
             poor
             Offring
             to
             his
             Memory
             .
          
           
             O
             could
             our
             pious
             Meditations
             thrive
          
           
             So
             well
             ,
             to
             keep
             his
             better
             part
             alive
             !
          
           
             So
             that
             ,
             in
             stead
             of
             Him
             ,
             we
             could
             but
             finde
          
           
             Those
             fair
             Examples
             of
             his
             Letter'd
             Minde
             :
          
           
             Vertuous
             Emulation
             then
             might
             be
          
           
             Our
             hopes
             of
             Good
             men
             ,
             though
             not
             such
             as
             He.
             
          
           
             But
             in
             his
             hopeful
             progress
             since
             he
             's
             crost
             ,
          
           
             Pale
             Vertue
             droops
             ,
             now
             her
             best
             Pattern
             's
             lost
             .
          
           
             'T
             was
             hard
             ,
             neither
             Divine
             ,
             nor
             Humane
             Parts
             ,
          
           
             The
             strength
             of
             Goodness
             ,
             Learning
             ,
             and
             of
             Arts
             ,
          
           
             Full
             crowds
             of
             Friends
             ,
             nor
             all
             the
             Pray'rs
             of
             them
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             that
             he
             was
             the
             Pillar
             of
             his
             Stem
             ,
          
           
           
             Affection's
             Mark
             ,
             secure
             of
             all
             mens
             Hate
             ,
          
           
             Could
             rescue
             him
             from
             the
             sad
             stroke
             of
             Fate
             .
          
           
             Why
             was
             not
             th'
             Air
             drest
             in
             Prodigions
             forms
             ,
          
           
             To
             groan
             in
             Thunder
             ,
             and
             to
             weep
             in
             Storms
             ?
          
           
             And
             ,
             as
             at
             some
             mens
             Fall
             ,
             why
             did
             not
             His
          
           
             In
             Nature
             work
             a
             Metamorphosis
             ?
          
           
             No
             ;
             he
             was
             gentle
             ,
             and
             his
             soul
             was
             sent
          
           
             A
             silent
             Victim
             to
             the
             Firmament
             .
          
           
             Weep
             ,
             Ladies
             ,
             weep
             ,
             lament
             great
             
               Hastings
            
             Fall
             ;
          
           
             His
             House
             is
             bury'd
             in
             his
             Funeral
             :
          
           
             Bathe
             him
             in
             Tears
             ,
             till
             there
             appear
             no
             trace
          
           
             Of
             those
             sad
             Blushes
             in
             his
             lovely
             face
             :
          
           
             Let
             there
             be
             in
             't
             of
             Guilt
             no
             seeming
             sence
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             other
             Colour
             then
             of
             Innocence
             .
          
           
             For
             he
             was
             wise
             and
             good
             ,
             though
             he
             was
             young
             ,
          
           
             Well
             suited
             to
             the
             Stock
             from
             whence
             he
             sprung
             :
          
           
             And
             what
             in
             Youth
             is
             Ignorance
             and
             Vice
             ,
          
           
             In
             him
             prov'd
             Piety
             of
             an
             excellent
             price
             .
          
           
             Farewel
             ,
             dear
             Lord
             ;
             and
             since
             thy
             body
             must
          
           
             In
             time
             return
             to
             its
             first
             matter
             ,
             Dust
             ;
          
           
             Rest
             in
             thy
             melancholy
             Tomb
             in
             peace
             :
             for
             who
          
           
             Would
             longer
             live
             ,
             that
             could
             but
             now
             die
             so
             ?
          
           
             
               CHA.
               COTTON
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             For
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             ,
             LVCIE
             Countess
             of
             HUNTINGDON
             .
             1649.
             
             From
             her
             Honours
             humblest
             Servant
             ,
             T.
             P.
             Her
             Soliloquie
             ,
             or
             her
             Meditation
             .
          
           
             'T
             Is
             mystick
             Union
             ,
             Man
             and
             Wife
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             scarce
             distinct
             from
             Single
             life
             ,
          
           
             Till
             like
             the
             Sun
             ,
             a
             Son
             arise
             ,
          
           
             And
             set
             them
             Both
             before
             their
             eyes
             :
          
           
             No
             sweeter
             ,
             braver
             ,
             fairer
             sight
             ,
          
           
             Then
             thus
             to
             stand
             in
             our
             own
             Light
             .
          
           
             And
             such
             a
             Son
             I
             joy'd
             :
             (
             Ay
             me
             !
          
           
             Was
             ever
             such
             a
             Son
             as
             he
             ?
             )
          
           
             And
             felt
             what
             fervent
             spirits
             of
             Love
          
           
             Orbs
             of
             Maternal
             Bowels
             move
             .
          
           
             I
             wou'd
             not
             shun
             those
             outward
             snares
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Shape
             ,
             of
             shining
             eyes
             and
             hairs
             ;
          
           
           
             Which
             still
             the
             more
             they
             catch
             ,
             or
             wound
             ,
          
           
             More
             pleasing
             still
             their
             power
             I
             found
             .
          
           
             And
             it
             is
             lawful
             ,
             godly
             too
             ,
          
           
             To
             love
             what
             Gods
             own
             fingers
             do
             :
          
           
             Whose
             Angels
             still
             are
             sweetly
             fac'd
             ,
          
           
             Himself
             with
             perfect
             Beauty
             grac'd
             .
          
           
             But
             eager
             Vertue
             from
             the
             Clay
             ,
          
           
             In
             words
             and
             actions
             making
             way
          
           
             To
             Sense
             :
             in
             All
             that
             heard
             or
             saw
          
           
             Became
             a
             fierce
             almighty
             Law
             ,
          
           
             And
             stoop'd
             all
             hearts
             that
             were
             not
             stone
             ,
          
           
             Or
             drown'd
             in
             Malice
             ;
             or
             in
             Moan
             ,
          
           
             Like
             mine
             .
             So
             overgone
             with
             Wo
             ,
          
           
             My
             very
             Reason
             bids
             it
             go
             :
          
           
             Nor
             lies
             it
             in
             the
             power
             of
             Wit
             ,
          
           
             By
             Reason
             to
             recover
             it
             .
          
           
             
               The
               Rational
               Reply
               .
            
             
               By
               Reason
               to
               recover
               it
               ,
            
             
               
                 Sans
              
               forlorn
               Hope
               ,
               or
               wings
               of
               Wit
               ,
            
             
               Who
               serves
               you
               ,
               his
               main
               Battel
               brings
               .
            
             
               Heark
               how
               the
               feather'd
               Tempest
               sings
               ;
            
             
               Your
               clouds
               of
               Grief
               transpiercing
               quite
               ,
            
             
               Or
               hurrying
               to
               disordered
               Flight
               .
            
             
             
               Then
               (
               Sorrow
               vanquisht
               )
               on
               his
               Herse
            
             
               Rears
               Trophies
               of
               victorious
               Verse
               .
            
             
               First
               ,
               let
               us
               ask
               Impatience
               why
            
             
               At
               gentle
               Death's
               approach
               we
               cry
               .
            
             
               Sweet
               Favourite
               of
               heaven
               ,
               that
               flies
            
             
               With
               
                 Cupids
              
               face
               ,
               but
               
                 Hermes
              
               eyes
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               Rods
               ,
               and
               Snakes
               ,
               and
               seeming
               harms
               ,
            
             
               Our
               souls
               in
               slumber
               wisely
               charms
               .
            
             
               For
               that
               poor
               Spark
               call'd
               Life
               ;
               the
               brand
               ,
            
             
               The
               Rush
               we
               carry
               in
               our
               hand
               ;
            
             
               Which
               dropping
               and
               defiling
               spends
               :
            
             
               Death
               gives
               Delight
               that
               never
               ends
               .
            
             
               O
               mad
               mistake
               !
               Sea-tost
               ,
               a
               Calm
               ;
            
             
               And
               wounded
               ,
               we
               reject
               a
               Balm
               :
            
             
               Rabide
               for
               want
               of
               Rest
               ,
               we
               keep
            
             
               A bawling
               ,
               and
               refuse
               to
               sleep
               :
            
             
               Dead-weary
               tir'd
               ,
               yet
               scorn
               to
               stay
               ;
            
             
               And
               ,
               Cripple
               ,
               hurl
               our
               Crutch
               away
               .
            
             
               But
               these
               are
               General
               :
               for
               your
               pain
            
             
               Here
               's
               water
               of
               a
               Special
               vein
               ;
            
             
               Wherein
               no
               relish
               you
               shall
               feel
            
             
               Of
               Sulph'ry
               Wit
               ,
               but
               Reasons
               steel
               .
            
             
               What
               cou'd
               you
               wish
               your
               Son
               ?
               A
               pair
            
             
               Of
               Dove-like
               Eyes
               ;
               as
               
                 Ioseph
              
               fair
               ;
            
             
             
               Straight
               as
               young
               Mountain-Pines
               
                 ,
              
               whose
               arms
            
             
               The
               Sun
               with
               early
               kisses
               warms
               :
            
             
               Guilds
               ,
               blazons
               so
               each
               Leaf
               and
               Limb
               ,
            
             
               That
               Paint
               is
               dirt
               ,
               and
               Metal
               dim
               .
            
             
               He
               was
               all
               this
               ,
               and
               all
               that
               we
            
             
               Can
               fetch
               from
               Beauties
               pedigree
               .
            
             
               The
               Case
               so
               bright
               ,
               what
               radiance
               threw
            
             
               The
               Jewel
               that
               it
               did
               indue
               !
            
             
               The
               Queen
               that
               held
               the
               Throne
               in
               state
            
             
               Of
               Grace
               ,
               there
               drest
               and
               re-create
               :
            
             
               Till
               like
               a
               Lark
               from
               earthly
               Cage
            
             
               Enlarg'd
               ,
               and
               fir'd
               with
               strong
               new
               Rage
               ,
            
             
               She
               mounts
               ,
               and
               sings
               in
               heaven
               .
               And
               what
               ?
            
             
               May
               we
               not
               fall
               some
               drops
               thereat
               ?
            
             
               Good
               reason
               ,
               if
               the
               Tears
               you
               shed
            
             
               From
               joyful
               brains
               expansion
               spread
               ,
            
             
               Call
               it
               not
               Grief
               ;
               foul
               Envie
               't
               is
               ,
            
             
               To
               whine
               at
               Saints
               enshrin'd
               in
               bliss
               .
            
             
               Reflect
               on
               all
               the
               whole
               worlds
               frame
               ,
            
             
               It
               climbs
               and
               twines
               to
               whence
               it
               came
               :
            
             
               So
               Beams
               that
               shine
               ,
               and
               Streams
               that
               flow
               ,
            
             
               Back
               to
               their
               Sun
               and
               Ocean
               go
               .
            
             
               So
               Vernal
               Flowers
               ,
               which
               ,
               at
               their
               birth
            
             
               Thrust
               up
               pure
               crowns
               from
               impure
               Earth
               ,
            
             
             
               Grow
               by
               degrees
               full
               ripe
               ,
               and
               then
            
             
               Must
               hide
               them
               in
               their
               Roots
               agen
               .
            
             
               He
               parted
               in
               Perfection's
               time
               ,
            
             
               In
               Golden
               Number
               ,
               and
               in
               Prime
            
             
               Of
               Life
               ,
               of
               Love
               ,
               and
               White
               Report
            
             
               For
               Vertue
               ;
               past
               the
               ranker
               sort
            
             
               Of
               Flash-green
               youths
               ;
               no
               Vicious
               Stain
            
             
               Envenoming
               his
               Blood
               or
               Brain
               :
            
             
               From
               Duels
               ,
               Drink
               ,
               Dice
               ,
               Cares
               ,
               Age
               ,
               Laws
               ,
            
             
               Faces
               of
               Dames
               ,
               and
               Eagles
               Claws
               ,
            
             
               Exempt
               :
               he
               laughs
               at
               us
               that
               still
            
             
               Bleat
               round
               the
               bottom
               of
               the
               hill
               .
            
             
               Last
               ,
               think
               of
               your
               clear
               open
               way
            
             
               To
               heaven
               ,
               obstructed
               by
               his
               stay
               ;
            
             
               While
               ,
               more
               then
               Mer-Maid
               ,
               face
               and
               words
            
             
               All
               Ear-wax
               melts
               ,
               and
               breaks
               all
               Cords
               .
            
             
               Did
               not
               his
               Look
               ,
               his
               Voice
               and
               Deed
               ,
            
             
               With
               full
               commerce
               of
               Pleasure
               feed
            
             
               Your
               Sense
               and
               Soul
               ?
               which
               now
               takes
               wing
               ,
            
             
               Checks
               not
               at
               ought
               ;
               nor
               spies
               fair
               thing
            
             
               Worth
               stooping
               at
               .
               O
               let
               it
               flie
            
             
               To
               Quarries
               there
               above
               the
               skie
               .
            
             
               
                 THO.
                 PESTEL
                 ,
                 
                   Pat.
                   
                
              
            
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             the
             untimely
             death
             of
             HENRY
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             ,
             Onely
             Son
             to
             FERDINAND
             and
             LUCIE
             ,
             Earl
             and
             Countess
             of
             Huntingdon
             .
          
           
             UP
             ,
             Beldame
             
               Muse
               !
            
             thy
             Climacterick's
             past
             :
          
           
             But
             one
             work
             more
             ;
             thy
             lastingst
             ,
             if
             not
             last
             .
          
           
             Lord
             
               Hastings
            
             glorious
             shade
             before
             us
             stands
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Vertue
             exacts
             this
             Duty
             from
             our
             hands
             :
          
           
             'T
             will
             be
             a
             Night-piece
             ,
             friends
             :
             Here
             never
             seek
          
           
             
               Lucie
            
             large-soul'd
             ,
             and
             
               Ferdinand
            
             the
             meek
             ;
          
           
             Who
             both
             esteem'd
             it
             braver
             work
             and
             worth
             ,
          
           
             To
             bring
             this
             Son
             up
             ,
             then
             t'have
             brought
             him
             forth
             .
          
           
             He
             
             th'Exposition
             to
             their
             double
             Text
             ,
          
           
             The
             Glass
             wherein
             they
             saw
             themselves
             reflext
             ;
          
           
             He
             ,
             that
             was
             He
             ;
             and
             She
             ,
             and
             both
             in
             one
             ,
          
           
             Both
             she
             and
             he
             ,
             all
             three
             ,
             in
             him
             are
             gone
             .
          
           
             This
             Sun-set
             all
             obscur'd
             :
             with
             
               Aetna
            
             prest
             ,
          
           
             Their
             burning
             Giant
             Grief
             can
             take
             no
             rest
             .
          
           
           
             To
             print
             so
             black
             a
             Sorrow
             fair
             ,
             I
             want
          
           
             Gold-plate
             for
             Paper
             ,
             Pen
             of
             Adamant
             .
          
           
             Veils
             on
             those
             chief
             Close-mourners
             faces
             spread
             ;
          
           
             I
             pencil
             out
             all
             gentler
             eyes
             in
             Red
          
           
             Swoln
             lids
             ;
             as
             having
             spent
             their
             bottom-store
          
           
             Of
             precious
             dew-drops
             ,
             till
             their
             hearts
             are
             sore
             .
          
           
             Which
             fast
             congeal'd
             Balm
             has
             his
             Herse
             infixt
          
           
             In
             Chrystal
             Case
             ,
             with
             Pearl
             and
             Amber
             mixt
             .
          
           
             Rare
             Monument
             !
             but
             cannot
             him
             refine
             ,
          
           
             So
             rich
             a
             Saint
             impov'rishing
             his
             Shrine
             .
          
           
             Was
             he
             not
             purest
             ,
             fairest
             ,
             wisest
             ,
             best
             ?
          
           
             All
             Graces
             magazin'd
             ,
             yet
             unexprest
             .
          
           
             When
             his
             bright
             Bodies
             eminence
             I
             view'd
             ,
          
           
             With
             such
             a
             soveraign
             Intellect
             indu'd
             ,
          
           
             So
             just
             and
             ponder'd
             Temp'rature
             to
             finde
             ,
          
           
             So
             early
             ripe
             ,
             so
             richly
             matcht
             in
             Minde
             ;
          
           
             Choice
             Gem
             of
             Nature
             ,
             set
             in
             Nuturing
             Gold
             ;
          
           
             Exulting
             Fancy
             quick
             conceiv'd
             the
             Mold
          
           
             Was
             ready
             now
             ,
             wherein
             
             th'Almightie's
             hand
          
           
             Wou'd
             cast
             new
             Nobles
             ,
             and
             restore
             the
             Land
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             finest
             Gold
             ,
             if
             in
             compare
             it
             bring
             ,
          
           
             Is
             sure
             to
             finde
             his
             strong
             
               Mercurial
            
             Sting
             .
          
           
             He
             caus'd
             us
             hurl
             our
             Vows
             ,
             and
             gave
             free
             scope
          
           
             To
             change
             our
             Wishes
             into
             Present
             Hope
             .
          
           
           
             But
             O
             
               Sydneian
               !
            
             O
             Blood-Royal
             Fate
             !
          
           
             
               Great
               Britains
            
             curse
             ,
             whose
             sinful
             ,
             shameful
             State
          
           
             Makes
             all
             Heroick
             Vertue
             soon
             decay
             ;
          
           
             Which
             mad
             she
             throws
             ,
             or
             just
             God
             takes
             away
             .
          
           
             So
             fell
             our
             
               Ripheus
            
             in
             
               New
               Troy
               ,
            
             lest
             he
          
           
             Perchance
             her
             Fires
             and
             instant
             Ruine
             see
             :
          
           
             For
             will
             that
             sacred
             Thundrer
             never
             powre
          
           
             On
             such
             a
             
               Sodom
            
             his
             revengeful
             showre
             ?
          
           
             Where
             Lust
             and
             Pride
             ,
             with
             their
             five
             brethren
             stand
          
           
             In
             bold
             defiance
             of
             his
             armed
             hand
             :
          
           
             Where
             Lords
             and
             Gentry
             ,
             mindless
             of
             white
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Graceless
             of
             old
             ,
             are
             now
             beneath
             all
             Shame
             .
          
           
             Pardon
             ,
             fresh
             Saint
             ,
             to
             set
             thy
             shining
             Good
          
           
             With
             such
             coarse
             foils
             ,
             to
             make
             it
             understood
             :
          
           
             To
             topless
             height
             ,
             from
             their
             base
             depth
             below
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             flaming
             Pyramid
             of
             Praise
             wou'd
             grow
             .
          
           
             But
             for
             thou
             joy'st
             
             th'applause
             of
             Angels
             there
             ,
          
           
             How
             frivolous
             are
             our
             weak
             Ecchoes
             here
             !
          
           
             
               THO.
               PESTEL
               
                 the
                 father
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Illustrissimi
             Herois
             ,
             Domini
             HENRICI
             HASTINGS
             ,
             EPICAEDIUM
             .
          
           
             INcipe
             Musa
             dolens
             (
             causaest
             heu
             magna
             doloris
             )
          
           
             Edere
             lugubri
             Carmina
             moesta
             sono
             .
          
           
             Squallida
             funerea
             cingas
             mea
             Musa
             cupresso
          
           
             Tempora
             ,
             &
             in
             lacrymas
             fons
             Heliconis
             eat
             .
          
           
             Tristia
             prol●tis
             jam
             sunt
             celebranda
             choreis
          
           
             Funera
             ;
             plorantes
             tristia
             sola
             decent
             .
          
           
             Nunc
             fletus
             ,
             pallor
             ,
             gemitus
             ,
             suspiria
             ,
             luctus
             ,
          
           
             Atque
             decent
             madidae
             funera
             tanta
             genae
             .
          
           
             Heu
             quanta
             est
             rigidi
             dura
             inclementia
             Fati
             ?
          
           
             Corripit
             egregium
             mors
             inopina
             virum
             ;
          
           
             Cujus
             erant
             animo
             Pietas
             ,
             Sapientia
             ,
             Virtus
             ,
          
           
             Qui
             fuerat
             generis
             spesque
             decusque
             sui
             ;
          
           
             Dum
             parat
             ut
             Sponsus
             taedas
             celebrare
             jugales
             ,
          
           
             Vrna
             vicem
             thalamis
             cogit
             inire
             suis
             .
          
           
             Sperata
             arescit
             tenera
             modò
             messis
             in
             herba
             ,
          
           
             Absumptus
             subito
             funere
             penè
             Puer
             .
          
           
           
             Sed
             cum
             Nestoreis
             fuerat
             dignissimus
             annis
             ,
          
           
             Tam
             citò
             cur
             tetricis
             praeda
             deabus
             erat
             ?
          
           
             An
             quia
             pulcher
             erat
             ,
             primaeque
             in
             Flore
             Iuventae
          
           
             Parca
             fuit
             teneri
             capta
             decore
             viri
             ?
          
           
             An
             quod
             amant
             Iuvenum
             pasci
             Exanthemata
             Flore
             ,
          
           
             Signavit
             niveam
             Pustula
             rubra
             cutem
             ?
          
           
             Pustula
             Lernaeo
             crescens
             pollentius
             angue
          
           
             Insperata
             lues
             ,
             torruit
             igne
             jecur
             .
          
           
             Insuetas
             Libitina
             dapes
             Bellaria
             gestit
             ,
          
           
             Nullaque
             plebei
             corporis
             off
             a
             placet
             .
          
           
             
               Moestus
               cecinit
               ,
               GEOR
               .
               FAIREFAX
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
          
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
             .
          
           
             
               PHOCYLIDES
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             LEt
             every
             generous
             soul
             pay
             to
             this
             Herse
          
           
             Some
             tribute
             of
             his
             Grief
             to
             flow
             in
             Verse
             .
          
           
             Hast
             not
             a
             vein
             for
             Verse
             ?
             yet
             if
             thou
             could
          
           
             Distil
             each
             word
             in
             Numbers
             ,
             sure
             thou
             would
             .
          
           
             All
             Sorrows
             ,
             streams
             flow
             not
             from
             Pens
             ,
             but
             Eyes
             :
          
           
             Let
             others
             write
             ;
             thou
             ow'st
             thy
             Sighs
             and
             Cries
             .
          
           
             
               G.
               F
               ▪
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Upon
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             ,
             LUCIE
             Countess
             of
             Huntingdon's
             Heroick
             and
             most
             Christian
             bearing
             of
             that
             grand
             Affliction
             ,
             the
             death
             of
             her
             onely
             Son
             ,
             The
             young
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             HEavens
             bless
             your
             Wits
             (
             dear
             
               Madam
            
             )
             here
             's
             a
             sad
          
           
             Trial
             ,
             enough
             to
             make
             a
             
               Man
            
             stark
             mad
             .
          
           
             A
             Cross
             might
             vex
             a
             blest
             Saint's
             patience
             ,
          
           
             Were
             he
             not
             mounted
             'bove
             the
             reach
             of
             Sense
             .
          
           
             How
             shall
             a
             
               female
            
             brest
             be
             able
             then
             ,
          
           
             To
             bear
             a
             shock
             might
             shake
             the
             best
             of
             
               men
               ?
            
          
           
             To
             me
             ,
             a
             Miracle
             it
             is
             ,
             you
             live
             ;
          
           
             Much
             more
             ,
             to
             hear
             that
             you
             do
             onely
             grieve
             :
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             what
             is
             yet
             more
             strange
             to
             me
             ,
             that
             you
          
           
             In
             point
             of
             Grief
             ,
             pay
             Nature
             
               but
            
             her
             
               due
               :
            
          
           
             As
             if
             you
             could
             do
             more
             then
             others
             ,
             and
          
           
             Had
             all
             those
             rebel-Passions
             〈◊〉
             command
             .
          
           
           
             Upon
             a
             loss
             so
             
               heavie
            
             as
             yours
             is
             ,
          
           
             Some
             
               Niobe
            
             had
             been
             a
             
               stone
               ,
            
             by
             this
             :
          
           
             And
             
               we
            
             might
             plain
             have
             read
             her
             discontent
             ,
          
           
             On
             
               her
            
             still
             
               weeping
            
             Marble-monument
             .
          
           
             
               Madame
               ,
            
             you
             shame
             the
             very
             
               Stoicks
               ,
            
             who
          
           
             But
             
               talkt
            
             of
             those
             brave
             matters
             ,
             which
             you
             
               do
               .
            
          
           
             They
             could
             
               boast
            
             much
             ,
             and
             well
             
               discourse
            
             upon
          
           
             The
             
               patient
            
             suffering
             of
             
               affliction
               :
            
          
           
             But
             ,
             when
             it
             came
             to
             th'
             point
             ,
             they
             ne'er
             came
             nie
          
           
             This
             
               acting
            
             part
             of
             
               your
            
             Philosophie
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             't
             is
             no
             wonder
             that
             a
             
               Stoick
            
             you
          
           
             Out-strip
             ;
             I
             'd
             see
             a
             
               Christian
            
             thus
             much
             do
             :
          
           
             Shew
             me
             a
             Christian
             that
             a
             Cross
             will
             take
             ,
          
           
             So
             heavie
             ,
             
               freely
               ,
            
             for
             his
             
               Iesus
            
             sake
             ;
          
           
             Or
             ,
             that
             shall
             be
             presented
             with
             a
             
               Cup
            
          
           
             So
             
               bitter
               ,
            
             and
             willingly
             shall
             drink
             it
             
               up
               .
            
          
           
             Well
             ,
             I
             had
             thought
             ,
             in
             point
             of
             suffring
             ,
             
               no-man
            
          
           
             Could
             
               me
            
             have
             stript
             ;
             but
             now
             ,
             I
             
               yeeld
            
             t'a
             
               woman
               .
            
          
           
             And
             (
             Madame
             )
             this
             I
             am
             resolv'd
             upon
             ,
          
           
             Your
             heart
             is
             
               full
               of
               Grace
               ,
            
             or
             made
             of
             
               Stone
               .
            
          
           
             
               FRANCIS
               STANDISH
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             An
             ELEGIE
             Upon
             the
             death
             of
             HENRY
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             ,
             the
             onely
             Son
             and
             Heir
             of
             the
             Right
             Honorable
             FERDINANDO
             Earl
             of
             Huntingdon
             ;
             Deceasing
             immediately
             before
             the
             day
             designed
             for
             his
             Marriage
             .
          
           
             FOrbear
             ,
             forbear
             ,
             
               Great
            
             house
             of
             
               Huntingdon
               ,
            
          
           
             T'
             engross
             this
             Grief
             ,
             as
             if
             't
             were
             all
             your
             own
             :
          
           
             The
             
               Kingdom
            
             has
             a
             share
             ;
             and
             every
             
               Eye
            
          
           
             Claims
             priviledge
             to
             
               weep
               his
            
             Elegie
             .
          
           
             The
             
               Mirrour
            
             of
             our
             Age
             ,
             Lord
             
               Hastings
            
             dead
             ?
          
           
             And
             in
             his
             Urn
             ,
             our
             
               hopes
               ,
            
             thus
             ,
             buried
             ?
          
           
             And
             shall
             not
             
               we
            
             come
             in
             ,
             (
             who
             share
             i'
             th'
             smart
             )
          
           
             In
             your
             sad
             consort
             ,
             to
             lament
             our
             part
             ?
          
           
             
               We
               must
            
             —
             or
             ,
             if
             that
             language
             be
             you
             say
             ,
          
           
             Rude
             ,
             and
             uncivil
             ;
             we
             
               intreat
            
             we
             
               may
               .
            
          
           
             Alas
             !
             our
             griefs
             swell
             high
             ,
             whilst
             inward
             pent
             ;
          
           
             They
             'll
             burst
             our
             hearts
             ,
             unless
             we
             give
             them
             vent
             .
          
           
             For
             pity
             then
             ,
             if
             not
             to
             spare
             
               your
            
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Let
             
               our
            
             tears
             joyn
             ,
             to
             mourn
             his
             Obsequies
             .
          
           
             
               Sweet
               souls
               ,
            
             alas
             !
             when
             we
             have
             wept
             our
             fill
             ,
          
           
             You
             'll
             finde
             enough
             of
             tears
             ,
             for
             you
             left
             ,
             still
             .
          
           
           
             But
             stay
             —
             What
             voice
             was
             that
             ?
             Methinks
             I
             hear
          
           
             My
             better
             
               Angel
            
             whisp'ring
             in
             my
             ear
          
           
             
               Words
            
             of
             another
             strain
             ,
             which
             purer
             are
          
           
             Then
             what
             my
             
               Carnal
               Muse
            
             suggesteth
             ,
             far
             .
          
           
             What
             though
             our
             loss
             be
             great
             ;
             so
             
               great
               ,
            
             that
             none
          
           
             In
             our
             
               Age
            
             has
             exceeded
             it
             ,
             but
             
               One
               ?
            
          
           
             Yet
             ,
             this
             is
             not
             the
             way
             t'
             express
             our
             Pieties
             ,
          
           
             By
             making
             large
             
               Alembecks
            
             of
             our
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             The
             greater
             our
             loss
             is
             ,
             the
             more
             's
             his
             gains
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             whom
             our
             
               eyes
            
             think
             dead
             ,
             our
             
               hearts
            
             know
          
           
             A
             
               Saint
            
             in
             heaven
             :
             who
             ,
             being
             
               there
               inthron'd
               ,
            
             (
             reigns
          
           
             How
             can
             he
             take
             it
             ,
             
               here
            
             to
             be
             
               bemoan'd
               ?
            
          
           
             Away
             then
             with
             these
             
               Pagan
            
             Rites
             ,
             and
             be
          
           
             More
             
               Christian-like
            
             in
             your
             Solemnity
             :
          
           
             And
             know
             ,
             he
             celebrates
             his
             
               Fun'ral
            
             best
             ,
          
           
             Who
             comes
             unto
             't
             ,
             as
             to
             a
             
               Nuptial-feast
            
             .
          
           
             And
             truely
             ,
             't
             is
             his
             
               Nuptial-feast
            
             
               indeed
               ;
            
          
           
             Not
             ,
             that
             which
             
               Man
            
             meant
             ,
             but
             ,
             which
             
               God
            
             decreed
             .
          
           
             A
             Marriage
             fit
             for
             him
             ;
             and
             ,
             in
             my
             sence
             ,
          
           
             Most
             sutable
             unto
             his
             
               Innocence
               :
            
          
           
             A
             Marriage
             with
             the
             
               Lamb
               ,
            
             who
             took
             his
             sin
             ,
          
           
             First
             ,
             quite
             away
             from
             him
             ;
             and
             then
             ,
             took
             
               Him
               .
            
          
           
             Why
             should
             we
             mourn
             then
             ?
             how
             can
             it
             but
             please
             us
             ?
          
           
             When
             young
             Lord
             
               Hastings
            
             married
             to
             his
             
               Iesus
               .
            
          
           
             
               FRA.
               STANDISH
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             the
             incomparable
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             :
             An
             ELEGIE
             .
          
           
             TO
             speak
             thy
             Praises
             ,
             or
             our
             Sorrows
             ,
             now
             ,
          
           
             Are
             both
             impossible
             .
             Alone
             they
             know
          
           
             (
             Exalted
             Soul
             )
             thy
             worth
             ,
             who
             now
             above
          
           
             Converse
             with
             thee
             by
             Intellect
             and
             Love
             .
          
           
             Grief
             onely
             ,
             and
             dumb
             Admiration
             ,
             are
          
           
             The
             Legacies
             thou
             hast
             bequeath'd
             us
             here
             .
          
           
             This
             onely
             woful
             Comfort
             's
             left
             us
             now
             ;
          
           
             Our
             Misery
             's
             compleat
             :
             Fate
             knows
             not
             how
             ,
          
           
             Beyond
             this
             ,
             to
             inflict
             another
             wound
             :
          
           
             "
             They
             fear
             not
             falling
             ,
             that
             lie
             on
             the
             ground
             .
          
           
             Not
             perfect
             Bankrupt
             was
             this
             Land
             till
             now
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             her
             sick
             lapsed
             desp'rate
             state
             below
          
           
             The
             hopes
             of
             all
             recovery
             :
             till
             His
             fall
             ,
          
           
             We
             could
             not
             justly
             say
             we
             had
             lost
             All
             .
          
           
             We
             could
             not
             say
             ,
             while
             he
             was
             yet
             alive
             ,
          
           
             Truth
             and
             Religion
             did
             not
             still
             survive
             :
          
           
             There
             was
             a
             Church
             and
             Academy
             still
             :
          
           
             All
             Vertue
             ,
             whilst
             he
             liv'd
             ,
             they
             could
             not
             kill
             .
          
           
             Justice
             and
             Honour
             ;
             whatsoever
             's
             good
             ,
          
           
             Was
             not
             yet
             fled
             from
             Earth
             to
             Heaven
             .
             Still
             stood
          
           
           
             In
             him
             (
             that
             Cypher
             for
             these
             many
             yeers
             )
          
           
             
             Th'opprest
             ,
             and
             now
             quite
             ruin'd
             House
             of
             Peers
             .
          
           
             All
             these
             ,
             not
             lost
             ,
             but
             outlaw'd
             ,
             did
             conspire
             ,
          
           
             To
             him
             ,
             as
             to
             their
             centre
             ,
             to
             retire
             .
          
           
             But
             he
             is
             gone
             ;
             and
             now
             this
             carcase
             ,
             World
             ,
          
           
             Is
             into
             her
             first
             ,
             rude
             ,
             dark
             Chaos
             ,
             hurl'd
             .
          
           
             Vertue
             and
             Knowledge
             now
             for
             Monsters
             go
             :
          
           
             To
             grope
             out
             Truth
             henceforth
             ,
             how
             shall
             we
             do
             ?
          
           
             Or
             finde
             what
             's
             Just
             or
             Sense
             ?
             To
             whom
             repair
             ,
          
           
             To
             let
             us
             know
             those
             things
             have
             been
             (
             not
             are
             .
             )
          
           
             Further
             then
             him
             ,
             before
             ,
             you
             need
             not
             move
             ,
          
           
             To
             learn
             the
             
               Placits
            
             of
             the
             
               a
            
             Porch
             or
             Grove
             .
          
           
             Or
             had
             you
             pleased
             to
             consult
             the
             Sprite
          
           
             Of
             the
             deep
             
               b
            
             
               Samian
               ,
            
             or
             
               c
            
             
               Stagyrite
               ,
            
          
           
             
               d
            
             
               Cordova's
            
             Sage
             ,
             or
             
               e
            
             him
             that
             did
             renown
          
           
             The
             scarce-before-him-known
             
               f
            
             
               Boeotian
            
             Town
             :
          
           
             
               Rome
               ,
               Athens
               ,
               Sybils
            
             Oracles
             could
             teach
          
           
             Nothing
             not
             comprehended
             in
             his
             reach
             .
          
           
             Was
             none
             so
             hopeful
             Instrument
             as
             he
             ,
          
           
             The
             savage
             World
             t'
             reduce
             from
             Levity
             ;
          
           
             Purge
             and
             restore
             our
             Manners
             ,
             and
             call
             home
          
           
             Civility
             to
             barb'rous
             Christendome
             .
          
           
             For
             this
             great
             Work
             ,
             he
             furnisht
             was
             like
             those
          
           
             Upon
             whose
             sacred
             heads
             did
             once
             repose
             ,
          
           
           
             In
             shape
             of
             parted
             Tongues
             ,
             celestial
             Fire
             :
          
           
             What
             they
             infused
             had
             he
             did
             acquire
             :
          
           
             Unless
             we
             justly
             make
             a
             doubt
             ,
             wheth'r
             He
          
           
             At
             Eighteen
             could
             in
             full
             possession
             be
          
           
             (
             Without
             a
             Miracle
             )
             of
             all
             Tongues
             ;
             one
          
           
             Whereof
             to
             purchase
             asks
             an
             Age
             alone
             .
          
           
             Him
             in
             's
             own
             Language
             might
             have
             heard
             indite
             ,
          
           
             The
             Swarthy
             
               Arab
               ,
            
             or
             the
             
               Elamite
               :
            
          
           
             What
             
               Athens
            
             heard
             ,
             or
             
               Solyma
               ,
            
             or
             
               Rome
            
          
           
             Of
             old
             ,
             that
             from
             his
             tongue
             did
             flowing
             come
             :
          
           
             He
             that
             now
             drinks
             of
             
               Tyber
               ,
            
             or
             of
             
               Po
               ,
            
          
           
             Utters
             not
             that
             word
             that
             he
             did
             not
             know
             :
          
           
             No
             more
             doth
             he
             that
             tastes
             the
             Streams
             of
             
               Sceine
               ,
            
          
           
             Or
             those
             of
             
               Celtica
               ,
            
             or
             
               Aquitain
               .
            
          
           
             He
             was
             indeed
             a
             Miracle
             :
             and
             we
             ,
          
           
             That
             Miracles
             are
             ceas'd
             ,
             may
             now
             agree
             .
          
           
             How
             could
             we
             hope
             t'
             enjoy
             him
             ,
             being
             one
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             new
             profane
             Opinion
             says
             ,
             There
             's
             none
             ?
          
           
             Besides
             this
             ,
             our
             own
             wicked
             Merits
             might
          
           
             Instruct
             us
             ;
             'Twixt
             our
             Darkness
             ,
             and
             his
             Light
             ,
          
           
             There
             could
             not
             be
             a
             long
             Communion
             .
          
           
             In
             vain
             therefore
             ,
             alas
             ,
             did
             we
             go
             on
             ,
          
           
             To
             light
             his
             Nuptial-Tapers
             ,
             and
             invoke
          
           
             
               Iuno
            
             and
             
               Hymen
               ,
            
             and
             the
             air
             to
             choke
          
           
           
             With
             ecchoing
             Epithalms
             ;
             the
             whilst
             above
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             Angelick
             Quire
             ,
             enflamed
             with
             his
             love
             ,
          
           
             Court
             him
             from
             us
             ,
             to
             those
             Celestial
             Bowers
             ,
          
           
             As
             fitting
             for
             their
             Consort
             ,
             and
             not
             ours
             .
          
           
             So
             unto
             Heaven
             (
             our
             thoughts
             being
             fixt
             on
             Clay
             )
          
           
             In
             's
             Fever's
             fiery
             Chariot
             he
             takes
             way
             :
          
           
             The
             weeks
             first
             day
             sets
             forth
             ;
             and
             six
             days
             done
             ,
          
           
             (
             As
             God
             had
             his
             )
             his
             Sabbath
             he
             begun
             .
          
           
             Thrice
             happie
             Soul
             !
             whose
             Work
             and
             Labour
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Holds
             with
             thy
             Maker's
             such
             proportion
             .
          
           
             Now
             whether
             he
             a
             Constellation
             be
             ,
          
           
             Intelligence
             ,
             or
             Tut'lar
             Deity
             ,
          
           
             Is
             hid
             from
             us
             .
             'T
             is
             great'st
             part
             of
             our
             cross
             ,
          
           
             Nothing
             of
             him
             to
             know
             or
             feel
             ,
             but
             's
             loss
             :
          
           
             Which
             though
             we
             could
             not
             read
             in
             leaves
             of
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Tow'rs
             (
             O
             
               Ashby
            
             )
             did
             prognosticate
             ,
          
           
             Which
             fell
             the
             dutious
             ushers
             to
             his
             fall
             :
          
           
             There
             was
             no
             further
             use
             of
             them
             at
             all
             ,
          
           
             Since
             he
             must
             fall
             ,
             for
             whose
             sake
             they
             had
             stood
             ;
          
           
             "
             Not
             be
             at
             all
             ,
             as
             to
             no
             end
             ,
             's
             as
             good
             .
          
           
             This
             these
             Prophetick
             Buildings
             did
             perceive
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             bowing
             to
             the
             ground
             before
             ,
             took
             leave
             ,
          
           
             
               JO
               .
               JOYNES
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             Funeral-Elegie
             upon
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             the
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             WHat
             Soil
             is
             this
             ,
             where
             nothing
             that
             is
             good
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Vertues
             branch
             ,
             can
             live
             ,
             nor
             Beauties
             bud
             ?
          
           
             For
             thou
             wast
             both
             ,
             great
             Heroe
             ,
             on
             whose
             head
          
           
             The
             Muses
             and
             the
             Graces
             both
             had
             shed
          
           
             And
             pour'd
             out
             all
             their
             store
             :
             for
             Form
             and
             Wit
             ,
          
           
             Vertue
             and
             Honour
             ,
             there
             did
             crowned
             sit
             ,
          
           
             As
             in
             their
             Temple
             ,
             where
             they
             chose
             to
             shine
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             being
             Deities
             ,
             made
             thee
             their
             Shrine
             :
          
           
             Yea
             ,
             great
             
               Apollo
            
             thought
             once
             to
             resigne
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             thee
             President
             of
             all
             the
             Nine
             .
          
           
             For
             us
             ,
             poor
             Dwarfs
             in
             Science
             ,
             we
             thought
             fit
          
           
             To
             hold
             in
             Fee
             ,
             of
             thy
             great
             Giant-wit
             ,
          
           
             Those
             smaller
             parcels
             which
             we
             have
             of
             Art
             ,
          
           
             And
             pay
             thee
             Tribute
             ,
             each
             one
             for
             his
             part
             .
          
           
             For
             thou
             wert
             second
             
               Verulam
               ,
            
             to
             disclose
          
           
             Nature's
             dark
             Secrets
             :
             and
             if
             any
             pose
          
           
             'Bout
             Metaphysicks
             ,
             he
             might
             answer'd
             be
             ,
          
           
             And
             read
             no
             other
             
               Suarez
            
             o're
             ,
             but
             thee
             ,
          
           
           
             Wherfore
             great
             
               Phoebus
            
             did
             at
             length
             combine
          
           
             With
             
               Hymen
               ,
            
             to
             perpetuate
             thy
             Line
             ,
          
           
             By
             matching
             with
             
               Astraea
               :
            
             this
             seem'd
             fit
             ,
          
           
             To
             him
             that
             's
             god
             of
             Physick
             ,
             and
             of
             Wit
             ;
          
           
             That
             in
             this
             ebbe
             of
             Justice
             ,
             Wisdom
             ,
             Grace
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             mightst
             be
             Stem
             and
             Root
             of
             such
             a
             Race
             ,
          
           
             As
             might
             revive
             dead
             Vertue
             ,
             and
             restore
          
           
             To
             present
             view
             what
             th'
             Heroes
             did
             of
             yore
             ,
          
           
             By
             quelling
             Monsters
             ,
             purging
             Ordures
             hence
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Vice
             and
             Sin
             ,
             that
             stain
             the
             Conscience
             .
          
           
             And
             this
             we
             hoped
             all
             :
             yea
             ,
             't
             had
             been
             done
             ,
          
           
             Had
             not
             the
             Soil
             been
             
               England
               ,
            
             whereupon
          
           
             This
             noble
             Branch
             was
             planted
             :
             but
             she
             hates
          
           
             Ever
             her
             gen'rous
             Plants
             :
             here
             culminates
          
           
             Old
             
               Saturn
               ,
            
             enemy
             to
             all
             that
             's
             good
             ,
          
           
             Eating
             his
             childrens
             Flesh
             ,
             swilling
             their
             Blood
             :
          
           
             And
             
               England
            
             is
             his
             Sister
             ;
             Mother
             of
             Sins
             ,
          
           
             Stepdame
             to
             Vertues
             ,
             Nurse
             of
             Assasins
             .
          
           
             A
             Soil
             that
             fosters
             Brambles
             ,
             Shrubs
             ,
             and
             Thorns
             ;
          
           
             Slaughter's
             the
             Lamb
             ,
             and
             sets
             up
             Beasts
             with
             Horns
             .
          
           
             A
             Soil
             ,
             that
             nurses
             Briars
             ,
             Weeds
             ,
             and
             Rape
             ;
          
           
             But
             starves
             the
             Olive
             ,
             Fig-tree
             ,
             and
             the
             Grape
             ;
          
           
             Those
             Nobler
             Plants
             ,
             and
             glory
             of
             the
             Wood
             ,
          
           
             To
             all
             that
             know
             what
             's
             Soveraign
             ,
             Sweet
             ,
             and
             Good
             .
          
           
           
             Go
             travel
             then
             ,
             brave
             Soul
             ,
             take
             wing
             ,
             and
             flie
          
           
             From
             place
             accurst
             ,
             where
             nought
             but
             Perjurie
             ,
          
           
             Rapine
             and
             Blood
             do
             swagger
             ;
             and
             where
             all
          
           
             Must
             turn
             eith'r
             Country-Carl
             ,
             or
             
               Cannibal
               ,
            
          
           
             That
             means
             to
             live
             :
             Noble
             here
             must
             be
             none
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             gen'rous
             Plants
             ,
             whilst
             Brambles
             hold
             the
             Throne
             .
          
           
             Fly
             then
             from
             
               Babylon
            
             up
             to
             
               Sion
               ;
            
             there
             's
          
           
             In
             Heaven
             both
             Monarch
             ,
             and
             an
             House
             of
             Peers
             ;
          
           
             Yea
             ,
             there
             are
             Bishops
             too
             ,
             with
             grave
             aspect
             ,
          
           
             The
             Churches
             Nobles
             ,
             all
             with
             glories
             deckt
             :
          
           
             And
             there
             's
             an
             Academ
             ,
             though
             here
             's
             none
             now
             ,
          
           
             Where
             high
             Degrees
             are
             given
             to
             such
             as
             thou
             .
          
           
             Doctors
             ,
             Virgins
             ,
             and
             Martyrs
             ,
             these
             are
             three
             ,
          
           
             Say
             ancient
             Fathers
             ,
             that
             have
             Dignity
             ;
          
           
             Certain
             
               Aureola's
            
             above
             the
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Because
             that
             these
             have
             earned
             Glory
             best
             .
          
           
             Thou
             art
             these
             three
             :
             Doctor
             in
             learned
             Lore
             ;
          
           
             Virgin
             as
             pure
             ,
             as
             any
             there
             before
             ,
          
           
             Save
             onely
             one
             :
             and
             Martyr
             sure
             thou
             art
             ,
          
           
             If
             either
             Love
             or
             Fever
             plaid
             his
             part
             .
          
           
             Hie
             then
             ,
             immortal
             Soul
             ,
             to
             thine
             own
             Sphere
             ,
          
           
             Where
             these
             three
             Crowns
             attend
             thee
             ;
             and
             shine
             there
          
           
             A
             glorious
             Constellation
             ,
             far
             above
          
           
             The
             frowns
             of
             Fortune
             ,
             or
             the
             pangs
             of
             Love
             .
          
           
             
               S.
               BOLD
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             An
             ELOGIE
             Upon
             the
             most
             lamented
             death
             of
             the
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             ,
             Onely
             Son
             and
             Heir
             to
             the
             Right
             Honorable
             the
             Earl
             of
             Huntingdon
             .
          
           
             Deceased
             at
             LONDON
             ,
             1649.
             
          
           
             TEach
             me
             (
             dread
             Fate
             )
             out
             of
             thy
             strong-clasp'd
             book
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             every
             Marble
             page
             as
             vast
             doth
             look
          
           
             As
             
             th'immense
             Volume
             of
             Eternity
             ,
          
           
             Whereto
             for
             Index
             serves
             Mortality
             .
          
           
             Teach
             me
             (
             dread
             Sire
             ,
             while
             I
             have
             time
             a
             while
             )
          
           
             These
             two
             flat
             Contraries
             to
             reconcile
             ;
          
           
             
             Th'Effect
             to
             be
             ,
             and
             still
             and
             still
             subsist
             ;
          
           
             The
             
               Cause
            
             to
             vanish
             ,
             and
             yet
             ne'er
             be
             mist
             :
          
           
             
               Goodness
            
             one
             main
             toward
             Subsistencie
             ,
          
           
             As
             convertible
             in
             the
             
               *
            
             Trinitie
          
           
             Of
             
               Being
               ,
            
             thus
             to
             pass
             as
             nothing
             were
          
           
             Dependent
             from
             it
             in
             this
             
               Worlds
            
             Matter
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             yet
             that
             Matter
             't
             is
             suppos'd
             to
             be
             ,
          
           
             Except
             as
             truely
             Good
             ,
             no
             Entity
             .
          
           
             The
             Riddles
             out
             th'
             Abstract
             HE
             took
             away
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             left
             the
             Concrete
             World
             Good
             still
             ;
             to
             stay
             ,
          
           
             To
             tell
             the
             Speculators
             of
             our
             time
             ,
          
           
             How
             meerly
             supernatural
             ,
             sublime
          
           
             HIS
             being
             in
             it
             was
             ;
             and
             (
             if
             of
             HIM
             )
          
           
             Our
             notions
             may
             be
             :
             so
             shall
             we
             esteem
          
           
             No
             Loss
             b'
             our
             losing
             Goodness
             ;
             but
             't
             more
             improv'd
             ,
          
           
             More
             highly
             honor'd
             ,
             and
             more
             dearly
             lov'd
             ,
          
           
             Then
             when
             't
             was
             Consubstantial
             :
             so
             shall
             all
          
           
             That
             but
             minde
             HIM
             ,
             grow
             Metaphysicall
             ,
          
           
             Rarely
             transcendent
             ,
             as
             HE
             was
             :
             for
             Minde
             ,
          
           
             An
             Extract
             'bove
             the
             mix
             of
             earth-Mankinde
             ;
          
           
             Such
             as
             to
             which
             ,
             Place
             ,
             Wealth
             ,
             Pow'r
             ,
             Goodness
             ,
             give
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             them
             (
             what
             they
             would
             be
             thought
             )
             To
             live
             .
          
           
             This
             Noble
             Top-sprig
             grew
             from
             such
             a
             Stem
          
           
             As
             well
             might
             serve
             t'
             adorn
             a
             Diadem
             ;
          
           
             To
             give
             and
             take
             a
             lustre
             ,
             whose
             bright
             rays
          
           
             Might
             have
             dispell'd
             the
             Fog
             of
             these
             black
             days
             .
          
           
             Oh
             what
             an
             Expectation
             have
             we
             lost
             ,
          
           
             That
             now
             but
             t'have
             had
             such
             ,
             we
             are
             left
             to
             boast
             !
          
           
             And
             with
             an
             impious
             Modestie
             shall
             blame
          
           
             Even
             Destiny
             ,
             that
             left
             us
             nought
             but
             's
             Name
             :
          
           
           
             A
             Name
             so
             glorious
             in
             what
             ere
             is
             Hie
             ,
          
           
             That
             it
             will
             stand
             inroll'd
             t'Eternitie
             .
          
           
             Great
             
               Huntingdon's
            
             grac'd
             HEIR
             went
             from
             us
             hence
          
           
             A
             gracious
             Victim
             to
             high
             Providence
             .
          
           
             
               Ad
               raptum
               primi
               Mobilis
               Domini
               C.
               C.
               raptim
               sic
               flevit
               deditiss
               .
               familiae
               ejusdem
               &
               Humillimus
               servus
               ,
               
                 J.
                 CAVE
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             Upon
             the
             death
             of
             the
             Lord
             Hastings
             .
          
           
             HEre
             —
             Stay
             ,
             Tears
             ,
             until
             these
             Obsequies
          
           
             Have
             had
             their
             Rights
             perform'd
             .
             Here
             —
             here
             lies
          
           
             
             Th'Off-spring
             of
             the
             gods
             ,
             
               Apollo's
            
             glory
             ,
          
           
             The
             Muses
             Morning-star
             ;
             the
             true
             Story
          
           
             Of
             faign'd
             
               Adonis
               .
            
             Whatsoe'er
             is
             said
          
           
             Of
             Angels
             bliss
             ,
             within
             this
             Tomb
             is
             laid
             .
          
           
             
               Nature
               ,
            
             if
             ever
             ,
             as
             before
             of
             old
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             shalt
             form
             Vertue
             ,
             frame
             it
             of
             this
             Mold
             .
          
           
             Flow
             Tears
             ,
             now
             flow
             amain
             ,
             to
             wash
             this
             Tomb
             ,
          
           
             And
             keep
             it
             fair
             until
             the
             day
             of
             Doom
             .
          
           
             
               PHIL.
               KINDAR
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             The
             New
             Charon
             ,
             Upon
             the
             death
             of
             Henry
             Lord
             Hastings
             .
             The
             Musical
             part
             being
             set
             by
             M.
             Henry
             Lawes
             .
          
           
             The
             Speakers
             ,
             Charon
             and
             Eucosmeia
             .
          
           
             
               Euc
               .
            
             
               
                 CHaron
                 ,
              
               O
               
                 Charon
                 ,
              
               draw
               thy
               Boat
               to
               
               th'shore
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               thy
               many
               ,
               take
               in
               one
               soul
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cha.
               
            
             
               Who
               calls
               ?
               who
               calls
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Euc
               .
            
             
               One
               overwhelm'd
               with
               ruth
               ;
            
             
               Have
               pity
               either
               on
               my
               Tears
               or
               Youth
               ,
            
             
               And
               take
               me
               in
               ,
               who
               am
               in
               deep
               Distress
               ;
            
             
               But
               first
               cast
               off
               thy
               wonted
               Churlishness
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cha.
               
            
             
               I
               will
               be
               gentle
               as
               that
               Air
               which
               yeelds
            
             
               A
               breath
               of
               Balm
               along
               
               th'Elizean
               fields
               .
            
             
               Speak
               ,
               what
               art
               thou
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Euc
               .
            
             
               One
               ,
               once
               that
               had
               a
               lover
               ,
            
             
               Then
               which
               ,
               thy self
               ne'er
               wafted
               sweeter
               over
               .
            
             
               He
               was
               —
            
          
           
             
               Cha.
               
            
             
               Say
               what
               .
            
          
           
             
               Eu.
               
            
             
               Ay
               me
               ,
               my
               woes
               are
               deep
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cha.
               
            
             
               Prethee
               relate
               ,
               while
               I
               give
               ear
               and
               weep
               .
            
          
           
             
               Euc
               .
            
             
               He
               was
               an
               
                 Hastings
                 ;
              
               and
               that
               one
               Name
               has
            
             
               In
               it
               all
               Good
               ,
               that
               is
               ,
               and
               ever
               was
               .
            
             
             
               He
               was
               my
               
                 Life
                 ,
              
               my
               
                 Love
                 ,
              
               my
               
                 Ioy
                 ;
              
               but
               di'd
            
             
               Some
               hours
               before
               I
               shou'd
               have
               been
               his
               Bride
               .
            
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               Thus
               ,
               thus
               the
               Gods
               celestial
               still
               decree
               ,
            
             
               For
               Humane
               Ioy
               ,
               Contingent
               Misery
               .
            
          
           
             
               Euc
               .
            
             
               The
               
                 hallowed
                 Tapers
              
               all
               prepared
               were
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 Hymen
              
               call'd
               to
               bless
               the
               Rites
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cha.
               
            
             
               Stop
               there
            
          
           
             
               Euc
               .
            
             
               Great
               are
               my
               woes
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cha.
               
            
             
               And
               great
               must
               that
               Grief
               be
               ,
            
             
               That
               makes
               grim
               
                 Charon
              
               thus
               to
               pity
               thee
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               come
               in
               .
            
          
           
             
               Euc
               .
            
             
               More
               let
               me
               yet
               relate
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cha.
               
            
             
               I
               cannot
               stay
               ;
               more
               souls
               for
               waftage
               wait
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               must
               hence
               .
            
          
           
             
               Eu.
               
            
             
               Yet
               let
               me
               thus
               much
               know
               ,
            
             
               Departing
               hence
               ,
               where
               Good
               and
               Bad
               souls
               go
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cha.
               
            
             
               Those
               souls
               which
               ne'er
               were
               drencht
               in
               pleasures
               stream
               ,
            
             
               The
               Fields
               of
               
                 Pluto
              
               are
               reserv'd
               for
               them
               ;
            
             
               Where
               ,
               drest
               with
               garlands
               ,
               there
               they
               walk
               the
               ground
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               blessed
               Youth
               with
               endless
               flow'rs
               is
               crown'd
               .
            
             
               But
               such
               as
               have
               been
               drown'd
               in
               this
               wilde
               Sea
               ,
            
             
               For
               those
               is
               kept
               the
               Gulf
               of
               
                 Hecate
                 ;
              
            
             
               Where
               ,
               with
               their
               own
               contagion
               they
               are
               fed
               ;
            
             
               And
               there
               do
               punish
               ,
               and
               are
               punished
               .
            
             
               This
               known
               ,
               the
               rest
               of
               thy
               sad
               story
               tell
               ,
            
             
               When
               on
               the
               Flood
               that
               nine
               times
               circles
               Hell
            
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               We
               sail
               along
               ,
               to
               visit
               mortals
               never
               ;
            
             
               But
               there
               to
               live
               ,
               where
               Love
               shall
               last
               for
               ever
               .
            
          
           
             
               ROB.
               HERRICK
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             An
             ELEGIE
             Upon
             the
             death
             of
             the
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             REader
             ,
             preserve
             thy
             peace
             :
             those
             busie
             eyes
          
           
             Will
             weep
             at
             their
             own
             sad
             Discoveries
             ;
          
           
             When
             every
             line
             they
             adde
             ,
             improves
             thy
             loss
             ,
          
           
             Till
             ,
             having
             view'd
             the
             whole
             ,
             they
             sum
             a
             Cross
             ,
          
           
             Such
             as
             derides
             thy
             Passions
             best
             relief
             ,
          
           
             And
             scorns
             the
             succours
             of
             thy
             easie
             Grief
             .
          
           
             Yet
             lest
             thy
             Ignorance
             betray
             thy
             name
          
           
             Of
             Man
             ,
             and
             Pious
             ;
             read
             ,
             and
             mourn
             :
             the
             shame
          
           
             Of
             an
             exemption
             from
             just
             sense
             ,
             doth
             show
          
           
             Irrational
             ,
             beyond
             excessive
             Wo.
             
          
           
             Since
             Reason
             then
             can
             priviledge
             a
             Tear
             ,
          
           
             Manhood
             ,
             uncensur'd
             ,
             pay
             that
             Tribute
             here
          
           
             Upon
             this
             Noble
             Urn
             .
             Here
             ,
             here
             remains
          
           
             Dust
             far
             more
             precious
             then
             in
             
               India's
            
             veins
             :
          
           
             Within
             these
             cold
             embraces
             ravisht
             lies
          
           
             That
             which
             compleats
             the
             Ages
             Tyrannies
             ;
          
           
             Who
             weak
             to
             such
             another
             Ill
             appear
             :
          
           
             For
             ,
             what
             destroys
             our
             Hope
             ,
             secures
             our
             Fear
             .
          
           
           
             What
             Sin
             unexpiated
             in
             this
             Land
          
           
             Of
             Groans
             ,
             hath
             guided
             so
             severe
             a
             hand
             ?
          
           
             The
             late
             Great
             Victim
             that
             your
             Altars
             knew
             ,
          
           
             You
             angry
             gods
             ,
             might
             have
             excus'd
             this
             new
          
           
             Oblation
             ;
             and
             have
             spar'd
             one
             lofty
             Light
          
           
             Of
             Vertue
             ,
             to
             inform
             our
             steps
             aright
             :
          
           
             By
             whose
             Example
             good
             ,
             condemned
             we
          
           
             Might
             have
             run
             on
             to
             kinder
             Destiny
             .
          
           
             But
             as
             the
             Leader
             of
             the
             Herd
             fell
             first
             ,
          
           
             A
             Sacrifice
             to
             quench
             the
             raging
             thirst
          
           
             Of
             inflam'd
             Vengeance
             for
             past
             Crimes
             :
             so
             none
          
           
             But
             this
             white
             fatted
             Youngling
             could
             atone
             ,
          
           
             By
             his
             untimely
             Fate
             ,
             that
             impious
             Smoke
          
           
             That
             sullied
             Earth
             ,
             and
             did
             Heaven's
             pity
             choke
             .
          
           
             Let
             it
             suffice
             for
             us
             ,
             that
             we
             have
             lost
             ,
          
           
             In
             Him
             ,
             more
             then
             the
             widow'd
             World
             can
             boast
          
           
             In
             any
             lump
             of
             her
             remaining
             Clay
             .
          
           
             Fair
             as
             the
             gray
             ey'd
             Morn
             ,
             He
             was
             :
             the
             Day
             ,
          
           
             Youthful
             ,
             and
             climbing
             upwards
             still
             ,
             imparts
          
           
             No
             haste
             like
             that
             of
             his
             increasing
             Parts
             :
          
           
             Like
             the
             Meridian-beam
             ,
             his
             Vertues
             light
          
           
             Was
             seen
             ;
             as
             full
             of
             comfort
             ,
             and
             as
             bright
             .
          
           
             Ah
             that
             that
             Noon
             had
             been
             as
             fixt
             as
             clear
             !
             but
             He
             ,
          
           
             That
             onely
             wanted
             Immortality
          
           
           
             To
             make
             him
             perfect
             ,
             now
             submits
             to
             night
             ;
          
           
             In
             the
             black
             bosom
             of
             whose
             sable
             Spight
             ,
          
           
             He
             leaves
             a
             cloud
             of
             Flesh
             behinde
             ,
             and
             flies
             ,
          
           
             Refin'd
             all
             Ray
             and
             Glory
             ,
             to
             the
             Skies
             .
          
           
             Great
             
               Saint
            
             shine
             there
             in
             an
             eternal
             Sphere
             ,
          
           
             And
             tell
             those
             Powers
             to
             whom
             thou
             now
             drawst
             neer
             ,
          
           
             That
             ,
             by
             our
             trembling
             Sense
             ,
             in
             HASTINGS
             dead
             ,
          
           
             Their
             Anger
             ,
             and
             our
             ugly
             Faults
             ,
             are
             read
             :
          
           
             The
             short
             lines
             of
             whose
             Life
             did
             to
             our
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Their
             Love
             and
             Majestie
             epitomize
             .
          
           
             Tell
             them
             whose
             stern
             Decrees
             impose
             our
             Laws
             ,
          
           
             The
             feasted
             Grave
             may
             close
             her
             hollow
             Jaws
             .
          
           
             Though
             Sin
             search
             Nature
             ,
             to
             provide
             her
             here
          
           
             A
             second
             Entertainment
             half
             so
             dear
             ;
          
           
             She
             'll
             never
             meet
             a
             Plenty
             like
             this
             Herse
             ,
          
           
             Till
             Time
             present
             her
             with
             the
             Universe
             .
          
           
             
               JOHN
               DENHAM
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             To
             the
             Earl
             of
             HVNTINGDON
             ,
             On
             the
             death
             of
             his
             Son
             .
          
           
             
               My
               Lord
               ,
            
          
           
             COuld
             any
             Tears
             our
             Miseries
             remove
             ,
          
           
             Redeem
             our
             Losses
             ,
             or
             asswage
             our
             Love
             ,
          
           
             Blest
             were
             you
             ,
             though
             you
             paid
             for
             ev'ry
             Tear
          
           
             As
             rich
             a
             Jewel
             as
             the
             
               West
            
             can
             bear
             ,
          
           
             And
             did
             ,
             for
             ev'ry
             Sigh
             or
             Groan
             ,
             dispense
          
           
             An
             od'rous
             Tempest
             of
             Masle
             Frankincense
             .
          
           
             But
             these
             impossible
             Wishes
             cannot
             finde
          
           
             A
             place
             ;
             and
             are
             but
             scatter'd
             by
             the
             Winde
             .
          
           
             The
             Laws
             by
             which
             the
             World
             is
             govern'd
             ,
             are
          
           
             As
             Indispensable
             as
             Regular
             .
          
           
             A
             perisht
             Flower
             can
             from
             that
             Central
             fire
          
           
             That
             lurks
             within
             its
             seed
             ,
             next
             Spring
             aspire
          
           
           
             Unto
             its
             former
             life
             and
             beauty
             :
             But
          
           
             Pityable
             Man
             ,
             when
             once
             his
             eyes
             are
             shut
             ,
          
           
             Is
             no
             more
             seen
             ;
             but
             past
             recov'ry
             lost
             ;
          
           
             A
             tender
             fleeting
             Form
             ,
             a
             Bloodless
             Ghost
             .
          
           
             And
             ,
             'las
             ,
             that
             God-like
             Youth
             that
             did
             amaze
          
           
             All
             Expectations
             ,
             and
             faln
             Vertue
             raise
          
           
             Beyond
             her
             known
             
               Idea's
            
             He
             ,
             in
             whom
          
           
             So
             many
             Noble
             Bloods
             had
             found
             their
             home
             ;
          
           
             (
             Like
             some
             fam'd
             
               River
               ,
            
             whose
             proud
             streams
             are
             great
             ,
          
           
             Because
             that
             Other
             
               Rivers
            
             therein
             meet
             :
             )
          
           
             He
             that
             was
             onely
             like
             Himself
             ;
             hath
             quit
          
           
             His
             Cage
             of
             Clay
             ;
             I
             saw
             a
             paleness
             sit
          
           
             Upon
             his
             lips
             ,
             and
             lurid
             darkness
             break
          
           
             And
             chase
             the
             Orient
             Purple
             of
             his
             cheek
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             his
             Eyes
             seal'd
             to
             eternal
             
               Night
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             all
             those
             Spices
             which
             Corruption
             fright
          
           
             Straw'd
             on
             his
             Waxen
             Limbs
             .
             He
             's
             gone
             ,
             he
             's
             gone
             ,
          
           
             And
             cruelly
             fled
             ;
             and
             yet
             not
             he
             alone
             ,
          
           
             But
             Courage
             ,
             Sweetness
             ,
             Innocence
             ,
             and
             Truth
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             those
             sweet
             imbellishments
             of
             Youth
             ;
          
           
             And
             all
             those
             full
             Perfections
             which
             engage
          
           
             Our
             praise
             ,
             and
             cast
             a
             reverence
             on
             Age
             ;
          
           
             And
             all
             those
             Arts
             ,
             which
             by
             long
             toil
             acquir'd
             ,
          
           
             Do
             make
             men
             either
             useful
             or
             admir'd
             :
          
           
           
             All
             which
             he
             mastred
             ,
             not
             as
             others
             ,
             who
          
           
             By
             lame
             Degrees
             to
             a
             Full
             stature
             grow
             ;
          
           
             He
             ,
             at
             the
             first
             ,
             was
             such
             :
             what
             other
             men
          
           
             From
             Climate
             ,
             Humour
             ,
             Temper
             ,
             Custom
             gain
             ,
          
           
             Nature
             endow'd
             him
             with
             :
             and
             though
             she
             please
          
           
             To
             d'all
             her
             works
             at
             leasure
             ,
             by
             degrees
             ;
          
           
             In
             this
             vast
             
               Miracle
            
             she
             her self
             surpast
             ,
          
           
             And
             shew'd
             ,
             at
             once
             ,
             Perfection
             and
             Haste
             .
          
           
             Nor
             was
             there
             any
             thing
             in
             him
             to
             weed
             ,
          
           
             To
             prune
             ,
             or
             straighten
             :
             that
             Celestial
             Seed
          
           
             The
             Stars
             had
             shed
             into
             him
             ,
             could
             not
             flow
          
           
             To
             Loosness
             ,
             nor
             yet
             poorly
             under-grow
             .
          
           
             Nothing
             in
             him
             was
             crooked
             ,
             lame
             ,
             or
             flat
             ,
          
           
             But
             
               Geometrically
            
             proportionate
             :
          
           
             Nor
             had
             he
             that
             which
             the
             severely
             Wise
          
           
             Deplore
             in
             Men
             ,
             and
             would
             abolish
             ;
             Vice
             .
          
           
             His
             was
             a
             Snowie
             soul
             ,
             a
             pure
             Essence
          
           
             So
             clearly
             shining
             in'
             ts
             first
             Innocence
             ,
          
           
             That
             He
             did
             that
             Opinion
             true
             declare
             ,
          
           
             That
             Vice
             and
             Evil
             utter
             Nothings
             are
             .
          
           
             Nor
             was
             his
             Knowledge
             other
             :
             that
             pure
             Minde
          
           
             Was
             too
             Aethereal
             ,
             and
             too
             refin'd
             ,
          
           
             To
             know
             or
             common
             Paths
             ,
             or
             common
             Bounds
             :
          
           
             His
             was
             like
             Lightning
             ,
             which
             all
             Sight
             confounds
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             strikes
             so
             swiftly
             ,
             that
             it
             seems
             to
             be
          
           
             Rather
             the
             object
             of
             the
             Memory
             .
          
           
             Thus
             did
             he
             oft
             his
             Tutors
             sense
             prevent
             ,
          
           
             And
             happily
             surprise
             him
             in
             's
             intent
             :
          
           
             Thus
             he
             o'er-run
             all
             Science
             ,
             (
             like
             a
             King
          
           
             Conquering
             by
             approach
             )
             as
             if
             that
             every
             Thing
             ,
          
           
             Stript
             of
             its
             outward
             dross
             ,
             and
             all
             refin'd
          
           
             Into
             a
             Form
             ,
             lay
             open
             to
             his
             Minde
             :
          
           
             Or
             his
             pure
             Minde
             could
             suddenly
             disperse
          
           
             It self
             all
             ways
             ,
             and
             th'row
             all
             Objects
             pierce
             .
          
           
             Yet
             whatsoe'er
             into
             his
             Minde
             did
             pass
             ,
          
           
             Though
             writ
             in
             
               Water
               ,
            
             did
             remain
             in
             
               Brass
               .
            
          
           
             Yet
             has
             this
             
               Genius
            
             made
             a
             sad
             depart
             ,
          
           
             Maugre
             those
             strong
             Resistances
             of
             Art
             ,
          
           
             ●hich
             the
             wise-pow'rful
             
               MAYERN
               ,
            
             (
             who
             can
             give
          
           
             ●s
             much
             as
             poor
             Mortality
             can
             receive
             )
          
           
             Could
             ,
             like
             a
             
               Father
               ,
            
             make
             ;
             maugre
             the
             Vows
          
           
             And
             holy
             Ardences
             of
             a
             melting
             
               Spouse
               ;
            
          
           
             Maugre
             that
             strength
             of
             yeers
             which
             had
             not
             known
          
           
             His
             tender
             Cheeks
             blossom'd
             by
             their
             first
             Down
             ;
          
           
             Maugre
             those
             Hopes
             which
             did
             so
             bravely
             feign
          
           
             That
             a
             great
             Race
             should
             spring
             from
             him
             again
             ;
          
           
             A
             Race
             of
             
               Hastings's
            
             ,
             whose
             High
             Deeds
             should
             raise
          
           
             New
             lustre
             to
             their
             
               Grand-sires
            
             Images
             .
          
           
           
             But
             (
             'las
             )
             these
             Hopes
             are
             now
             meer
             Dreams
             become
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             those
             Glories
             buried
             in
             his
             Tomb
             .
          
           
             Too
             rigorous
             
               Fates
               ,
            
             't
             is
             but
             an
             envions
             sport
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             those
             Lives
             that
             are
             most
             brave
             ,
             most
             short
             ;
          
           
             Or
             in
             destroying
             
               Heroes
            
             do
             you
             finde
          
           
             A
             way
             so
             oft
             to
             Massacre
             Mankinde
             ?
          
           
             Or
             cannot
             milder
             Heaven
             one
             Influence
             throw
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             one
             thing
             Glorious
             and
             Lasting
             too
             ?
          
           
             But
             there
             's
             a
             difference
             'twixt
             Heav'n
             and
             Earth
             ,
          
           
             And
             those
             things
             which
             from
             Each
             receive
             their
             birth
             :
          
           
             On
             Earth
             ,
             the
             finest
             things
             fade
             soonest
             ;
             there
             ,
          
           
             Ill-boding
             Meteors
             the
             most
             short-liv'd
             are
             .
          
           
             And
             yet
             ,
             (
             
               my
               Lord
            
             )
             since
             that
             Celestial
             fire
          
           
             That
             is
             shut
             up
             within
             us
             ,
             doth
             aspire
             ,
          
           
             Being
             once
             freed
             ,
             like
             an
             ambitious
             Flame
             ,
          
           
             Unto
             that
             Fountain
             ,
             from
             whence
             first
             it
             came
             ;
          
           
             With
             what
             a
             glorious
             Brightness
             is
             He
             gone
             ,
          
           
             May
             we
             suppose
             ,
             that
             so
             augustly
             shone
          
           
             Even
             th'row
             his
             Clay
             ?
             What
             ravishing
             Transports
             now
          
           
             Seize
             on
             that
             Intellect
             ?
             How
             doth
             it
             glow
          
           
             With
             fresh
             Illapses
             of
             the
             purest
             Light
             ,
          
           
             Free
             from
             the
             Bondage
             of
             chill
             Sense
             and
             Night
             ?
          
           
             How
             do
             the
             
               ghosts
            
             with
             admiration
             gaze
          
           
             On
             this
             great
             Shade
             !
             With
             what
             a
             proud
             amaze
          
           
           
             Some
             look
             on
             what
             he
             was
             ,
             whiles
             others
             ween
             ,
          
           
             With
             emulous
             Sorrow
             ,
             what
             he
             should
             have
             been
             !
          
           
             Whilst
             that
             his
             Love
             ,
             exalted
             by
             its
             Loss
             ,
          
           
             Does
             more
             sublim'd
             intuitive
             species
             toss
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             swoln
             above
             it self
             ,
             serenely
             move
          
           
             In
             that
             great
             Centre
             of
             Light
             ,
             Life
             and
             Love
             ;
          
           
             Where
             I
             must
             lose
             him
             :
             For
             ,
             can
             I
             express
          
           
             What
             
               He
               's
            
             ,
             that
             am
             not
             
               He
               ?
            
             But
             this
             confess
             ,
          
           
             
               My
               Lord
               ,
            
             that
             since
             you
             measure
             by
             his
             bliss
          
           
             Your
             Wishes
             ,
             this
             his
             
               Apotheosis
            
          
           
             (
             Where
             part
             of
             you
             is
             Deifi'd
             )
             must
             call
          
           
             Your
             Acclamations
             ,
             but
             no
             Grief
             at
             all
             .
          
           
             He
             's
             now
             at
             peace
             ,
             disturb
             him
             not
             with
             Fears
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             violate
             his
             Ashes
             with
             your
             Tears
             .
          
           
             
               J.
               HALL
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             In
             obitum
             Henrici
             Domini
             Hastingii
             ,
             Filii
             ,
             FERDINANDI
             Comitis
             Huntingdonii
             ,
             unici
             :
             Simulac
             *
             Unionis
             ,
             totius
             Angliae
             ,
             pretiosissimi
             .
             EPITAPHIVM
             .
          
           
             HIc*
             Gemma
             est
             ,
             pro
             quâ
             ,
             
               Venus
            
             &
             Cum
             
               Pallade
               ,
               Juno
               ,
            
          
           
             Antiquam
             litem
             ,
             tresrenovâre
             Deae
             .
          
           
             Vincere
             erant
             omnes
             ,
             ipso
             
               Jove
            
             Iudice
             ,
             dignae
             ;
          
           
             Vincere
             ,
             sed
             cunctae
             non
             potuêre
             Deae
             .
          
           
             Ergo
             ,
             memor
             strages
             quantas
             lis
             prima
             dedisset
             ,
          
           
             
               Jupiter
            
             hanc
             Gemmam
             condidit
             hoc
             Tumulo
             .
          
           
             
               Anglicè
               .
            
             
               Here
               lies
               a
               *
               Jewel
               ,
               for
               which
               strove
            
             
               
                 Pallas
                 ,
                 Iuno
                 ,
              
               and
               Queen
               of
               Love
               .
            
             
               
                 Iove
              
               being
               Judge
               ,
               they
               all
               were
               thought
            
             
               Worthy
               to
               ha
               't
               ,
               but
               all
               could
               not
               .
            
             
               Remembring
               therefore
               what
               great
               Wars
            
             
               Fell
               out
               ,
               upon
               their
               former
               Jars
               ;
            
             
               
                 Iove
                 ,
              
               to
               prevent
               the
               like
               to
               come
               ,
            
             
               He
               lockt
               this
               Jewel
               in
               this
               Tomb
               .
            
             
               
                 FRANCISCUS
                 STANDISH
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
         
           
             In
             Honour
             to
             the
             Great
             Memorial
             of
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             Henry
             Lord
             Hastings
             ,
             deceased
             ;
             Late
             ,
             the
             most
             Hopeful
             ,
             Onely
             Son
             ,
             and
             Heir
             apparent
             to
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             FERDINANDO
             Earl
             of
             Huntingdon
             .
          
           
             
               BLush
               ,
               ye
               Pretenders
               to
               
                 Astrologie
                 ,
              
            
             
               That
               tell
               us
               Stories
               out
               of
               
                 Ptolomie
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Kepler
                 ,
              
               with
               others
               ;
               what
               shall
               be
               this
               yeer
            
             
               
               Th'effects
               of
               
                 Saturn
              
               joyn'd
               with
               
                 Jupiter
                 ;
              
            
             
               But
               could
               not
               tell
               us
               that
               our
               
                 Sun
              
               should
               Set
               ,
            
             
               To
               rise
               no
               more
               within
               this
               Sphere
               ;
               nor
               yet
            
             
               
               Th'Effects
               we
               have
               since
               felt
               :
               That
               such
               a
               
                 Star
              
            
             
               (
               For
               whose
               vast
               Loss
               we
               now
               sad
               Mourners
               are
               )
            
             
               Its
               much-admired
               Influence
               should
               withdraw
               ,
            
             
               And
               be
               No
               more
               ,
               to
               us
               ,
               Ye
               ne'er
               foresaw
               .
            
             
               This
               ,
               had
               you
               but
               predicted
               long
               ago
               ,
            
             
               We
               might
               have
               been
               prepar'd
               for
               such
               a
               Blowe
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               Oh
               Accursed-Envious-Fowl
               Disease
               !
            
             
               Within
               thy
               Circuit
               ,
               could
               none
               other
               please
            
             
             
               Thy
               Palate
               :
               Was
               thy
               Thirst
               so
               great
               ,
            
             
               That
               ,
               onely
               ,
               
                 Noble
                 Blood
              
               must
               quench
               the
               Heat
               ?
            
             
               Hadst
               thou
               miss'd
               him
               ,
               we
               could
               have
               spar'd
               thee
               Store
               ;
            
             
               Or
               with
               thy
               
                 Phangs
              
               hadst
               mark'd
               him
               ,
               and
               No
               more
               ;
            
             
               Our
               Curses
               had
               been
               spared
               :
               nor
               should
               we
            
             
               Have
               call'd
               thy
               Footsteps
               a
               Deformity
               .
            
             
               But
               thus
               ,
               to
               seize
               on
               Honour
               ,
               Beauty
               ,
               Youth
               ,
            
             
               And
               at
               one
               Draught
               Carouse
               them
               ,
               plainly
               doth
            
             
               Convince
               us
               ,
               That
               with
               Death
               thou
               didst
               agree
               ,
            
             
               To
               
                 Storm
              
               this
               
                 Fort
                 ,
              
               which
               ,
               else
               ,
               had
               kept
               out
               Thee
               .
            
             
               
                 Cupid
                 ,
              
               no
               more
               be
               stil'd
               a
               Deity
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               
                 Bowe
              
               and
               
                 Quiver
                 ,
              
               may
               they
               shatter'd
               lie
               :
            
             
               And
               
                 Hymen
                 ,
              
               henceforth
               be
               thine
               
                 Altars
              
               raz'd
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               
                 Priests
              
               be
               dumb
               ,
               thy
               
                 Temples
              
               all
               defac'd
               :
            
             
               Since
               that
               for
               This
               ,
               your
               Pow'rs
               conjoyned
               were
               ,
            
             
               To
               sport
               your selves
               with
               this
               so
               Noble
               Pair
               .
            
             
               Why
               were
               your
               
                 Torches
              
               lighted
               in
               their
               Eyes
               ?
            
             
               Pretending
               
                 Nuptials
                 ,
              
               meaning
               
                 Sacrifice
                 .
              
            
             
               What
               
                 Advocate
              
               will
               dare
               to
               justifie
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Story
               match
               ,
               this
               
                 Matchless
                 Tyranny
                 ?
              
            
             
               But
               't
               is
               in
               vain
               ;
               in
               vain
               we
               do
               Increase
            
             
               Our
               Woes
               ,
               complaining
               ,
               which
               are
               Numberless
               ▪
            
          
           
             
               But
               
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               we
               
                 serve
                 ,
              
               not
               
                 search
              
               thy
               deep
               Intents
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               dare
               we
               Quarrel
               at
               those
               cross
               Events
            
             
             
               Accoast
               us
               daily
               .
               We
               would
               onely
               pay
            
             
               The
               rites
               of
               our
               poor
               Tears
               ,
               t'
               his
               Memory
               .
            
             
               Had
               this
               our
               Loss
               been
               but
               a
               Private
               one
               ,
            
             
               'T
               had
               been
               the
               loss
               (
               yet
               )
               of
               a
               Precious
               Stone
               :
            
             
               But
               as
               a
               Mighty
               Rock
               ,
               shrunk
               from
               his
               place
               ,
            
             
               Unfixeth
               all
               about
               it
               ,
               is
               our
               Case
               .
            
             
               Should
               we
               now
               drain
               the
               Fountain
               of
               our
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               And
               bring
               in
               Rivers
               '
               stead
               of
               Elegies
               ;
            
             
               Could
               we
               at
               once
               weep
               Blood
               ,
               and
               rend
               our
               Hearts
               ,
            
             
               Still
               we
               should
               come
               far
               short
               '
               his
               great
               Deserts
               .
            
             
               Since
               then
               there
               is
               no
               Vertue
               in
               our
               Tears
               ,
            
             
               To
               warm
               his
               Bloodless
               Limbs
               :
               since
               w'
               ought
               to
               bear
            
             
               Our
               Crosses
               with
               smoothe
               brows
               ,
               and
               to
               submit
            
             
               To
               
                 Heaven's
              
               Decree
               ,
               who
               best
               knows
               what
               is
               fit
               ;
            
             
               
                 Thrice-Noble
              
               Pair
               of
               
                 Mourners
              
               at
               this
               Hearse
               ,
            
             
               Who
               claim
               Chief
               Priviledge
               ;
               Why
               do
               your
               Tears
            
             
               Still
               issue
               forth
               ?
               Oh
               do
               not
               lend
               a
               Voice
            
             
               To
               Grief
               so
               sad
               ;
               and
               make
               so
               shrill
               a
               Noise
               ,
            
             
               Ecchoing
               Fruitless
               Groans
               ,
               that
               fill
               the
               Skie
               ,
            
             
               And
               thus
               Lament
               his
               state
               ye
               should
               Envie
               .
            
             
               There
               is
               a
               time
               for
               Tears
               ;
               but
               certainly
               ,
            
          
           
             
               There
               is
               a
               time
               to
               lay
               those
               Sorrows
               by
               .
            
             
               Resolved
               ,
               therefore
               ,
               on
               the
               Question
               ,
               We
            
             
               Will
               doat
               no
               more
               on
               Earth's
               Inconstancy
               :
            
             
             
               For
               ,
               If
               to
               Man
               and
               Beast
               the
               Lot's
               all
               one
               ,
            
             
               What
               Priviledge
               have
               we
               to
               build
               upon
               ?
            
             
               If
               the
               tall
               Cedars
               must
               be
               Levell'd
               ,
               why
            
             
               Should
               humble
               Shrubs
               expect
               Security
               ?
            
             
               Resolved
               ,
               also
               ,
               Their
               Condition
               's
               best
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               Heaven
               hath
               taken
               to
               Eternal
               Rest
               :
            
             
               Whither
               ,
               Great
               Soul
               ,
               
               th'art
               fled
               ,
               and
               now
               dost
               raign
            
             
               Above
               in
               Majestie
               ,
               neer
               
                 Charles
              
               his
               Wain
               .
            
          
           
             
               I.
               B.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             Upon
             the
             much-lamented
             death
             of
             the
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             HOw
             richly
             is
             thy
             
               Sepulchre
            
             adorn'd
             !
          
           
             With
             how
             much
             State
             thy
             
               Obsequies
            
             perform'd
             !
          
           
             Drest
             in
             their
             Sable
             Robes
             ,
             each
             
               Muse
            
             out-vies
          
           
             The
             other
             ,
             in
             their
             mournful
             
               Elegies
               :
            
          
           
             
               Mournful
            
             indeed
             ,
             since
             thy
             own
             Loss
             sends
             forth
          
           
             A
             
               Grief
            
             as
             great
             ,
             as
             (
             living
             )
             thou
             hadst
             
               Worth
               .
            
          
           
             Our
             
               Pens
            
             grace
             not
             thy
             Herse
             enough
             ;
             it
             wears
          
           
             The
             mournful
             
               Livery
            
             of
             thy
             
               Country's
            
             tears
             ;
          
           
             
               Widowed
               ,
            
             ere
             
               Married
               ,
            
             to
             thy
             Parts
             ;
             that
             so
          
           
             Thy
             Love
             writes
             
               Maid
               ,
            
             yet
             is
             half
             
               Widow
            
             too
             .
          
           
             All
             good
             men
             
               mourn
               :
            
             she
             
               weeps
               ,
            
             'cause
             thou
             art
             gone
             .
          
           
             Fain
             would
             I
             die
             ,
             to
             be
             thus
             wept
             upon
             .
          
           
             
               JO
               .
               BENSON
               ,
               
                 Hosp.
                 Lincoln
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
         
           
             To
             the
             never-dying
             Memory
             of
             the
             Noble
             Lord
             Hastings
             ,
             &c.
             The
             meanest
             Son
             of
             the
             Muses
             consecrates
             this
             ELEGIE
             .
          
           
             WHat
             ?
             will
             my
             cloudy
             forehead
             never
             clear
             ?
          
           
             Shall
             I
             the
             arms
             of
             Sorrow
             ever
             bear
          
           
             Crost
             bout
             my
             Skeleton
             ?
             and
             shall
             mine
             eye
          
           
             Be
             like
             
               Aquarius
            
             Pitcher
             ,
             never
             dry
             ?
          
           
             O
             surely
             never
             !
             Grief
             from
             yeer
             to
             yeer
          
           
             Rents
             my
             poor
             Heart
             ,
             and
             makes
             his
             Home-stead
             there
             :
          
           
             Affliction
             gripes
             me
             ,
             as
             young
             
               Hercules
            
          
           
             The
             gasping
             Snakes
             :
             Nor
             can
             I
             hope
             for
             ease
             ,
          
           
             When
             noble
             
               Hastings
               ,
            
             in
             whom
             Hope
             did
             lie
             ▪
          
           
             At
             Anchor
             ,
             is
             storm'd
             hence
             by
             Destiny
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             like
             a
             
               Paphian
            
             Rose
             but
             newly
             thrust
          
           
             Out
             of
             its
             Green
             Bed
             ,
             blasted
             into
             Dust
             .
          
           
             Remorseless
             Fate
             !
             be
             hateful
             as
             thy
             Harms
             ,
          
           
             That
             rudely
             pluckst
             out
             of
             their
             Countries
             arms
          
           
             Her
             loveliest
             Pledges
             :
             couldst
             thou
             not
             have
             seiz'd
          
           
             Upon
             some
             worthless
             Wretches
             long
             diseas'd
             ,
          
           
           
             Or
             fell'd
             some
             sturdie
             Oaks
             ,
             that
             have
             so
             long
          
           
             Done
             with
             stiff
             arms
             the
             bending
             Willows
             wrong
             ;
          
           
             But
             needs
             thou
             must
             a
             Noble
             Plant
             remove
             ,
          
           
             So
             fixt
             in
             Piety
             ,
             so
             fill'd
             with
             Love
          
           
             And
             Goodness
             ,
             as
             before
             our
             Grandsire's
             Fall
          
           
             He
             had
             begotten
             been
             ,
             and
             Nature
             (
             all
          
           
             That
             intersected
             time
             till
             he
             was
             born
             )
          
           
             Had
             studied
             how
             her
             dear
             Work
             to
             adorn
             ?
          
           
             Thou
             in
             meer
             pity
             mightst
             have
             taken
             Truce
          
           
             A
             while
             ,
             and
             given
             him
             longer
             use
          
           
             Of
             vital
             Joys
             .
             But
             thus
             rare
             Flowers
             fail
          
           
             As
             soon
             as
             blown
             ;
             sweet
             Spices
             most
             exhale
             ;
          
           
             Fair
             shining
             Gems
             too
             frequently
             are
             crackt
             ;
          
           
             And
             richly-laden
             Vessels
             quickly
             wrackt
             .
          
           
             Come
             ,
             noble
             Nymphs
             ,
             drop
             Sorrows
             Pearls
             apace
          
           
             Into
             his
             Sepulchre
             ,
             and
             on
             that
             place
          
           
             Sweet
             Flowers
             plant
             ,
             that
             Embleme-wise
             may
             show
          
           
             His
             sweeter
             Graces
             for
             whose
             sake
             they
             grow
             ;
          
           
             And
             cause
             his
             fresh
             Grave
             visited
             to
             be
             ,
          
           
             As
             a
             rare
             Garden
             ,
             and
             rich
             Treasury
             .
          
           
             You
             worthy
             Parents
             of
             this
             peerless
             Son
             ,
          
           
             Think
             that
             you
             see
             him
             (
             now
             his
             Part
             is
             done
          
           
             On
             this
             lowe
             Stage
             )
             applauded
             by
             the
             hie
          
           
             Angels
             ,
             i'
             th'
             Court
             of
             blest
             Eternity
             :
          
           
           
             And
             let
             such
             tow'ring
             Contemplations
             throw
          
           
             Your
             Sorrows
             down
             ,
             and
             smother
             all
             your
             Wo.
             
          
           
             What
             ere
             was
             wanting
             in
             his
             Life's
             extent
             ,
          
           
             His
             Fame
             supplies
             ,
             without
             a
             Monument
             :
          
           
             Who
             with
             all
             weight
             of
             Worth
             that
             Youth
             could
             have
             ,
          
           
             Sank
             to
             the
             restful
             centre
             of
             the
             Grave
             ,
          
           
             As
             th'
             Indian
             dives
             for
             Pearls
             .
             But
             Pearls
             ,
             and
             Gems
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             those
             dazling
             things
             call'd
             Diadems
             ,
          
           
             What
             are
             they
             to
             the
             Glories
             that
             surround
          
           
             His
             dearer
             Soul
             ,
             i'
             th'
             heavenly
             Palace
             Crown'd
             ?
          
           
             Where
             ,
             above
             Mortal
             Change
             ,
             and
             Fatal
             Chance
             ,
          
           
             He
             (
             while
             the
             rapt
             Orbs
             their
             
               Lavolta's
            
             dance
             )
          
           
             Sings
             Hymns
             of
             Joy
             ,
             and
             with
             the
             Angels
             Quire
          
           
             Keeps
             a
             blest
             time
             ,
             that
             never
             shall
             expire
             .
          
           
             
               An
               Epitaph
               on
               the
               same
               .
            
             
               Tread
               off
               ,
               prophaner
               feet
               ,
               forbear
            
             
               To
               press
               this
               hallowed
               mold
               ,
               where
               lies
            
             
               Fair
               Vertue
               's
               and
               high
               Honour's
               Heir
               ,
            
             
               The
               Darling
               of
               the
               bounteous
               Skies
               ;
            
             
               Who
               by
               rare
               Parts
               ,
               the
               flight
               of
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               In
               Life
               ,
               out-went
               ;
               in
               Death
               ,
               his
               Name
               .
            
             
               
                 THO.
                 BANCROFT
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
         
           
             An
             ELEGIE
             On
             the
             death
             of
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             ,
             Henry
             Lord
             Hastings
             ;
             Presented
             at
             his
             Funeral
             .
          
           
             HOw
             comes
             this
             press
             of
             People
             to
             this
             place
             ,
          
           
             Oppress'd
             with
             inward
             Anguish
             ?
             On
             each
             face
          
           
             Sorrow
             sits
             deeply
             printed
             ;
             and
             each
             eye
             ,
          
           
             Swoln
             big
             with
             Grief
             ,
             drops
             down
             an
             Elegie
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             Love
             ,
             that
             
               Magnes
            
             of
             the
             world
             ,
             that
             drew
          
           
             This
             sad
             Assembly
             hither
             ,
             not
             to
             view
          
           
             Each
             other
             ,
             but
             with
             Zeal
             and
             Service
             pure
             ,
          
           
             To
             wait
             on
             him
             ,
             who
             ,
             living
             ,
             I
             am
             sure
             ,
          
           
             Was
             so
             compleat
             Perfection
             ,
             that
             I
             may
          
           
             (
             
               Sans
            
             Flatt'ry
             )
             call
             him
             Miracle
             ,
             and
             say
             ,
          
           
             He
             di'd
             to
             make
             his
             Motto
             good
             ,
             this
             way
             ,
          
           
             In
             height
             of
             Gratitude
             ,
             for
             to
             express
             ,
          
           
             He
             honour'd
             us
             to
             wait
             upon
             his
             Herse
             .
          
           
             Who
             can
             be
             silent
             now
             ,
             or
             so
             dull
             grown
             ,
          
           
             Not
             to
             have
             sense
             ?
             An
             universal
             Groan
          
           
           
             Befits
             a
             Gen'ral
             Loss
             .
             Come
             ,
             let
             us
             sigh
          
           
             Together
             ;
             so
             conspiring
             far
             more
             high
          
           
             To
             raise
             his
             Fame
             and
             Monument
             :
             I
             know
          
           
             The
             gentler
             Windes
             will
             their
             assistance
             show
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             their
             wings
             transport
             his
             lovely
             Name
          
           
             As
             far
             as
             
               Titan
            
             with
             his
             fulgent
             Flame
          
           
             Doth
             gild
             the
             World
             .
             This
             done
             ,
             their
             latest
             breath
             ,
          
           
             In
             hoarse
             and
             hollow
             Murmures
             against
             Death
             ,
          
           
             They
             will
             expire
             :
             which
             I
             should
             also
             do
             ,
          
           
             Were
             it
             not
             Womanish
             ,
             and
             Childish
             too
             .
          
           
             We
             may
             not
             grieve
             too
             much
             ,
             lest
             it
             should
             prove
          
           
             Envie
             at
             Happiness
             ,
             not
             Signes
             of
             Love
             .
          
           
             For
             he
             was
             Vertue
             's
             Magazine
             ,
             and
             thence
          
           
             He
             did
             disperse
             his
             pretious
             Influence
          
           
             On
             all
             about
             him
             .
             He
             was
             right
             compleat
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             which
             is
             wonderful
             ,
             as
             Good
             as
             Great
             .
          
           
             Cease
             then
             your
             Grief
             ,
             and
             dry
             your
             eyes
             :
             though
             hence
          
           
             He
             's
             fled
             ,
             yet
             still
             a
             great
             Intelligence
          
           
             He
             lives
             ;
             and
             will
             for
             many
             Ages
             stand
             ,
          
           
             For
             Life
             and
             Learning
             ,
             Mirrour
             of
             the
             Land
             .
          
           
             
               W.
               PESTEL
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             ON
             HENRY
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             
               THree
               Loyal
               HENRIES
               ,
               sprung
               from
               
                 Huntingdon
                 ,
              
            
             
               We
               saw
               alive
               :
               the
               First
               and
               Last
               are
               gone
               ,
            
             
               Bright
               Saints
               to
               Heaven
               ,
               above
               all
               Fanci'd
               Spheres
               ,
            
             
               To
               meet
               their
               Soveraign
               in
               That
               House
               of
               Peers
               :
            
             
               The
               Third
               ,
               Gods
               hand
               by
               Wonder
               hath
               preserv'd
               ,
            
             
               In
               whom
               their
               Honour
               Trebly
               is
               reserv'd
               .
            
             
               So
               
                 Sybils
              
               Books
               consum'd
               ;
               the
               Last
               ,
               contains
            
             
               Their
               precious
               Truths
               ,
               and
               Treble
               Value
               gains
               .
            
             
               Howe'er
               ,
               we
               sadly
               mourn
               his
               Nephew's
               Fate
            
             
               Makes
               Widow'd
               
                 England
              
               still
               more
               desolate
               .
            
             
               Oh
               ,
               never
               Such
               a
               Son
               to
               Parents
               mind
               ;
            
             
               oh
               ,
               never
               Subject
               Loyaller
               inclin'd
               ;
            
             
               Oh
               ,
               none
               more
               Pious
               ,
               none
               more
               Man
               ,
               so
               soon
               ;
            
             
               Ripe
               for
               his
               Set
               ,
               ere
               rais'd
               to
               half
               his
               Noon
               .
            
             
               That
               mightier
               hand
               ,
               that
               stopp'd
               the
               mighty
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               Can
               th'row
               his
               Circle
               ,
               sooner
               ,
               make
               him
               run
               .
            
             
               A
               varied
               Fever
               had
               surpriz'd
               his
               Head
               ,
            
             
               And
               Death
               ensu'd
               ,
               when
               Royal
               Blood
               he
               bled
               .
            
             
             
               Bodies
               live
               not
               ,
               when
               Head
               and
               Heart
               decays
               ,
            
             
               Where
               all
               their
               Veins
               are
               right
               
                 Basilica's
              
               .
            
             
               The
               Fountain
               dri'd
               ,
               how
               should
               the
               Chanel
               run
               ?
            
             
               Goodnight
               to
               Stars
               ,
               when
               Darkned
               is
               the
               Sun
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               Royal
               ,
               Loyal
               ,
               Learn'd
               ,
               Lov'd
               
                 Hastings
              
               lies
               ;
            
             
               All
               Good
               mens
               Loss
               ;
               to
               Saints
               ,
               a
               glorious
               Prize
               .
            
          
           
             
               THO.
               PESTELLUS
               ,
               
                 filius
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             EPICEDION
             In
             obitum
             Domini
             HENRICI
             HASTINGS
             Baronis
             ,
             Illustrissimi
             .
          
           
             
               SAnguineas
               Oculis
               lachrymas
               effundere
               possem
               ,
            
             
               Infandum
               damnum
               si
               reparare
               queam
               .
            
             
               Sed
               frustra
               .
               Tantum
               lachrymis
               aequare
               dolorem
            
             
               Non
               opis
               est
               nostrae
               .
               Tetrice
               siste
               dolor
               .
            
             
               Quomodo
               virtutes
               comprendam
               Epicedia
               scribens
            
             
               Carmine
               ,
               quas
               nullus
               vel
               numerare
               potis
               ?
            
             
               Doctrinae
               ,
               ingenii
               lumen
               columenque
               sepultum
            
             
               Hoc
               ,
               nostro
               Zenith
               ,
               Sole
               cadente
               jacet
               .
            
             
             
               Nonne
               vides
               Flores
               excindi
               tempore
               Verno
               ?
            
             
               Dulcis
               sic
               cecidit
               Flosculus
               ingenii
               ,
            
             
               Heros
               illustris
               ,
               nulli
               Pietato
               secundus
               ;
            
             
               Tantum
               annis
               juvenis
               ,
               Cognitione
               senex
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ingenuas
               Artes
               didicit
               Iuvenilibus
               annis
               ;
            
             
               Virtutum
               centrum
               ,
               Relligionis
               honos
               .
            
             
               Mystica
               cunctorum
               primordia
               novit
               ad
               unguem
               :
            
             
               Doctrinae
               eximiae
               calluit
               omne
               genus
               .
            
             
               Procedam
               ulterius
               ?
               tantum
               est
               renovare
               Dolorem
            
             
               Infandum
               .
               Iam
               nunc
               gurrula
               Musatace
               .
            
             
               Auree
               Flos
               Sophiae
               ,
               requiesce
               secure
               Sepulchro
               ;
            
             
               Nostrum
               ,
               Te
               extincto
               ,
               plangere
               munus
               erit
               .
            
          
           
             
               R.
               P.
               
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Upon
             the
             much-lamented
             Departure
             of
             the
             right
             Hopeful
             ,
             and
             truly
             Noble
             ,
             HENRY
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             ,
             Son
             and
             Heir
             to
             the
             Right
             Honorable
             ,
             FERDINANDO
             Earl
             of
             Huntingdon
             .
          
           
             COme
             ,
             Tragick
             
               Muse
               ,
            
             finde
             me
             one
             Spring
             through
             all
          
           
             
               Parnassus
            
             Rise
             ,
             womb-swell'd
             with
             bitter'st
             Gall
             ,
          
           
             To
             write
             my
             Heart
             ,
             as
             Sable
             as
             the
             Herse
             ;
          
           
             My
             Thoughts
             as
             Black
             ,
             as
             ever
             stood
             in
             Verse
             .
          
           
             Resigne
             ,
             for
             once
             ,
             th'
             
               Elixar
            
             of
             All
             yet
          
           
             Ere
             vow'd
             unto
             thy
             Shrine
             ;
             their
             Fancie
             ,
             Wit
             ,
          
           
             Their
             Language
             ;
             Youth
             of
             all
             ;
             yet
             all
             this
             Store
             ,
          
           
             Too
             small
             to
             pencil
             That
             ,
             which
             calls
             for
             More
             .
          
           
             Lend
             me
             a
             Fancie
             ,
             which
             may
             reach
             ;
             a
             Minde
          
           
             As
             full
             of
             Excellency
             ,
             in
             every
             kinde
             ,
          
           
             As
             th'
             Earth
             of
             Causes
             ,
             or
             the
             Heavens
             of
             Light
             :
          
           
             The
             Sun
             's
             but
             full
             ,
             and
             full
             's
             the
             
               Margarite
               .
            
          
           
             Fit
             me
             with
             Tiptoe-Language
             ,
             to
             command
          
           
             The
             sharpst-ey'd
             Intellect
             ,
             and
             force
             a
             stand
             :
          
           
           
             Such
             may
             the
             Subject
             be
             ,
             so
             full
             of
             dress
             ,
          
           
             Deserving
             more
             then
             Language
             can
             express
             .
          
           
             Furnish
             my
             Brain
             with
             onely
             so
             much
             Art
             ,
          
           
             To
             tell
             the
             World
             ,
             
               There
               was
               One
               ,
            
             whose
             least
             part
          
           
             Deserv'd
             the
             largest
             Volume
             :
             tell
             me
             then
             ,
          
           
             If
             so
             much
             Youth
             was
             not
             th'
             Abstract
             of
             Men
             .
          
           
             When
             These
             have
             done
             their
             parts
             ,
             and
             Thousands
             more
             ,
          
           
             All
             is
             but
             
               Callis
               ,
            
             unto
             
               Tagus
            
             shore
             ;
          
           
             A
             Minute
             ,
             to
             an
             Age
             ;
             Lead-Oar
             ,
             to
             Gold
             :
          
           
             So
             precious
             was
             that
             Gem
             now
             Caskt
             in
             Mold
             .
          
           
             If
             (
             Passenger
             )
             thou
             ask
             whom
             this
             may
             be
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             Thron'd
             on
             such
             an
             height
             of
             Dignity
             ;
          
           
             I
             may
             not
             tell
             ,
             but
             blushing
             ,
             when
             each
             Letter
          
           
             Terms
             my
             speech
             rude
             ,
             because
             't
             is
             spoke
             no
             better
             .
          
           
             Ghess
             by
             the
             Sequele
             ;
             see
             the
             Mourners
             all
             ,
          
           
             Ev'n
             drunk
             with
             Asps
             ,
             and
             Cockatrices
             gall
             ;
          
           
             Pensive
             to
             death
             :
             view
             next
             th'
             Attendants
             ;
             see
          
           
             How
             each
             one
             droops
             ,
             because
             it
             was
             not
             he
             .
          
           
             The
             very
             Steeds
             which
             drew
             that
             heavenly
             Load
             ,
          
           
             Went
             such
             a
             pace
             ,
             as
             if
             they
             'd
             understood
          
           
             Their
             Master's
             fall
             ;
             so
             slowe
             ,
             yet
             full
             of
             grace
             ,
          
           
             As
             ne'er
             to
             come
             unto
             a
             parting-place
             .
          
           
             Like
             hairy
             Comets
             pregnant
             with
             Mishaps
             ,
          
           
             Do
             seldom
             come
             alone
             ;
             but
             After-claps
          
           
           
             Of
             Princely
             Horrour
             ,
             (
             issues
             of
             that
             Womb
             :
             )
          
           
             Such
             (
             though
             in
             State
             )
             are
             Waiters
             on
             a
             Tomb
             .
          
           
             Lo
             here
             ,
             the
             Crest
             ,
             the
             Sword
             ,
             the
             Gantlet
             ,
             all
          
           
             Applauded
             Rites
             ,
             that
             speak
             a
             Funeral
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Comets
             ,
             come
             before
             ,
             and
             tell
             us
             plain
             ,
          
           
             Some
             Prince
             his
             Death
             ,
             or
             Noble
             Hero's
             slain
             .
          
           
             I
             can
             no
             longer
             hold
             :
             Look
             ye
             upon
          
           
             The
             Royal
             Arms
             ,
             and
             then
             say
             ,
             
               Huntingdon
            
          
           
             Hath
             now
             the
             largest
             share
             in
             this
             sad
             Fate
             ;
          
           
             Though
             
               Darby
               ,
               Suffolk
               ,
               Clarence
               ,
            
             great
             in
             State
             ,
          
           
             May
             challenge
             Blacks
             ;
             yet
             much
             more
             Royal
             Blood
             ,
          
           
             Centred
             in
             
               Hastings
               ,
            
             t'
             make
             a
             perfect
             Good
             :
          
           
             Amongst
             this
             Throng
             of
             Nobles
             ,
             we
             may
             set
          
           
             A
             
               Stuart
               ,
               Tudor
               ,
            
             and
             
               Plantagenet
               :
            
          
           
             None
             e'er
             disdain'd
             this
             Royal
             ,
             Loyal
             Stem
             ,
          
           
             Faithful
             to
             Church
             ,
             true
             to
             the
             Diadem
             :
          
           
             Well
             might
             it
             be
             thought
             Honour
             to
             fix
             there
             ,
          
           
             Where
             God's
             sole
             Soveraign
             ,
             and
             the
             prime
             sole
             Peer
             .
          
           
             So
             much
             of
             every
             Line
             ,
             of
             every
             Good
             ,
          
           
             Of
             every
             Vertue
             ,
             extant
             in
             their
             Blood
          
           
             Was
             here
             ;
             that
             as
             in
             him
             they
             lived
             all
          
           
             Sweetly
             united
             ;
             so
             in
             him
             they
             fall
             .
          
           
             I
             here
             dare
             tell
             the
             mad
             
               Pythagorist
               ,
            
          
           
             Helyes
             ;
             his
             Transmigration
             now
             hath
             mist
             :
          
           
           
             A
             Body
             so
             compos'd
             ;
             each
             Lineament
          
           
             So
             perfect
             ,
             full
             ,
             exact
             ,
             's
             if
             Nature
             meant
          
           
             To
             shew
             her
             Master-piece
             :
             and
             that
             possest
          
           
             With
             such
             a
             noble
             Soul
             ,
             as
             ne'er
             can
             rest
          
           
             In
             coarser
             Roofs
             ;
             it
             can
             no
             other
             fit
             ;
          
           
             There
             's
             not
             a
             Subject
             capable
             of
             it
             .
          
           
             Judge
             in
             three
             words
             :
             he
             was
             ,
             at
             these
             young
             yeers
             ,
          
           
             A
             
               Synod
               ,
               Commons
               ,
            
             and
             
               an
               House
               of
               Peers
               .
            
          
           
             His
             pure
             ,
             diviner
             Parts
             ,
             shew
             him
             but
             lent
          
           
             The
             World
             ,
             a
             Pattern
             for
             their
             Parliament
             ;
          
           
             Where
             ev'ry
             Member
             ,
             like
             a
             Loyal
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             Assists
             each
             other
             ,
             to
             compleat
             the
             Whole
             .
          
           
             Of
             a
             just
             Temper
             ,
             Gracious
             and
             Good
          
           
             To
             God
             and
             Man
             ;
             kept
             close
             ,
             yet
             understood
             ;
          
           
             Apparent
             ,
             yet
             unvoic'd
             ;
             made
             known
             to
             all
          
           
             But
             to
             himself
             :
             no
             ways
             
               Thrasonical
            
          
           
             Of
             what
             whole
             Ages
             might
             :
             therefore
             in
             brief
             ,
          
           
             His
             Lords
             and
             Ladies
             highest
             Joy
             and
             Grief
             .
          
           
             Should
             I
             attempt
             each
             Circumstance
             to
             scan
             ,
          
           
             Which
             makes
             the
             Grief
             unequall'd
             ,
             as
             the
             Man
             ;
          
           
             ●ight
             by
             oddes
             far
             sooner
             end
             this
             Strife
          
           
             〈…〉
             Dead
             my Self
             ,
             then
             This
             to
             th'
             Life
             .
          
           
           
             
               Epitaph
               .
            
             
               Here
               lies
               our
               Ages
               Paramont
               ;
               the
               Store
            
             
               Of
               
                 Albions
              
               shame
               ,
               because
               it
               mourns
               no
               more
               .
            
             
               And
               since
               the
               Fate
               is
               so
               ,
               if
               ,
               for
               his
               fall
            
             
               
                 We
              
               cannot
               weep
               enough
               ,
               our
               
                 Children
              
               shall
               .
            
             
               
                 JOH.
                 ROSSE
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             Upon
             the
             unhappie
             Separation
             of
             those
             united
             Souls
             ,
             The
             Honorable
             Henry
             Lord
             Hastings
             ,
             And
             his
             beloved
             Parallel
             .
          
           
             
               WHat
               make
               I
               here
               ?
               how
               ill
               this
               place
               befits
            
             
               A
               Shrub
               ,
               to
               sprout
               i'
               th'
               
                 Lebanon
              
               of
               
                 Wits
                 ?
              
            
             
               Mong
               such
               
                 Caesarean
                 Muses
                 ,
              
               whose
               pure
               strains
            
             
               Out-soar
               the
               
                 Clouds
              
               of
               
                 Sublunary
              
               brains
               .
            
             
               I
               'ld
               quit
               the
               
                 place
                 ,
              
               but
               that
               I
               know
               I
               may
            
             
               Lament
               as
               
                 much
                 ,
              
               though
               not
               so
               
                 well
              
               as
               they
               .
            
             
               Thus
               
                 Princely
                 Eagles
                 ,
              
               when
               together
               th'
               are
            
             
               Met
               at
               a
               
                 Carcase
                 ,
              
               yeeld
               the
               
                 Fly
              
               a
               share
               .
            
             
             
               The
               
                 Tongs
              
               and
               
                 Iews-trump
              
               too
               ,
               when
               they
               do
               come
            
             
               In
               Consort
               ,
               serve
               to
               fill
               a
               
                 Vacuum
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               to
               compleat
               the
               
                 sound
                 ,
              
               though
               artless
               Tone
               :
            
             
               So
               he
               that
               can't
               
                 sing
                 Elegies
                 ,
              
               can
               groan
               .
            
             
               
                 Sad
                 accident
                 !
              
               how
               pityable's
               
                 Man
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 Billow'd
              
               about
               this
               restless
               
                 Ocean
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Born
              
               to
               be
               
                 wretched
                 ;
              
               who
               no
               sooner
               doth
            
             
               Begin
               to
               
                 live
              
               or
               
                 love
                 ,
              
               but
               
                 dies
              
               to
               
                 both
                 :
              
            
             
               The
               
                 Tennis-ball
              
               bandy'd
               'tween
               
                 Love
              
               and
               
                 Fate
                 ,
              
            
             
               Whom
               
                 both
              
               do
               
                 court
                 ,
              
               yet
               
                 both
              
               do
               
                 emulate
                 .
              
            
             
               Whom
               (
               like
               young
               
                 Doctors
                 )
                 Women
              
               use
               to
               kill
               ,
            
             
               To
               try
               
                 Experiments
                 ,
              
               and
               
                 nurse
              
               their
               skill
               :
            
             
               The
               
                 Females
                 Trophie
                 .
              
               Or
               if
               
                 Love
              
               can't
               do
               't
               ,
            
             
               To
               sink
               him
               ,
               
                 Fate
              
               contributeth
               her
               foot
               ,
            
             
               To
               crush
               i'
               th'
               
                 Bud.
                 
              
               Thus
               the
               great
               
                 Hastings
              
               di'd
               ;
            
             
               The
               Young-mens
               Glory
               ,
               and
               the
               Scholars
               Pride
               ;
            
             
               
                 Envie
                 's
              
               
                 just
              
               Zenith
               —
            
          
           
             
               But
               why
               should
               I
               
                 lament
              
               his
               
                 death
                 ?
              
               since
               he
            
             
               Loseth
               not
               by
               't
               :
               but
               't
               is
               his
               LOVE
               and
               We
               ;
            
             
               
                 She
                 ,
                 we
              
               're
               undone
               ;
               for
               
                 both
              
               have
               lost
               that
               
                 All
                 ,
              
            
             
               That
               She
               could
               
                 Love
                 ,
              
               or
               We
               could
               
                 Vertue
              
               call
               :
            
             
               One
               who
               by
               's
               
                 Learning
              
               did
               
                 demonstrate
                 ,
              
               that
            
             
               There
               is
               a
               
                 Plebs
              
               in
               
                 Brain
                 ,
              
               as
               well
               as
               
                 State
                 ;
              
            
             
             
               And
               by
               his
               Studies
               labour'd
               to
               derive
            
             
               
                 Nobility
              
               from
               
                 Worth
                 ,
              
               its
               
                 Primitive
                 :
              
            
             
               Whom
               he
               that
               would
               
                 mourn
                 ,
              
               as
               he
               ought
               to
               do
               ,
            
             
               Must
               be
               the
               
                 Poet
                 ,
              
               and
               the
               
                 Subject
              
               too
               .
            
             
               Now
               others
               
                 Obsequies
              
               are
               my
               
                 Thanksgiving
                 ;
              
            
             
               Nor
               mourn
               I
               for
               the
               
                 dead
                 ,
              
               but
               for
               the
               
                 living
                 .
              
            
             
               Poor
               
                 Hemistick
                 !
              
               that
               but
               began
               to
               be
            
             
               
                 Inoculated
                 ,
              
               when
               she
               lost
               the
               
                 Tree
                 .
              
            
             
               She
               that
               had
               
                 flam'd
              
               her
               
                 soul
              
               with
               
                 Hymens
              
               fires
               ,
            
             
               Who
               with
               full
               
                 Sayls
                 ,
                 blown
              
               on
               with
               strong
               
                 desires
                 ,
              
            
             
               In
               reach
               of
               
                 Hav'n
                 ,
              
               in
               sight
               of
               
                 Safety
                 ,
              
               sinks
               ;
            
             
               Up
               to
               the
               lips
               in
               
                 Nectar
                 ,
              
               yet
               not
               drinks
               .
            
             
               She
               that
               had
               past
               the
               Gulf
               of
               
                 Love
              
               and
               
                 Wo
                 ,
              
            
             
               (
               Which
               none
               but
               
                 we
                 ,
              
               that
               
                 taste
              
               and
               
                 feel
                 ,
              
               can
               know
               )
            
             
               Now
               must
               love
               o'er
               again
               ,
               and
               come
               to
               be
            
             
               New
               disciplin'd
               in
               
                 Cupids
              
               A
               ,
               B
               ,
               C.
            
             
               How
               vast
               a
               
                 world
              
               has
               she
               to
               
                 range
              
               about
               ?
            
             
               How
               long
               a
               
                 search
                 ,
              
               ere
               she
               can
               finde
               one
               out
               ,
            
             
               Second
               to
               him
               ?
               An
               
                 equal
              
               we
               despair
               ,
            
             
               Like
               
                 Pallas
              
               born
               o'
               th'
               brain
               of
               
                 Iupiter
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Riddle
              
               of
               
                 Nature
                 ,
              
               of
               
                 unfathom'd
              
               parts
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               
                 Brain
              
               was
               the
               
                 Synopsis
              
               of
               all
               
                 Arts
                 :
              
            
             
               Whose
               
                 Soul
                 ,
              
               whose
               
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               whose
               
                 Person
              
               justly
               can
            
             
               Stile
               
                 Lover
                 ,
                 Scholar
                 ,
              
               and
               a
               
                 Gentleman
                 :
              
            
             
             
               Whom
               loaden
               
                 Nature
              
               did
               designe
               to
               die
            
             
               Unwedded
               ,
               being
               a
               
                 Genealogie
              
            
             
               Unto
               himself
               ,
               and
               therefore
               thought
               it
               
                 shame
              
            
             
               To
               live
               in
               any
               
                 Issue
              
               but
               his
               
                 Fame
                 .
              
            
             
               This
               Sun
               in
               's
               
                 Zenith
                 ,
              
               totters
               now
               ,
               and
               falls
               ;
            
             
               And
               
                 Death
                 's
              
               the
               
                 Vigil
              
               to
               
                 Loves
                 Festivals
                 .
              
            
             
               Thus
               purest
               
                 Lovers
                 ,
              
               when
               their
               
                 Ioy
              
               is
               near
               ,
            
             
               Are
               by
               't
               struck
               
                 dead
                 ,
              
               as
               
                 Cowards
              
               are
               by
               
                 Fear
                 .
              
            
             
               Yet
               though
               he
               could
               not
               know
               what
               Joys
               wait
               on
            
             
               The
               
                 Bridal-Bed
              
               ,
               but
               by
               
                 privation
                 ;
              
            
             
               Now
               woes
               the
               
                 Angels
                 ,
              
               and
               intends
               to
               be
            
             
               
                 Wedded
              
               to
               them
               in
               their
               
                 Virginity
                 .
              
            
             
               Yet
               are
               the
               
                 Muses
                 cross'd
                 :
              
               for
               had
               this
               hit
               ,
            
             
               We
               'd
               joyn'd
               
                 Yorks
              
               Wealth
               ,
               to
               th'
               
                 Lancaster
              
               of
               Wit
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 Sic
                 flevit
              
               ALEX
               .
               BROME
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             An
             ELEGIE
             On
             the
             much-lamented
             death
             of
             the
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             
               A
               Lack
               ,
               good
               young
               
                 Lord
                 Hastings
                 ,
              
               is
               he
               dead
               ?
            
             
               He
               's
               rise
               again
               ,
               as
               sure
               as
               buried
               .
            
             
               There
               's
               Comfort
               yet
               that
               's
               worth
               our
               Sadness
               then
               :
            
             
               But
               yet
               w'
               are
               bound
               to
               grieve
               ,
               as
               to
               love
               men
               .
            
             
               Shall
               I
               be
               silent
               then
               ,
               not
               to
               relate
            
             
               The
               Grievance
               of
               my
               Minde
               for
               this
               sad
               Fate
               ?
            
             
               Wanting
               the
               Learned
               Phrases
               to
               set
               forth
               ,
            
             
               In
               high
               Expressions
               ,
               such
               a
               Subject's
               worth
               .
            
             
               Let
               deep
               Divines
               ,
               that
               long
               have
               studied
               Art
               ,
            
             
               Adorn
               their
               Lines
               to
               please
               :
               I
               'll
               write
               my
               Part.
               
            
             
               Then
               on
               ,
               my
               mournful
               Pen
               ,
               help
               ,
               Muses
               nine
               ,
            
             
               That
               he
               may
               drop
               a
               Tear
               ,
               that
               reads
               a
               Line
               ;
            
             
               When
               he
               shall
               know
               the
               grievous
               Sighs
               and
               Groans
            
             
               Of
               that
               sad
               Noble
               Race
               of
               
                 Huntingdon
                 .
              
            
             
             
               Great
               pity
               't
               is
               ,
               so
               young
               a
               Branch
               as
               He
               ,
            
             
               Should
               drop
               so
               sudden
               ,
               from
               so
               good
               a
               Tree
               .
            
             
               But
               Heaven
               
               th'Author
               of
               all
               earthly
               things
               ,
            
             
               Must
               have
               his
               will
               on
               Lords
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               Kings
               .
            
             
               Nor
               is
               the
               Root
               so
               faded
               ,
               but
               hath
               power
            
             
               To
               plant
               a
               Graft
               that
               may
               produce
               a
               Flower
               ,
            
             
               To
               equalize
               the
               Loss
               you
               so
               lament
               ,
            
             
               And
               cure
               the
               Malady
               of
               Discontent
               .
            
             
               Cease
               not
               to
               mourn
               ,
               yet
               ,
               let
               not
               inward
               Grief
            
             
               Cause
               a
               Despair
               ,
               since
               heaven
               can
               give
               relief
               .
            
             
               They
               're
               Angels
               guard
               him
               ;
               King
               of
               kings
               hath
               sent
               ,
            
             
               Where
               's
               difference
               'twixt
               a
               Jayl
               from
               Parliament
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cease
               then
               to
               weep
               ;
               for
               he
               and
               Angels
               sing
            
             
               Halle
               lujah
               in
               Heav'n
               ,
               with
               
                 Charles
              
               our
               King
               .
            
          
           
             
               EDWARD
               STANDISH
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             To
             the
             Memory
             of
             the
             Right
             Noble
             ,
             and
             most
             Hopeful
             ,
             Henry
             Lord
             Hastings
             ,
             Deceased
             .
          
           
             A
             Way
             ,
             my
             
               Muse
               ,
            
             or
             bid
             me
             hence
             from
             thee
             ;
          
           
             No
             Subject
             for
             thy
             help
             ,
             nor
             Work
             for
             me
             ,
          
           
             This
             Story
             yeelds
             .
             For
             ,
             by
             thy
             dictates
             ,
             I
          
           
             Never
             spilt
             Ink
             ,
             except
             in
             Comedie
             ;
          
           
             Which
             in
             the
             thronged
             Theatres
             did
             appear
          
           
             All
             Mirth
             and
             Laughter
             .
             What
             should
             we
             do
             here
             ,
          
           
             Amidst
             an
             Inundation
             of
             such
             Grief
             ,
          
           
             As
             to
             be
             dry'd
             up
             cannot
             hope
             relief
          
           
             Till
             the
             Last
             firy
             day
             ▪
             Yet
             since
             't
             is
             so
             ,
          
           
             How
             can
             we
             scape
             our
             shares
             of
             general
             Wo
             ?
          
           
             And
             (
             pardon
             me
             ,
             
               Thalia
            
             )
             your
             sublime
          
           
             Spirit
             ,
             since
             this
             Vicissitude
             of
             Time
          
           
             Has
             found
             no
             cause
             to
             smile
             ,
             nor
             have
             you
             been
          
           
             But
             Mourner-like
             ,
             and
             but
             by
             Mourners
             seen
             .
          
           
             And
             ,
             though
             you
             cannot
             express
             Sorrow
             ,
             I
          
           
             Must
             be
             allow'd
             to
             shew
             Mortality
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             grieve
             without
             your
             aid
             .
             No
             painting
             forth
             ,
          
           
             Or
             Flourishes
             of
             Art
             ,
             on
             Weight
             and
             Worth
          
           
             Are
             requisite
             :
             This
             Story
             is
             too
             true
          
           
             To
             be
             made
             more
             perspicuous
             to
             our
             view
             ,
          
           
             By
             adding
             Fiction
             to
             't
             .
             All
             may
             be
             said
          
           
             Or
             written
             in
             few
             words
             ,
             
               Lord
               Hastings
               's
               dead
               .
            
          
           
             But
             who
             can
             stop
             at
             this
             !
             when
             these
             few
             words
          
           
             An
             Argument
             wide
             ,
             as
             the
             World
             affords
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Grief
             ?
             Yet
             see
             !
             th'
             expression
             to
             prevent
             ,
          
           
             It
             stupifies
             us
             with
             Astonishment
          
           
             Which
             dumbs
             us
             ,
             and
             benums
             our
             Faculties
             ▪
          
           
             And
             like
             an
             Over-charge
             within
             us
             lies
             :
          
           
             Such
             ,
             as
             in
             its
             Report
             ,
             the
             Canon
             breaks
             :
          
           
             No
             less
             this
             Sorrow
             threatens
             ,
             ere
             it
             speaks
             .
          
           
             Now
             let
             Sigh-tempests
             and
             Tear-torrents
             rise
             ,
          
           
             To
             pour
             out
             Marble-hearts
             ,
             th'row
             melting
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             For
             this
             dear
             Loss
             :
             when
             we
             are
             forc'd
             to
             say
             ,
          
           
             The
             Hope
             of
             
               Huntingdon
            
             is
             turn'd
             to
             Clay
             ;
          
           
             
               Henry
            
             Lord
             
               Hastings
               ,
            
             He
             —
             Here
             let
             me
             stay
             :
          
           
             Sad
             
               World
               ,
            
             I
             tell
             thee
             
               Who
            
             he
             was
             ,
             not
             
               What
               ;
            
          
           
             
               That
            
             would
             o'er-swell
             the
             Volume
             :
             Read
             thou
             that
          
           
             In
             the
             precedent
             
               Elegies
               ,
            
             here
             writ
             ,
          
           
             By
             Masters
             of
             best
             Eloquence
             and
             Wit
             .
          
           
             Read
             ,
             and
             mark
             well
             his
             Character
             ,
             and
             know
             ,
          
           
             They
             do
             of
             Truth
             more
             then
             Affection
             show
             .
          
           
           
             On
             this
             ingenuous
             Subject
             none
             could
             lye
             ,
          
           
             Though
             ne'er
             so
             much
             inspir'd
             with
             Poetry
             .
          
           
             Enrich
             thy
             Knowledge
             ,
             once
             ,
             by
             having
             read
          
           
             More
             Vertue
             ,
             then
             is
             Living
             ,
             of
             one
             Dead
             .
          
           
             They
             are
             march'd
             on
             .
             Now
             I
             bring
             up
             the
             Rear
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             without
             as
             True
             and
             Salt
             a
             Tear
          
           
             As
             the
             Van-leader
             of
             this
             solemn
             Train
             :
          
           
             Onely
             to
             thee
             I
             utter
             this
             again
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             
               World
               ,
            
             Read
             and
             Collect
             all
             ,
             here
             ,
             exprest
          
           
             Of
             Excellencies
             on
             this
             Lord
             deceast
             ;
          
           
             And
             adde
             ,
             with
             it
             ,
             all
             thou
             canst
             think
             is
             good
             ;
          
           
             And
             all
             that
             thou
             canst
             wish
             were
             understood
          
           
             To
             be
             thine
             own
             ,
             to
             all
             is
             said
             before
             ;
          
           
             Great
             
               Hastings
            
             was
             ,
             and
             is
             all
             that
             ,
             and
             more
             .
          
           
             
               RIC.
               BROME
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             HEre
             was
             the
             end
             of
             the
             Book
             intended
             to
             have
             been
             ;
             and
             so
             was
             it
             Printed
             ,
             before
             these
             following
             Papers
             were
             written
             or
             sent
             in
             .
          
           
           
             Of
             all
             those
             the
             Noble
             ,
             Reverend
             and
             worthy
             Writers
             nominated
             in
             the
             Catalogue
             without
             their
             due
             Additions
             of
             Title
             ,
             or
             listed
             contrary
             to
             their
             Degree
             or
             Quality
             ,
             a
             Pardon
             is
             most
             humbly
             desired
             for
             the
             Collector
             ,
             whose
             Crime
             of
             Ignorance
             grew
             out
             of
             the
             want
             of
             timely
             Instruction
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           POSTSCRIPT
           .
        
         
           
             ELEGIES
             ,
             Written
             by
          
           
             M.
             
               Andrew
               Marvel
               .
            
          
           
             M.
             
               M.
               N.
               
            
          
           
             M.
             
               Ioannes
               Harmarus
               .
            
          
           
             Iohannes
             Dryden
             .
          
           
             Cyrillus
             Wyche
             ▪
          
           
             Edw.
             Campion
             .
          
           
             Tho.
             Adams
             .
          
           
             
               M.
            
             Radulphus
             Mountague
             ▪
          
        
         
         
           
             Upon
             the
             death
             of
             the
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             GO
             ,
             intercept
             some
             Fountain
             in
             the
             Vein
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Virgin-Source
             yet
             never
             steept
             the
             Plain
             .
          
           
             
               Hastings
            
             is
             dead
             ,
             and
             we
             must
             finde
             a
             Store
          
           
             Of
             Tears
             untoucht
             ,
             and
             never
             wept
             before
             .
          
           
             Go
             ,
             stand
             betwixt
             the
             
               Morning
            
             and
             the
             
               Flowers
               ;
            
          
           
             And
             ,
             ere
             they
             fall
             ,
             arrest
             the
             early
             
               Showers
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hastings
            
             is
             dead
             ;
             and
             we
             ,
             disconsolate
             ,
          
           
             With
             early
             
               Tears
            
             must
             mourn
             his
             early
             
               Fate
               .
            
          
           
             Alas
             ,
             his
             
               Vertues
            
             did
             his
             
               Death
            
             presage
             :
          
           
             Needs
             must
             he
             die
             ,
             that
             doth
             out-run
             his
             
               Age
               .
            
          
           
             The
             Phlegmatick
             and
             Slowe
             prolongs
             his
             day
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             Times
             Wheel
             sticks
             like
             a
             
               Remora
               .
            
          
           
             What
             man
             is
             he
             ,
             that
             hath
             not
             
               Heaven
            
             beguil'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             is
             not
             thence
             mistaken
             for
             a
             
               Childe
               ?
            
          
           
             While
             those
             of
             growth
             more
             sudden
             ,
             and
             more
             bold
             ,
          
           
             Are
             hurried
             hence
             ,
             as
             if
             already
             old
             .
          
           
             For
             ,
             there
             above
             ,
             They
             number
             not
             as
             here
             ,
          
           
             But
             weigh
             to
             Man
             the
             
               Geometrick
            
             yeer
             .
          
           
           
             Had
             he
             but
             at
             this
             Measure
             still
             increast
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             
               the
               Tree
               of
               Life
            
             once
             made
             a
             Feast
             ,
          
           
             As
             that
             of
             
               Knowledge
               ;
            
             what
             Loves
             had
             he
             given
          
           
             To
             Earth
             ,
             and
             then
             what
             Jealousies
             to
             Heaven
             !
          
           
             But
             't
             is
             a
             
               Maxime
            
             of
             that
             State
             ,
             That
             none
             ,
          
           
             Lest
             He
             become
             like
             Them
             ,
             taste
             more
             then
             one
             .
          
           
             Therefore
             the
             
               Democratick
            
             Stars
             did
             rise
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             that
             Worth
             from
             hence
             did
             
               Ostracize
               .
            
          
           
             Yet
             as
             some
             
               Prince
               ,
            
             that
             ,
             for
             State-Jealousie
             ,
          
           
             Secures
             his
             neerest
             and
             most
             lov'd
             
               Ally
               ;
            
          
           
             His
             Thought
             with
             richest
             Triumphs
             entertains
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             choicest
             Pleasures
             charms
             his
             Pains
             :
          
           
             So
             he
             ,
             not
             banisht
             hence
             ,
             but
             there
             confin'd
             ,
          
           
             There
             better
             recreates
             his
             active
             Minde
             .
          
           
             Before
             the
             
               Chrystal
               Palace
            
             where
             he
             dwells
             ,
          
           
             The
             armed
             
               Angels
            
             hold
             their
             
               Carouzels
               ;
            
          
           
             And
             underneath
             ,
             he
             views
             the
             
               Turnaments
            
          
           
             Of
             all
             these
             Sublunary
             
               Elements
               .
            
          
           
             But
             most
             he
             doth
             th'
             
               Eternal
               Book
            
             behold
             ,
          
           
             On
             which
             the
             
               happie
               Names
            
             do
             stand
             enroll'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             gladly
             there
             can
             all
             his
             Kinred
             claim
             ,
          
           
             But
             most
             rejoyces
             at
             his
             
               Mothers
            
             name
             .
          
           
             The
             gods
             themselves
             cannot
             their
             Joy
             conceal
             ,
          
           
             But
             draw
             their
             Veils
             ,
             and
             their
             pure
             Beams
             reveal
             :
          
           
           
             Onely
             they
             drooping
             
               Hymeneus
            
             note
             ,
          
           
             Who
             for
             sad
             
               Purple
               ,
            
             tears
             his
             
               Saffron
               -
            
             coat
             ;
          
           
             And
             trails
             his
             Torches
             th'row
             the
             Starry
             Hall
          
           
             Reversed
             ,
             at
             his
             
               Darlings
            
             Funeral
             .
          
           
             And
             
               Aesculapius
               ,
            
             who
             ,
             asham'd
             and
             stern
             ,
          
           
             Himself
             at
             once
             condemneth
             ,
             and
             
               Mayern
               ;
            
          
           
             Like
             some
             sad
             
               Chymist
               ,
            
             who
             ,
             prepar'd
             to
             reap
          
           
             The
             
               Golden
               Harvest
               ,
            
             sees
             his
             Glasses
             leap
             .
          
           
             For
             ,
             how
             Immortal
             must
             their
             Race
             have
             stood
             ,
          
           
             Had
             
               Mayern
            
             once
             been
             mixt
             with
             
               Hastings
            
             blood
             !
          
           
             How
             Sweet
             and
             Verdant
             would
             these
             
               Lawrels
            
             be
             ,
          
           
             Had
             they
             been
             planted
             on
             that
             
               Balsam-tree
            
             !
          
           
             But
             what
             could
             he
             ,
             good
             man
             ,
             although
             he
             bruis'd
          
           
             All
             Herbs
             ,
             and
             them
             a
             thousand
             ways
             infus'd
             ?
          
           
             All
             he
             had
             try'd
             ,
             but
             all
             in
             vain
             ,
             he
             saw
             ,
          
           
             And
             wept
             ,
             as
             we
             ,
             without
             Redress
             or
             Law
             .
          
           
             For
             
               Man
            
             (
             alas
             )
             is
             but
             the
             
               Heavens
            
             sport
             ;
          
           
             And
             
               Art
            
             indeed
             is
             Long
             ,
             but
             
               Life
            
             is
             Short
             .
          
           
             
               ANDREW
               MARVEL
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             the
             untimely
             death
             of
             the
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             ,
             Son
             to
             the
             Earl
             of
             HUNTINGDON
             .
          
           
             
               IT
               is
               decreed
               ,
               we
               must
               be
               drain'd
               (
               I
               see
               )
            
             
               Down
               to
               the
               dregs
               of
               a
               
                 Democracie
                 :
              
            
             
               Death
               's
               i'
               the
               Plot
               ,
               and
               in
               his
               drunken
               mood
            
             
               Swills
               none
               ,
               of
               late
               ,
               but
               streams
               of
               Noble
               Blood
               ▪
            
             
               Was
               't
               not
               enough
               the
               
                 Hatchet
              
               did
               hew
               down
            
             
               Those
               well-grown
               Oaks
               ,
               and
               Pillars
               of
               the
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               But
               that
               the
               tender
               Sapling
               too
               must
               fall
            
             
               Thus
               ,
               to
               inhanse
               the
               Kingdoms
               Funeral
               ?
            
             
               Ye
               Widow'd
               
                 Graces
                 ,
              
               and
               ye
               
                 Muses
              
               too
               ,
            
             
               Bring
               your
               Perfumes
               ;
               with
               Tears
               and
               Flowers
               bestrew
            
             
               This
               sacred
               Temple
               ,
               where
               ye
               once
               did
               sit
            
             
               Crowned
               with
               all
               the
               pomp
               of
               Youth
               and
               Wit
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               HASTINGS
               ,
               he
               that
               promis'd
               to
               appear
            
             
               What
               
                 Strafford
                 ,
                 Falkland
                 ,
              
               and
               brave
               
                 Capel
              
               were
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               pregnant
               Brain
               spake
               a
               descent
               from
               
                 Iove
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               Shape
               Celestial
               ,
               from
               the
               
                 Queen
                 of
                 Love
                 ;
              
            
             
             
               So
               that
               ,
               to
               charm
               the
               World
               ,
               he
               match'd
               the
               grace
            
             
               Of
               
                 Nestors
              
               Wisdom
               with
               
                 Adonis
              
               Face
               .
            
             
               The
               Nurse
               
                 Minerva
              
               boasts
               how
               this
               her
               son
            
             
               Suck'd
               dry
               the
               Poets
               and
               their
               
                 Helicon
                 ;
              
            
             
               With
               what
               a
               nimble
               pace
               he
               posted
               ore
            
             
               The
               fields
               of
               
                 Phant'sie
                 ,
              
               rifled
               all
               her
               Store
               ,
            
             
               Cropt
               ev'ry
               Flow'r
               and
               Tulip
               which
               did
               grow
               ,
            
             
               To
               make
               a
               Garland
               for
               his
               own
               fair
               Brow
               ;
            
             
               That
               young
               
                 Apollo
              
               never
               wan
               more
               Praise
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               pursu'd
               his
               Love
               ,
               and
               catcht
               the
               
                 Bays
                 .
              
            
             
               This
               but
               the
               
                 Bud
                 ,
              
               these
               but
               the
               Blossoms
               were
               ;
            
             
               The
               
                 Fruit
              
               grew
               ripe
               in
               Studies
               more
               severe
               ,
            
             
               Where
               he
               seem'd
               born
               to
               master
               and
               control
            
             
               Both
               the
               
                 Cecropian
              
               and
               the
               
                 Roman
              
               School
               ,
            
             
               Big
               with
               designe
               t'
               usurp
               the
               Chair
               of
               Wit
            
             
               From
               
                 Tully
                 ,
              
               and
               depose
               the
               
                 Stagirit
                 .
              
            
             
               Adde
               next
               to
               these
               ,
               the
               Grace
               which
               did
               belong
            
             
               T'
               unlock
               those
               Treasures
               with
               a
               Golden
               tongue
               ;
            
             
               A
               Tongue
               so
               rarely
               furnisht
               ,
               as
               might
               boast
            
             
               It self
               of
               kin
               to
               those
               at
               
                 Pentecost
                 ;
              
            
             
               And
               in
               their
               proper
               Languages
               begun
            
             
               To
               court
               the
               Rising
               and
               the
               Setting
               Sun
               ;
            
             
               Fit
               to
               reform
               our
               own
               degen'rous
               Sprites
               ,
            
             
               And
               plant
               the
               world
               with
               Loyal
               Proselytes
               .
            
             
             
               Thus
               ripen'd
               ,
               (
               see
               !
               )
               this
               rare
               Example
               stood
            
             
               No
               less
               ennobled
               in
               Desert
               then
               Blood
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               others
               ,
               swoln
               high
               with
               an
               empty
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Leave
               nothing
               but
               their
               Lusts
               and
               Sins
               to
               Fame
               :
            
             
               But
               if
               you
               'll
               Noble
               be
               indeed
               ,
               your
               yeers
            
             
               Improve
               like
               him
               ,
               strive
               to
               become
               his
               
                 Peers
                 .
              
            
             
               How
               joy'd
               ,
               (
               think
               you
               )
               the
               Noble
               
                 Huntingdon
                 ,
              
            
             
               To
               be
               thus
               copi'd
               in
               so
               brave
               a
               Son
               !
            
             
               How
               did
               he
               bless
               ,
               admire
               ,
               and
               smile
               ,
               to
               see
            
             
               This
               young
               
                 Ascanius
              
               of
               his
               Family
               ,
            
             
               As
               did
               
                 Aeneas
              
               that
               his
               onely
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               The
               precious
               Relique
               of
               confounded
               
                 Troy
                 !
              
            
             
               What
               Fruits
               he
               reckon'd
               would
               the
               
                 Harvest
              
               bring
               ,
            
             
               After
               so
               sweet
               and
               so
               serene
               a
               
                 Spring
                 !
              
            
             
               How
               fair
               an
               Issue
               should
               the
               Boy
               beget
               ,
            
             
               Good
               as
               their
               Sire
               ,
               and
               as
               their
               Grandsires
               Great
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Vertues
               claim
               this
               Title
               to
               their
               Line
               ,
            
             
               Of
               all
               the
               
                 British
                 Heroes
              
               most
               Divine
               .
            
          
           
             
               No
               marvel
               then
               the
               famous
               
                 Mayern
              
               strove
            
             
               To
               place
               his
               Childe
               where
               he
               had
               fixt
               his
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Melting
               the
               
                 Indies
                 ,
              
               to
               unite
               in
               one
            
             
               His
               Onely
               Daughter
               with
               this
               onely
               Son
               ;
            
             
               That
               so
               his
               longing
               Soul
               might
               once
               behold
            
             
               This
               Jewel
               set
               within
               his
               Ring
               of
               Gold
               .
            
             
             
               The
               old
               man
               woo'd
               ,
               as
               if
               he
               meant
               to
               prove
            
             
               An
               earnest
               Rival
               in
               his
               daughters
               love
               ;
            
             
               Gave
               
                 Hymen
              
               speedy
               Orders
               to
               prepare
            
             
               The
               Triumphs
               due
               unto
               this
               harmless
               War
               ;
            
             
               Invited
               all
               the
               gods
               of
               Mirth
               and
               Wine
               ,
            
             
               That
               ,
               as
               Themselves
               ,
               the
               Feast
               might
               be
               Divine
               :
            
             
               
                 Venus
              
               her
               Trinkets
               sent
               ,
               without
               delay
               ,
            
             
               To
               dress
               ten
               thousand
               
                 Cupids
              
               for
               the
               day
               :
            
             
               The
               
                 Duellists
              
               with
               plighted
               hands
               did
               greet
               ,
            
             
               And
               promis'd
               quick
               within
               the
               Lists
               to
               meet
               ;
            
             
               The
               lustre
               of
               whose
               mutual
               Smiles
               and
               Rays
               ,
            
             
               Foretold
               a
               Sunshine
               of
               auspicious
               days
               .
            
             
               But
               Oh!
               the
               Scene
               is
               alter'd
               ;
               some
               cross
               Star
            
             
               Darts
               down
               Infection
               th'row
               the
               Hemisphear
               :
            
             
               Those
               eyes
               which
               
                 Hymen
              
               hop'd
               should
               light
               his
               Torch
               ,
            
             
               Aethereal
               flames
               of
               Fevers
               now
               do
               scorch
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 envious
                 Pimples
              
               too
               dig
               Graves
               apace
               ,
            
             
               To
               bury
               all
               the
               Glories
               of
               his
               face
               :
            
             
               The
               
                 Boy-god
              
               sighing
               ,
               soon
               unbends
               his
               Bowe
               ,
            
             
               And
               ,
               with
               his
               Mother
               ,
               lies
               extinct
               belowe
               ,
            
             
               In
               vain
               expecting
               Succour
               ,
               while
               the
               Race
            
             
               Of
               
                 Stygian
              
               Monsters
               seize
               upon
               the
               place
               ;
            
             
               Where
               they
               their
               Revels
               keep
               ,
               mocking
               the
               skill
            
             
               Of
               best
               
                 Physitians
                 ,
              
               and
               then
               rage
               their
               fill
               ,
            
             
             
               Till
               ugly
               Death
               his
               dire
               Magnetick
               Dart
            
             
               Shot
               th'row
               the
               Veins
               ,
               to
               hit
               his
               tender
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Ruined
               the
               Fort
               ,
               and
               then
               snatch'd
               the
               Prize
            
             
               Due
               to
               the
               conquest
               of
               his
               Ladies
               eyes
               .
            
             
               The
               onely
               Legacies
               he
               left
               us
               ,
               are
               ,
            
             
               
                 Grief
              
               to
               his
               Friends
               ;
               and
               to
               the
               World
               ,
               
                 Despair
                 ▪
              
            
          
           
             
               So
               when
               fair
               
                 Phoebus
              
               'gins
               to
               gild
               the
               Morn
               ,
            
             
               Some
               sullen
               Cloud
               ,
               within
               a
               moment
               born
               ,
            
             
               Sends
               Hell
               and
               Darkness
               th'row
               the
               air
               to
               flie
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               with
               Mourning
               hangs
               the
               lofty
               Skie
               .
            
          
           
             
               M.
               N.
               
            
          
        
         
         
           
             De
             honoratissimo
             Juvene
             ,
             Dom.
             HENRICO
             HASTINGS
             ,
             Linguis
             ,
             Artibus
             ,
             &
             Virtutibus
             excultissimo
             ,
          
           
             Comitis
             HUNTINGDONIAE
             Filio
             Unico
             ;
             qui
             undevicesimum
             Aetatis
             suae
             annum
             agens
             ,
             diem
             obiit
             ,
             magno
             cum
             Literarum
             juxtà
             &
             Literatorum
             detrimento
             .
          
           
             
               
                 PEgasus
              
               excussit
               fontem
               unum
               e
               Vertice
               montis
               ;
            
             
               Laxat
               at
               hìc
               fontes
               singula
               Musa
               duos
               .
            
             
               Semper
               ut
               è
               teneris
               lacrymae
               Labuntur
               ocellis
               ,
            
             
               Sic
               LACRYMAE
               Musis
               Musica
               semper
               erit
               .
            
          
           
             
               Apostrophe
               ad
               defunctum
               .
            
             
               Qui
               Musas
               omnes
               in
               Te
               complexus
               es
               uno
               ,
            
             
               Musa
               Tibi
               non
               est
               quae
               fleat
               una
               satis
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
               .
            
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
            
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
               .
            
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
            
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
               .
            
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
            
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
               .
            
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
            
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 IOANNES
                 HARMARVS
                 ,
              
               Oxoniensis
               .
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
               ,
               &
               
                 C.
                 W.
                 M.
              
               moerens
               posuit
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Upon
             the
             death
             of
             the
             Lord
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             
               MUst
               Noble
               
                 Hastings
              
               Immaturely
               die
               ,
            
             
               (
               The
               Honour
               of
               his
               ancient
               Family
               ?
               )
            
             
               Beauty
               and
               Learning
               thus
               together
               meet
               ,
            
             
               To
               bring
               a
               
                 Winding
              
               for
               a
               
                 Wedding-sheet
                 ?
              
            
             
               Must
               
                 Vertue
              
               prove
               
                 Death's
              
               Harbinger
               ?
               Must
               She
               ,
            
             
               With
               him
               expiring
               ,
               feel
               Mortality
               ?
            
             
               Is
               
                 Death
              
               (
               Sin
               's
               wages
               )
               Grace's
               now
               ?
               shall
               Art
            
             
               Make
               us
               more
               Learned
               ,
               onely
               to
               depart
               ?
            
             
               If
               Merit
               be
               Disease
               ,
               if
               Vertue
               Death
               ;
            
             
               To
               be
               Good
               ,
               Not
               to
               be
               ;
               who
               'd
               then
               bequeath
            
             
               Himself
               to
               Discipline
               ?
               who
               'd
               not
               esteem
            
             
               Labour
               a
               Crime
               ,
               Study
               Self-murther
               deem
               ?
            
             
               Our
               
                 Noble
                 Youth
              
               now
               have
               pretence
               to
               be
            
             
               Dunces
               securely
               ,
               Ign'rant
               healthfully
               .
            
             
               Rare
               Linguist
               !
               whose
               Worth
               speaks
               it self
               ,
               whose
               Praise
               ,
            
             
               Though
               not
               his
               Own
               ,
               all
               Tongues
               Besides
               do
               raise
               :
            
             
               Then
               Whom
               ,
               Great
               
                 Alexander
              
               may
               seem
               Less
               ;
            
             
               Who
               conquer'd
               Men
               ,
               but
               not
               their
               Languages
               .
            
             
             
               In
               his
               mouth
               Nations
               speak
               ;
               his
               Tongue
               might
               be
            
             
               Interpreter
               to
               
                 Greece
                 ,
                 France
                 ,
                 Italy
                 .
              
            
             
               His
               native
               Soyl
               was
               the
               Four
               parts
               o'
               th'
               Earth
               ;
            
             
               All
               
                 Europe
              
               was
               too
               narrow
               for
               his
               Birth
               .
            
             
               A
               young
               Apostle
               ;
               and
               (
               with
               rev'rence
               may
            
             
               I
               speak
               '
               it
               )
               inspir'd
               with
               gift
               of
               Tongues
               ,
               as
               They
               .
            
             
               Nature
               gave
               him
               ,
               a
               Childe
               ,
               what
               Men
               in
               vain
            
             
               Oft
               strive
               ,
               by
               Art
               though
               further'd
               ,
               to
               obtain
               .
            
             
               His
               Body
               was
               an
               Orb
               ,
               his
               sublime
               Soul
            
             
               Did
               move
               on
               Vertue
               's
               and
               on
               Learning's
               Pole
               :
            
             
               Whose
               Reg'lar
               Motions
               better
               to
               our
               view
               ,
            
             
               Then
               
                 Archimedes
              
               Sphere
               ,
               the
               Heavens
               did
               shew
               .
            
             
               Graces
               and
               Vertues
               ,
               Languages
               and
               Arts
               ,
            
             
               Beauty
               and
               Learning
               ,
               fill'd
               up
               all
               the
               parts
               .
            
             
               Heav'ns
               Gifts
               ,
               which
               do
               ,
               like
               falling
               Stars
               ,
               appear
            
             
               Scatter'd
               in
               Others
               ;
               all
               ,
               as
               in
               their
               Sphear
               ,
            
             
               Were
               fix'd
               and
               conglobate
               in
               's
               Soul
               ;
               and
               thence
            
             
               Shone
               th'row
               his
               Body
               ,
               with
               sweet
               Influence
               ;
            
             
               Letting
               their
               Glories
               so
               on
               each
               Limb
               fall
               ,
            
             
               The
               whole
               Frame
               render'd
               was
               Celestial
               .
            
             
               Come
               ,
               learned
               
                 Ptolomy
                 ,
              
               and
               trial
               make
               ,
            
             
               If
               thou
               this
               Hero's
               Altitude
               canst
               take
               ;
            
             
               But
               that
               transcends
               thy
               skill
               ;
               thrice
               happie
               all
               ▪
            
             
               Could
               we
               but
               prove
               thus
               Astronomical
               .
            
             
             
               Liv'd
               
                 Tycho
              
               now
               ,
               struck
               with
               this
               Ray
               ,
               (
               which
               shone
            
             
               More
               bright
               i'
               th'
               Morn
               ,
               then
               others
               beam
               at
               Noon
               )
            
             
               He
               'd
               take
               his
               
                 Astrolabe
                 ,
              
               and
               seek
               out
               here
            
             
               What
               new
               Star
               't
               was
               did
               gild
               our
               Hemisphere
               .
            
             
               Replenish'd
               then
               with
               such
               rare
               Gifts
               as
               these
               ,
            
             
               Where
               was
               room
               left
               for
               such
               a
               Foul
               Disease
               ?
            
             
               The
               Nations
               sin
               hath
               drawn
               that
               Veil
               ,
               which
               shrouds
            
             
               Our
               Day-spring
               in
               so
               sad
               benighting
               Clouds
               .
            
             
               Heaven
               would
               no
               longer
               trust
               its
               Pledge
               ;
               but
               thus
            
             
               Recall'd
               it
               ;
               rapt
               its
               
                 Ganymede
              
               from
               us
               .
            
             
               Was
               there
               no
               milder
               way
               but
               the
               Small
               Pox
               ,
            
             
               The
               very
               Filth'ness
               of
               
                 Pandora's
              
               Box
               ?
            
             
               So
               many
               Spots
               ,
               like
               
                 naeves
                 ,
              
               our
               
                 Venus
              
               soil
               ?
            
             
               One
               Jewel
               set
               off
               with
               so
               many
               a
               Foil
               ?
            
             
               Blisters
               with
               pride
               swell'd
               ,
               which
               th'row
               's
               flesh
               did
               sprout
            
             
               Like
               Rose-buds
               ,
               stuck
               i'
               th'
               Lily-skin
               about
               .
            
             
               Each
               little
               Pimple
               had
               a
               Tear
               in
               it
               ,
            
             
               To
               wail
               the
               fault
               its
               rising
               did
               commit
               :
            
             
               Who
               ,
               Rebel-like
               ,
               with
               their
               own
               Lord
               at
               strife
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               made
               an
               Insurrection
               'gainst
               his
               Life
               .
            
             
               Or
               were
               these
               Gems
               sent
               to
               adorn
               his
               Skin
               ,
            
             
               The
               Cab'net
               of
               a
               richer
               Soul
               within
               ?
            
             
               No
               Comet
               need
               foretel
               his
               Change
               drew
               on
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Corps
               might
               seem
               a
               
                 Constellation
                 .
              
            
             
             
               O
               had
               he
               di'd
               of
               old
               ,
               how
               great
               a
               strife
            
             
               Had
               been
               ,
               who
               from
               his
               Death
               should
               draw
               their
               Life
               ?
            
             
               Who
               should
               ,
               by
               one
               rich
               draught
               ,
               become
               what
               ere
            
             
               
                 Seneca
                 ,
                 Cato
                 ,
                 Numa
                 ,
                 Caesar
                 ,
              
               were
               :
            
             
               Learn'd
               ,
               Vertuous
               ,
               Pious
               ,
               Great
               ;
               and
               have
               by
               this
            
             
               An
               universal
               
                 Metempsuchosis
                 .
              
            
             
               Must
               all
               these
               ag'd
               Sires
               in
               one
               Funeral
            
             
               Expire
               ?
               All
               die
               in
               one
               so
               young
               ,
               so
               small
               ?
            
             
               Who
               ,
               had
               he
               liv'd
               his
               life
               out
               ,
               his
               great
               Fame
            
             
               Had
               swoln
               'bove
               any
               
                 Greek
              
               or
               
                 Romane
              
               Name
               .
            
             
               But
               hasty
               Winter
               ,
               with
               one
               blast
               ,
               hath
               brought
            
             
               The
               hopes
               of
               Autumn
               ,
               Summer
               ,
               Spring
               ,
               to
               nought
               .
            
             
               Thus
               fades
               the
               Oak
               i'
               th'
               sprig
               ,
               i'
               th'
               blade
               the
               Corn
               ;
            
             
               Thus
               ,
               without
               Young
               ,
               this
               
                 Phoenix
              
               dies
               ,
               new
               born
               .
            
             
               Must
               then
               old
               three-legg'd
               gray-beards
               with
               their
               Gout
               ,
            
             
               Catarrhs
               ,
               Rheums
               ,
               Aches
               ,
               live
               three
               Ages
               out
               ?
            
             
               Times
               Offal
               ,
               onely
               fit
               for
               th'
               Hospital
               ,
            
             
               Or
               t'
               hang
               an
               Antiquaries
               room
               withal
               ;
            
             
               Must
               Drunkards
               ,
               Lechers
               ,
               spent
               with
               Sinning
               ,
               live
            
             
               With
               such
               helps
               as
               Broths
               ,
               Possits
               ,
               Physick
               give
               ?
            
             
               None
               live
               ,
               but
               such
               as
               should
               die
               ?
               Shall
               we
               meet
            
             
               With
               none
               but
               Ghostly
               Fathers
               in
               the
               Street
               ?
            
             
               Grief
               makes
               me
               rail
               ;
               Sorrow
               will
               force
               its
               way
               ;
            
             
               And
               ,
               Show'rs
               of
               Tears
               ,
               Tempestuous
               Sighs
               best
               lay
               .
            
             
             
               The
               Tongue
               may
               fail
               ;
               but
               over-flowing
               Eyes
            
             
               Will
               weep
               out
               lasting
               streams
               of
               
                 Elegies
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               But
               thou
               ,
               O
               
                 Virgin-Widow
                 ,
              
               left
               a●●ne
               ,
            
             
               Now
               thy
               belov'd
               ,
               heaven-ravisht
               
                 Spouse
              
               is
               gone
               ,
            
             
               (
               Whose
               skilful
               Sire
               in
               vain
               strove
               to
               apply
            
             
               Med'cines
               ,
               when
               thy
               Balm
               was
               no
               Remedy
               )
            
             
               With
               greater
               then
               
                 Platonick
              
               love
               ,
               O
               wed
            
             
               His
               Soul
               ,
               though
               not
               his
               Body
               ,
               to
               thy
               Bed
               :
            
             
               Let
               that
               make
               thee
               a
               Mother
               ;
               bring
               thou
               forth
            
             
               Th'
               
                 Idea's
              
               of
               his
               Vertue
               ,
               Knowledge
               ,
               Worth
               ;
            
             
               Transcribe
               th'
               Original
               in
               new
               Copies
               ;
               give
            
             
               
                 Hastings
              
               o'
               th'
               better
               part
               :
               so
               shall
               he
               live
            
             
               In
               's
               Nobler
               Half
               ;
               and
               the
               great
               Grandsire
               be
            
             
               Of
               an
               Heroick
               Divine
               Progenie
               :
            
             
               An
               Issue
               ,
               which●t
               '
               Eternity
               shall
               last
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               but
               th'
               Irradiations
               which
               he
               cast
               .
            
             
               Erect
               no
               
                 Mausolaeums
                 :
              
               for
               his
               best
            
             
               Monument
               is
               his
               Spouses
               Marble
               brest
               .
            
          
           
             
               JOHANNES
               DRYDEN
               ,
               
                 Scholae
                 Westm.
                 Alumnus
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
         
           
             In
             Obitum
             Honoratissimi
             Viri
             ,
             Domini
             HENRICI
             HASTINGS
             .
          
           
             
               INcipe
            
             lugubris
             ,
             Musa
             incipe
             nostra
             ,
             querelas
             ;
          
           
             Contineat
             Lachrymas
             nec
             Cytherea
             suas
             :
          
           
             Excidit
             amplexu
             Mus●rum
             abreptus
             Alumnus
             ;
          
           
             Pulchrior
             Idalio
             Sponsus
             Adone
             perit
             ▪
          
           
             Cum
             celebranda
             forent
             lae●o
             connubia
             cantu
             ,
          
           
             Ferres
             accensas
             túque
             Hymenaee
             faces
             :
          
           
             Pronuba
             praebebant
             piceas
             funalia
             flammas
             ;
          
           
             Iunonis
             subiit
             tunc
             Libitina
             vices
             .
          
           
             Vertitur
             in
             moestum
             genialis
             sponda
             feretrum
             ;
          
           
             Fit
             vespillo
             ,
             priùs
             qui
             Paranymphus
             erat
             .
          
           
             Flent
             omnes
             tristíque
             irrorant
             imbre
             cadaver
             ;
          
           
             Et
             superat
             morbi
             lachryma
             fusa
             notas
             .
          
           
             Pro
             virtute
             tuâ
             si
             vota
             superstite
             dentur
             ,
          
           
             Victima
             si
             pro
             te
             sospite
             digna
             cadat
             ;
          
           
           
             Vt
             Pietas
             ,
             Virtus
             ,
             Linguaeque
             ,
             Artesque
             supersint
             ,
          
           
             Nec
             pereat
             formae
             ,
             aut
             Nobilitatis
             honos
             ;
          
           
             Qui
             pro
             communi
             renuit
             se
             tradere
             Fato
             ,
          
           
             Non
             tibi
             ,
             sed
             Patriae
             denegat
             officium
             .
          
           
             Occidis
             exemplar
             ,
             generosae
             &
             norma
             juventae
             ;
          
           
             Insequitur
             morum
             magna
             ruina
             tuam
             .
          
           
             Vita
             tibi
             dempta
             est
             ,
             sed
             nobis
             Regula
             vitae
             :
          
           
             Tecum
             Nobilitas
             semisepulta
             jacet
             .
          
           
             Graecia
             ,
             Roma
             ,
             tuam
             excoluit
             (
             quotae
             Natio
             !
             )
             Linguam
             :
          
           
             Qui
             totum
             excoleret
             te
             ,
             minor
             orbis
             erit
             .
          
           
             Tantus
             es
             ,
             ut
             coeli
             tumulandus
             in
             orbibus
             esses
             ;
          
           
             Non
             satis
             in
             Tumulum
             terra
             Britanna
             patet
             .
          
           
             At
             quid
             amator
             eras
             ?
             Musarum
             castra
             sequenti
          
           
             Permansi●
             puro
             sanguine
             sana
             cutis
             .
          
           
             Mox
             ubi
             pectus
             amor
             ,
             Morbilli
             corpus
             adurunt
             :
          
           
             Tabe
             omni
             costas
             fortiùs
             urit
             amor
             .
          
           
             Protegis
             arte
             tuâ
             cultores
             Phoebe
             ;
             dolendum
             est
          
           
             Arte
             quod
             in
             Medicâ
             nil
             Cytherea
             potest
             .
          
           
             Sponsa
             parata
             ,
             velut
             pulchrae
             virtutis
             Idaea
             ,
          
           
             Interiore
             animam
             concremat
             igne
             tuam
             .
          
           
             I
             procul
             hinc
             conjux
             ,
             auges
             incendia
             fletu
             ,
          
           
             Vulnerat
             ex
             oculis
             ignea
             gutta
             tuu
             .
          
           
             Est
             toleranda
             mihi
             duri
             inclementia
             morbi
             ;
          
           
             Virtus
             ,
             aut
             facies
             non
             toleranda
             tua
             est
             .
          
           
           
             Exturget
             mihi
             Mens
             ,
             &
             laxat
             Corporis
             arcta
          
           
             Vincula
             ,
             in
             amplexus
             non
             satis
             ampla
             tuos
             :
          
           
             Extendítque
             cutem
             ,
             partésque
             exporrigit
             omnes
             ,
          
           
             Ruptá
             ;
             que
             mille
             aditus
             per
             sua
             membra
             parat
             .
          
           
             Exit
             Sponsi
             anima
             ,
             i●gremium
             Sponsaeque
             recepta
             est
             :
          
           
             Non
             duo
             ,
             jam
             nexi
             mentibus
             unus
             erunt
             .
          
           
             Totus
             amor
             ,
             totus
             nunc
             Spiritus
             ,
             I
             pete
             coelos
             :
          
           
             Non
             Sponsus
             ,
             Christi
             sis
             modo
             Spousa
             tui
             .
          
           
             
               CYRILLUS
               WYCHE
               ,
               
                 Scholae
                 Westm.
                 Alumnus
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             PVllâ
             hâc
             in
             Vrnâ
             saeculi
             Genius
             sui
          
           
             Reclinat
             augustum
             caput
             :
          
           
             Natura
             multâ
             dote
             quem
             ditaverat
             ,
          
           
             Hominúmque
             coetu
             exemerat
             .
          
           
             Mortalitatem
             nisi
             fateretur
             suam
             ,
          
           
             Intelligentiam
             putes
             .
          
           
             Desideratiùs
             quis
             unquam
             vixerit
             ,
          
           
             Poterítve
             flebiliùs
             mori
             ?
          
           
             Meditentur
             alii
             busta
             ,
             suspendant
             Tholos
             ,
          
           
             Titulis
             onusti
             grandibus
             :
          
           
           
             Quorum
             superstes
             fama
             Marmoribus
             manet
          
           
             Tribuenda
             non
             meritis
             suis
             .
          
           
             Non
             poscit
             
               Hastings
            
             Funeris
             pompam
             hanc
             sui
             ;
          
           
             Sibi
             non
             Sepulchra
             postulat
             ,
          
           
             Epitaphiúmve
             ,
             quod
             recenseret
             quibus
          
           
             Sit
             ortus
             è
             Penatibus
             .
          
           
             Pietate
             ,
             Factis
             ,
             Arte
             ,
             Linguis
             Inclytus
          
           
             Stat
             Ipse
             Monumentum
             sibi
             .
          
           
             
               EDW.
               CAMPION
               ,
               
                 Scholae
                 Westm.
              
               Alumnus
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             ARtibus
             ,
             &
             Linguis
             ,
             &
             Sanguine
             Nobilis
             Heros
             ,
          
           
             Vrnula
             tot
             dotes
             non
             capit
             unae
             tuas
             .
          
           
             Vix
             capiti
             locus
             est
             ;
             in
             coelis
             quaere
             sepulchrum
             :
          
           
             Terra
             negat
             ,
             Tumulo
             non
             satis
             ampla
             tuo
             .
          
           
             Scribenti
             titulos
             mihi
             longa
             excrescit
             Honorum
          
           
             Pagina
             ;
             &
             inceptis
             grandior
             illa
             meis
             .
          
           
             Nescimus
             Patriam
             ,
             tua
             si
             modò
             lingua
             loquatur
             :
          
           
             Esse
             suam
             credit
             Graecia
             ,
             Roma
             suam
             .
          
           
             Non
             unus
             moreris
             ,
             funus
             non
             plangimus
             unum
             ;
          
           
             Sed
             strages
             hominum
             ,
             sed
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
             obis
             .
          
           
           
             Fama
             superjectam
             Coelo
             dignissima
             te●ram
          
           
             Rumpit
             ,
             &
             ad
             similes
             te
             vehit
             alta
             deos
             .
          
           
             Pallas
             virtutes
             ,
             artes
             donavit
             Apollo
             ;
          
           
             Mors
             tamen
             has
             ,
             ill
             as
             invidiosa
             rapit
             .
          
           
             Parca
             parat
             sua
             tela
             ,
             parat
             sua
             tela
             Cupido
             ;
          
           
             Comburit
             corpus
             pustula
             ,
             pectus
             amor
             .
          
           
             Festinat
             Citherea
             suas
             accendere
             taedas
             :
          
           
             Accendit
             taedas
             invi
             a
             Parca
             suas
             .
          
           
             Exornat
             Citherea
             torum
             ,
             Libitina
             Sepulchrum
             ;
          
           
             Illa
             suum
             sternit
             floribus
             ,
             illa
             suum
             .
          
           
             Laberis
             ex
             
               Thalamo
            
             in
             
               Tumulum
               ;
            
             mirabile
             
               Spectrum
            
          
           
             Visus
             es
             ,
             &
             Sponsae
             non
             
               procus
            
             esse
             tuae
             .
          
           
             Sponsa
             tuam
             mirata
             luem
             ,
             restinguere
             vulnus
          
           
             Conatur
             lachrymis
             ;
             sed
             magis
             ardet
             amor
             .
          
           
             Impatiens
             morbi
             ruit
             in
             contagia
             ;
             cura
          
           
             Tanta
             Tui
             est
             ,
             ut
             sit
             nulla
             relicta
             Sui
             .
          
           
             Sit
             licet
             atra
             lues
             ,
             &
             nil
             nisi
             pustula
             corpus
             ,
          
           
             Ibit
             in
             ampexus
             (
             vel
             moritura
             )
             tuos
             :
          
           
             Et
             placuere
             tui
             magis
             
               exanthemata
            
             vultûs
             ,
          
           
             Quàm
             flores
             propriis
             qui
             rubuere
             genis
             .
          
           
             Cum
             Sponsâ
             mea
             Musa
             tuâ
             te
             plangit
             amátque
             ,
          
           
             Cum
             linguis
             muta
             est
             sed
             mea
             Musae
             tuis
             .
          
           
             
               THO.
               ADAMS
               ,
               Scholae
               Westm.
               Alumnus
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             NObilium
             pueris
             bullae
             olim
             insignia
             ;
             Morbi
          
           
             Nos
             insignivit
             plurima
             bulla
             notis
             .
          
           
             Me
             nuper
             
               languente
               ,
               infecit
            
             pustula
             corpus
             ;
          
           
             Iam
             mentem
             
               affecit
               ,
            
             Te
             
               moriente
               ,
            
             meam
             .
          
           
             Morbi
             iterum
             videor
             tecum
             sentire
             dolores
             :
          
           
             Quàm
             leve
             ferre
             meos
             ,
             quàm
             grave
             ferre
             tuos
             !
          
           
             Partior
             ipse
             tui
             
               languores
            
             corporis
             ▪
             O
             si
          
           
             
               Virtutes
            
             animae
             partiar
             ipse
             Tuae
             !
          
           
             
               RADVLPHVS
               MOVNTAGVE
               ,
               EDWARDI
               MOUNTAGUE
               Baronis
               de
               
                 Boughton
              
               Filius
               natu
               minor
               ,
               ex
               Scholà
               
                 Westmonast
                 .
              
            
          
           
             FINIS
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
       
       
         
           
             —
             Vana
             Salus
             hominis
             .
          
        
         
           PIETATI
           SACRUM
           .
           
           H.
           S.
           E.
           
           Quod
           mortale
           fuit
           
           I.
           N.
           R.
           I.
           
           Praestolans
           Epiphaniam
           ,
           depositun
           
           HENRICI
           Baronis
           HASTINGS
           
           Com.
           
           
             Venantoduni
          
           Haeredis
           designati
           ,
           
           Sobole
           antiquissimâ
           &
           vere
           Regiâ
           prognati
           .
           
           Quippe
           cujus
           
           Praenobile
           fluentum
           per
           Hungerfordios
           &
           Piperelios
           à
           
             Ludovici
          
           
           
             VI
          
           Francorum-Regis
           origine
           devolvit
           
           Per
           Polos
           Masculo
           rivo
           è
           Venedotiae
           principe
           desilit
           ;
           
           Foemineo
           ductu
           è
           
             Clarentio
             ,
          
           è
           Lineâ
           
             Plantogenistarum
             ,
          
           
           Ebullienti
           
             Nevillorum
          
           Scaturigine
           è
           Bello-campo
           promanat
           ,
           
           Qui
           è
           Mortuo-mari
           prosilit
           ,
           
           Bello-campi
           per
           dispensatores
           ab
           
             Henrieo
          
           primo
           Angliae
           
           Per
           
             Nevillos
             Monte-acuto
          
           impetu
           ex
           
             Edv.
          
           I.
           Regio
           ;
           
           Noviss
           .
           per
           
             Stanlaeos
          
           luculenter
           prolabitur
           ab
           
             Hen.
          
           
             VII
             .
          
           sinu
           ,
           
           Terreni
           Sanguinis
           factus
           exhaeres
           ,
           
           Coelestem
           crevit
           haereditatem
           .
           
           CLARITATEM
           SANGUINIS
           INGENII
           DOTIBUS
           SUPER
           A
           VIT.
           
           H.
           I.
           
           Trilinguis
           Sacer
           ;
           nec
           non
           Gallici
           &
           Vernaculi
           idiomatis
           ornamentum
           .
           
           Par
           decus
           artium
           .
           
           Historiarum
           indagator
           Sagacissimus
           .
           
           Omnifariae
           eruditionis
           Academia
           ,
           magnum
           Numen
           .
           
           SED
           VICIT
           INGENIUM
           MORUM
           ET
           PROBITATIS
           CANDOR
           .
           
           E
           C
           C
           E
           ,
           
           Suavitatis
           Suada
           ,
           Cor
           Gratiarum
           ,
           Sedes
           Amorum
           ;
           
           Votum
           &
           deliciae
           populi
           dudum
           ;
           Nunc
           desiderium
           ;
           
           Divini
           amoris
           flamma
           :
           Denuò
           Astrum
           .
           
           Filius
           obsequen●
           ,
           Dominus
           benignus
           ,
           impubes
           ●thicus
           Senex
           ;
           
           Unicum
           familiae
           columen
           ;
           
           Pridiè
           Sponsalium
           (
           proh
           
             Hymenaee
          
           )
           Funere
           luit
           immaturo
           .
           
           AT
           ,
           at
           
           Sanguine
           Christi
           longè
           maxumè
           Nobi●ior
           ,
           
           Sacrarum
           Literarum
           studio
           consultior
           ,
           
           Trini-unius
           cultu
           Sanctior
           ,
           cluens
           ,
           
           Raptus
           in
           patriam
           obiit
           .
           
           Divi
           defuncti
           manibus
           ingens
           hoc
           doloris
           Amphitheatrum
           tota
           Gens
           Britonum
           
           L.
           M.
           Q.
           
           Posuit
           .
        
         
           
             Gloria
             Dei
             est
             celare
             verbum
             .
          
           
             Prov.
             
          
        
         
           
             
               Denatus
            
             
               A.
               D.
               
                 MDCXLIX
                 .
              
               IX
               Kal.
               
                 Iulii
                 .
              
            
             h
          
           
             PHIL.
             KINDE●
             .
          
        
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A29640e-870
           
             a
             Stoick
             and
             Academick
             Philosophy
             .
          
           
             b
             Pythagoras
             
          
           
             c
             Aristotle
             .
          
           
             d
             Seneca
             .
          
           
             e
             Plutarch
             .
          
           
             f
             Cheronea
             .
          
           
             *
             Ens
             ,
             Verum
             &
             Bonum
             convertuntur
             .
             Arist.
             
          
        
      
      
  

