







 
   
     
       
         A funeral elegie, upon the death of George Sonds, Esq; &c. Who was killed by his brother, Mr. Freeman Sonds, August the 7th. anno Dom. 1655. By William Annand Junior, of Throwligh. Whereunto is annexed a prayer, compiled by his sorrowfull father Sir George Sonds, and used in his family during the life of the said Freeman.
         Annand, William, 1633-1689.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A75368 of text R211580 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Thomason 669.f.20[12]). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
       Approx. 5 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image.
       
         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A75368
         Wing A3219
         Thomason 669.f.20[12]
         ESTC R211580
         99870296
         99870296
         163429
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A75368)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 163429)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 247:669f20[12])
      
       
         
           
             A funeral elegie, upon the death of George Sonds, Esq; &c. Who was killed by his brother, Mr. Freeman Sonds, August the 7th. anno Dom. 1655. By William Annand Junior, of Throwligh. Whereunto is annexed a prayer, compiled by his sorrowfull father Sir George Sonds, and used in his family during the life of the said Freeman.
             Annand, William, 1633-1689.
             Feversham, George Sondes, Earl of, 1599-1677.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             Printed by John Crowch,
             London :
             1655.
          
           
             Mostly in verse - "Reach me a handcerchiff; another yet,".
             Included at end: "A prayer made by Sir George Sonds".
             Annotation on Thomason copy: "Decemb. 20."
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Sondes, George, d. 1655 -- Early works to 1800.
           Sondes, Freeman, 1636-1655 -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English -- Early modern, 1500-1700.
        
      
    
       A75368  R211580  (Thomason 669.f.20[12]).  civilwar no A funeral elegie, upon the death of George Sonds, Esq; &c. Who was killed by his brother, Mr. Freeman Sonds, August the 7th. anno Dom. 1655. Annand, William 1655    895 1 0 0 0 0 0 11 C  The  rate of 11 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the C category of texts with between 10 and 35 defects per 10,000 words. 
        2008-06 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2008-09 SPi Global
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2008-11 John Pas
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2008-11 John Pas
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2009-02 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
         
           A
           FUNERAL
           ELEGIE
           ,
           Upon
           the
           Death
           of
           GEORGE
           SONDS
           ,
           
             ESQ
          
           &c.
           
             Who
             was
             killed
             by
             his
             Brother
             ,
             Mr.
          
           FREEMAN
           SONDS
           ,
           August
           
             the
          
           7th
           .
           
             Anno
             Dom.
          
           1655.
           
        
         
           
             By
          
           William
           Annand
           
             Junior
             ,
             of
          
           Throwligh
           .
        
         
           
             Whereunto
             is
             annexed
             a
             PRAYER
             ,
             Compiled
             by
             his
             sorrowfull
             Father
             Sir
             GEORGE
             SONDS
             ,
             and
             used
             in
             his
             Family
             during
             the
             Lafe
             of
             the
             said
             FREEMAN
             .
          
        
         
           
             REach
             me
             a
             Handcerchiff
             ;
             Another
             yet
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             another
             ,
             for
             the
             last
             is
             wett
             ;
          
           
             Nay
             now
             a
             Glass
             ,
             to
             bottell
             up
             my
             teares
             ,
          
           
             For
             present
             pressing
             griefs
             ,
             and
             future
             fears
             .
          
           
             Could
             sighs
             ,
             could
             groans
             ,
             could
             sobbs
             ,
             or
             ought
             revoak
             ,
          
           
             That
             sudden
             ,
             fatal
             ,
             fearfull
             ,
             deadly
             stroak
             ?
          
           
             The
             
               Muses
            
             should
             be
             summon'd
             in
             by
             force
             ,
          
           
             And
             spend
             their
             
               All
               ,
            
             upon
             his
             wounded
             Coarse
             ,
          
           
             Could
             measur'd
             lines
             ,
             griefs
             infinit
             display
             ?
          
           
             The
             sacred
             Nine
             ,
             with
             Him
             who
             rules
             the
             Day
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             who
             in
             Immortall
             Thrones
             reside
             ;
          
           
             In
             spight
             of
             greatness
             ,
             should
             a
             charge
             abide
             ,
          
           
             To
             consecrate
             ,
             and
             to
             adorn
             his
             Hearse
             ,
          
           
             Revive
             his
             life
             ,
             and
             club
             unto
             a
             Verse
             .
          
           
             Or
             then
             let
             Sable
             darkness
             ,
             canop'd
             in
             night
             ,
          
           
             Eeclipse
             them
             all
             for
             ever
             .
             Here
             's
             a
             fight
          
           
             That
             ripens
             sorrow
             ,
             breaks
             op
             '
             Griefs
             magazine
             ,
          
           
             Horrors
             great
             
               store-house
               —
               ,
            
             compass'd
             in
             his
             Shrine
             ,
          
           
             Of
             life
             ,
             of
             sense
             ,
             all
             are
             dispossest
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             one
             Dagger
             ,
             loe
             each
             heart
             is
             peirc'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thy
             death
             ,
             thy
             death
             ,
             dear
             soul
             ,
             might
             wonder
             move
             ,
          
           
             How
             the
             Old
             Serpent
             ,
             thus
             should
             kill
             the
             Dove
             .
          
           
             Thy
             habits
             so
             refulgently
             did
             shine
             ,
          
           
             That
             we
             knew
             ●ought
             ,
             but
             what
             was
             thought
             divine
             .
          
           
             In
             thy
             expyring
             ,
             it
             was
             made
             appear
          
           
             In
             bloody
             Wounds
             ,
             the
             
               *
            
             Trinitie
             was
             clear
             .
          
           
             The
             gates
             through
             which
             thy
             fertil
             soul
             did
             mount
          
           
             To
             bless'd
             aboads
             ,
             came
             to
             the
             full
             account
          
           
             Of
             Twelve
             ,
             or
             four
             times
             three
             ,
             And
             three
          
           
             "
             Hath
             ever
             in
             it
             some
             great
             My
             steric
             .
          
        
         
           
             Nor
             was
             it
             for
             thy
             good
             ,
             dear
             heart
             ,
          
           
             That
             Heaven
             thus
             suffer'd
             man
             to
             act
             his
             part
             .
          
           
             But
             as
             Gods
             hand
             mayd
             Nature
             ,
             doth
             not
             eye
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             this
             ,
             nor
             that
             ,
             but
             all
             in
             part
             doth
             spye
             :
          
           
             So
             here
             God
             acts
             ,
             in
             manner
             so
             so
             ample
             ,
          
           
             That
             All
             may
             have
             thee
             ;
             Alwayes
             for
             example
          
           
             Of
             this
             lifes
             frailty
             ,
             most
             stupid
             here
             may
             know
             ,
          
           
             "
             There
             's
             no
             abiding
             City
             ,
             here
             below
             .
          
           
             Behold
             the
             reaking
             blood
             ,
             heart
             sign'd
             with
             murther
             staines
             ,
          
           
             Wisdoms
             great
             Citadel
             defac'd
             ,
             empty
             veines
             ,
          
           
             Of
             one
             so
             young
             ,
             so
             good
             ,
             so
             lov'd
             of
             all
             ,
          
           
             After
             the
             closure
             of
             a
             Festivall
             .
          
           
             So
             gentle
             ,
             modest
             ,
             rich
             ,
             discreet
             and
             wise
             ,
          
           
             In
             dawning
             of
             his
             youth
             to
             close
             his
             eyes
             !
          
           
             None
             more
             in
             Grace
             ,
             in
             Speech
             ,
             in
             featur
             ,
          
           
             Destroy'd
             ,
             'cause
             none
             in
             Grace
             ,
             in
             Speech
             ,
             was
             greater
             .
          
           
             The
             best
             of
             Sonnes
             ,
             Heires
             ,
             Friends
             ,
             of
             Masters
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             bath'd
             in
             his
             own
             blood
             ;
             O
             sad
             disasters
             !
          
           
             Good
             God
             ,
             what
             can
             ,
             what
             shall
             ,
             mans
             frailty
             thinke
             ,
          
           
             When
             thy
             great
             goodnese
             ,
             at
             this
             Act
             did
             winke
             ?
          
           
             But
             thou
             art
             just
             ,
             perhaps
             thou
             thought'st
             it
             sitt
             ,
          
           
             And
             Lord
             unto
             thy
             Judgement
             I
             submit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Rest
             happy
             Soul
             above
             ,
          
           
             with
             God
             in
             Love
             ;
          
           
             Where
             malice
             ,
             hate
             ,
             is
             out
             of
             date
             .
          
           
             Expecting
             still
             the
             end
          
           
             That
             Pious
             souls
             attend
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vivet
             Post
             funera
             virtue
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           A
           Prayer
           made
           by
           Sir
           GEORGE
           SONDS
           ,
           for
           his
           Son
           
             FREEMAN
             SONDS
             ;
             used
             in
             his
             own
             Family
             so
             long
             as
             be
             was
             living
             .
          
        
         
           LORD
           wee
           beseech
           thee
           ,
           look
           down
           in
           Mercy
           on
           that
           most
           miserable
           and
           unhappy
           creature
           of
           thine
           
             (
             Freeman
             Sonds
             )
          
           Lord
           soften
           his
           hard
           and
           stubborne
           heart
           .
           LORD
           give
           him
           a
           trve
           sight
           of
           this
           his
           most
           hainous
           and
           bloody
           sinne
           .
           Lord
           give
           him
           grace
           to
           cry
           unto
           thee
           by
           true
           and
           unfeigned
           Repentance
           ,
           that
           so
           thou
           may'st
           have
           mercy
           on
           his
           poor
           soul
           .
           Thou
           art
           the
           Fountaine
           of
           mercy
           ,
           and
           all
           flows
           from
           thee
           .
           His
           Father
           ,
           upon
           his
           earnest
           desire
           ,
           though
           he
           hath
           killed
           (
           oh
           fowly
           killed
           )
           his
           dear
           Sonne
           ,
           and
           ruined
           him
           in
           all
           his
           hopes
           ,
           hath
           Pardoned
           him
           .
           Oh
           do
           thou
           then
           ,
           O
           father
           of
           Mercy
           ,
           in
           that
           said
           houre
           of
           his
           death
           ,
           receive
           him
           in
           thy
           Armes
           of
           Mercy
           ,
           that
           his
           sad
           Father
           may
           yet
           have
           this
           comfort
           ,
           That
           though
           thou
           hast
           made
           him
           childless
           ,
           and
           left
           him
           not
           one
           Sonne
           on
           Earth
           alive
           ;
           yet
           which
           is
           much
           better
           ,
           they
           live
           with
           thee
           in
           Heaven
           ,
           in
           aeternal
           Blisse
           .
           
             Dear
             Father
             grant
             us
             our
             request
             and
             that
             for
             thy
             beloved
             Sonne
             JESVS
             his
             sake
             ,
             our
             LORD
             and
             onely
             Saviour
             .
          
           Amen
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
           
             London
             ,
          
           Printed
           by
           
             John
             Crowch
             .
          
           1655.
           
        
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A75368e-30
           
             *
             He
             was
             slab'd
             with
             a
             Three
             edged
             Dagger
             ,
             so
             that
             the
             wounds
             were
             Triangular
             .
          
        
      
      
  

