Piæ juventuti sacrum, an elegie on the death of the most vertuous and hopefull young gentleman, George Pitt, esq. Ellis, Clement, 1630-1700. This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A39263 of text R31412 in the English Short Title Catalog (Wing E567). 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. 35 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 15 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. EarlyPrint Project Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO 2017 A39263 Wing E567 ESTC R31412 11963477 ocm 11963477 51634 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. A39263) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 51634) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1006:7) Piæ juventuti sacrum, an elegie on the death of the most vertuous and hopefull young gentleman, George Pitt, esq. Ellis, Clement, 1630-1700. [8], 21 p. Printed by H. Hall], [Oxford : 1658. In verse. Arms of the University of Oxford on t.p. Attributed to Ellis by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints. Imprint suggested by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints. Reproduction of original in the University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign Campus). Library. eng Elegiac poetry -- Early works to 1800. A39263 R31412 (Wing E567). civilwar no Piæ juventuti sacrum, an elegie on the death of the most vertuous and hopefull young gentleman, George Pitt, esq. Ellis, Clement 1658 4765 3 0 0 0 0 0 6 B The rate of 6 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the B category of texts with fewer than 10 defects per 10,000 words. 2003-06 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2003-06 Aptara Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2003-08 Judith Siefring Sampled and proofread 2003-08 Judith Siefring Text and markup reviewed and edited 2003-10 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion Piae Iuventuti Sacrum , An ELEGIE on The Death of the most vertuous and hopefull young Gentleman GEORGE PITT Esq : Sen: Herc : Fur : Act : 3. Prima quae vitam dedit hora , carpsit . Even that first hour wherein man lives , Takes one hour from the life it gives . Printed in the Yeare 1658. To THE MOST VERTVOVS AND THEREFORE MOST DESERVEDLY HONOURED LADY , Mris ALICE PITT , With all due Service and Devotion is humbly Dedicated the following Elegy : At the Funerals of her onely , and worthily Beloved Sonne Mr G. P. MADAM , SInce You can be so Charitably kind , To let us share the Blessings of your Mind ; Since of the Comforts of your Wombe , your Son , You could allow me part ; and still had done , Had not our wretched lives curs'd Mistresses His Progresse Fear'd , Envy'd our Happinesse . It seems But just , I should be sharer to , As of your Ioyes before , soe sorrows now . Not then to joy with you , it had but bin My Misery ; 't were , not to grieve , my sin . That was my Priv'ledge , This my duety is ; That Gratitude Commands , Religion this . Nor dare I mourne by halves , The whole man he , Must weare noe party-colour'd livory : Such as indeed the joy-dissembling Heire Too oft at 's Father's funerall seems to weare ; when turne him inside out , you 'll eas'ly find Much diff'ring colours in his cloak and Mind . My sorrow's die'd in graine I onely have Just so much life as keeps me from the grave . Your Bounty cloaths the outward man in black , His Death would not allow my soule to lack Her Mourning-suit ; who in respect to you Has clad her Maid all in close mourning too Your Goodnesse calls on one ; and here you see , My bold griefe multiplies that one to three . Upon the weak staffe of a splitted Quill , My Creeple Muse comes halting up the Hill ; And humbly at your feet does prostrate fall , The devout'st mourner at this Funerall . Your sorrows rais'd her from that Bed of ease , Where she so long had hugg'd her own disease ; And had expir'd long siuce , a prey to death , But that your sighs brought a supply of breath Hearing your groans , she started up , and see No Sun appear , she straight cries out-'Tis he ! And with a trembling eye , roaving about , At length she spies that mournfull HARROVV out . Seeing this * two-top'd Hill ( for now there 's odds Betwixt your house , and that which once was God's : Though these made one , 'till some more wise then we Durst preach it Schisme to live in unity . ) Seeing these tops two blackest clouds o'reshade ( God's frown the one , your sadnesle t'other made : ) She calls it her Parnassus , and does run In hast , to take leave of her setting sun . The Deity inspir'd her was your Son , Whose vertues made your teares her Helicon . But may this fountaine soon run dry ! that streame No more occasion'd on so sad a theme ! O rather may my Muses last breath be Exhal'd in this unwelcome Elegie ! O may she rather spend her rustick Rithme Upon the reigning vices of the time ; And with her betters only reap these gaines , An happy Curse of Silence for her pains ! Had she not in this sin which she has done , Serv'd the sad mother more then happy son ; She had not in so deep a note sat down , And groan'd : But up to Heav'n had flown In lofty numbers ; such as might become The Sainted off-spring of your happy wombe . I cannot blame your love , which did contrive So many waies to keep this Flow'r alive : Though in a lovely garden here he grew , Made for such Flow'rs alone as he and you : Though you did well those lawfull hopes to nourish , To see him in this garden thrive and flourish : Though such endeavours with Religion stand , Yet did your pray'rs still contradict your hand : You wish'd him blest , your own experience shows That no man 's so before to heav'n he goes . I know you grudge him not his early rest , Nor think his blessing lesse , 'cause so soon blest . Who soonest goes this journey , runs his race With as much ease as speed , and takes his place Highest in Heav'n ; we who stay here behind , Laden with sins and sorrows , we shall find The entrance much more hard , and there must be Content to sit lower by much then he . This is your Blessing , that for seav'nteen yeares You have possess'd what now you lose with teares . That heav'n intrusted you with that rich prize , In love of which it selfe did sympathize With you and us : That you have been so long His Nurse , 'till he can speak the Angells tongue . And beares his part in that sweet quire , that siug Loud Halleluiahs to their God and King . May that bright Glory , which now Crownes the Son , Attend the Mother when her race is run ! There may you meet where endlesse comforts may , And shall mak 't an aeternall Holiday . Till when my alter'd Calender shall b●● Two letters for this day in every yeare . A black one for your losse , an other Red To signifie the happy day he sped In Heav'n ; May all the vertuous family Still live so innocent , so happy die ! May Heav'ns warme rayes revive your joies and keep Your Hopes awake , untill your Bodies sleep In peacefull Graves , and all your Soules do flye In triumph up to Immortality ! ON The Early , but happy death , of the very Hopefull young Gentleman , my once most dear , and Honoured friend , GEORGE PITT Esq : Dying of an haereditary Consumption at 17 yeares of age . THus flitting are our best of Joyes , and this The misery attends too early blisse ; To have a friend which I must lose ! O blesse Me ( Heavens ) with no such fading happinesse ! Whil'st here I breath , O let me rather be As free from friends , as Immortality ! So shall no dying joy to me bequeath A living sorrow by its hasty Death . " Sorrow hath to the height its selfe improv'd , " When we have lost what we can say we lov'd . What shall I call my Passion then , who have Bury'd more then one Heaven in his Grave ? I lov'd and lost , to tell you what , and when , Were but to love and lose him o're again . Great Griefs are dumb , in these sad lines I show , What 't is my Griefe would say were it not so . What others might call words , here are but weak Expressions , onely signes that I would speak . Could I speak out , my lines should have no end , My Griefe bee'ng more then words can comprehend . And yet no wonder , if each sigh , each teare , Falling upon his dust new-moulded were , And unto us articulate now seeme , Rebounding from so Elegant a theme . As Memnon's statue without soul or sense , When warm'd and mov'd by th' pow'rfull Influence Of Heaven above , did seem in gratitude To blesse the power whence 't was with life indu'd : So may his shining soul , which now is gone Triumphant far above the Stars and Sun , Dart down a Courteous and enlivening ray , To actuate our souls , as those our clay ; And make us such in●eed as he should have All speaking monuments about his grave . Till then , like one whose losses strike him dumbe , With this sad Paper on my brest I come , And mourne before thy Herse , such Griefe's exprest Best by a silent tongue , and vocall brest : For these sad words in these white sheets , they be The walking Ghosts of my dead Poëtry . Which haunt thy Grave , the place which does enclose More of my treasure then the world yet knows . More then I have to lose again , and more Then richest nature can againe restore . More then my hopes can aime at here , or can Be recompens'd in one that 's meerly man . A treasure can indeed no more be lost Then be forgot , 't is but secur'd at most : Since 't lies so safe , what 's left , I 'll cast all in ; This Mite-devotion of my widdow'd Pen . Could sighs breath'd out from sorrow's clouded nest , ( Call it thy living tomb or my dead brest ) Prevaile and blow thee back againe : or teares Shour'd on thy Corps raise a new spring of years : Could Sobbes and dolefull groans , sent from the heart , ( The last sad Gasps wherein our hopes depart ) Or be so pow'rfull , as to mollifie The Fates , or make thee think it sin to die . Thy friends , whom thy far-spreading death bereft Of Joyes , and senselesse as thy body left , Would borrow of surviving passion , To antedate thy resurrection . Could whitest Innocence with sweetnesse mix'd , Could Piety in Resolution fix'd , Could inward Grace in outward beauty set As true Gold in a Gilded Cabinet Could sweetest Inclinations in a mind Not warp'd by favour , nor through passion blind ; Could ( what 's a miracle ) a pious youth Ag'd in Devotion and Religion's Growth , Could each or all of these have set a rate Upon a mortall , death might venerate , And through religion be afraid to weare Those sacrilegious spoils it now does here : We had enjoy'd him longer , and in him Those vertues which so beautifi'd the Gemme . Wer 't thou no more ( sweet soul ) but as of late My dearest Freind , I durst expostulate With death and sicknesse , and thus seem to be In danger of a name in Poëtry . Could threats or flatt'ries , force or wooe the Grave , Onely to take what aged nature gave : Could dire Anathemaes belch'd out with noise ( The loudest thunder of a Poët's voice ) Fright death , and excommunicate disease I 'm sure thou had'st not bin so soon at ease : I know not which had giv'n more cause t' have griev'd That now thou die'st , or then so many liv'd . Were vertue but a name in thee , no doubt Our words might swell so big as speak it out : Or were our sorrow passion , Reason might Enter the lists and hope to win the fight : But 't is above this straine we mourne , not one Forc'd Sigh we have , strain'd tear , or modish Groane . Such as the zealous Hypocrite puts on When he should mourn for 's lost Religion . No mourners of the Poste , whose Grief's a trade , Who arm'd with Iron words , so come t' invade Death with their Execrations , murther fate With Curses as prophane , as then too late . Our sorrow's Christian , and our verses be Our due Devotion , no starch'd Elegie . True , he whose dryer soul would boast a power Beyond what 's mortall , and forbear to showr Down pensive tears upon thy ashes , must Crumbling to ashes too , mix with thy dust : None can but grieve for thy Mortality Except a soul that 's much more dead then thee . And yet he only mourns aright , that shows A soul as innocent as vertuous : As thine , whose actions write insteed of Griefe An harmlesse Comment on thy spotlesse life . A life so good , so chast , it seem'd to give Us a short tast of that which Angells live : And what 's most true in all Goods here we meet , This was its Commendation , Short and sweet . The fairest morning of a man , the dawn Of an aeternall day ; On 's clay was drawn The lovely'st picture of a lovely'r soul , On this the Divine Image almost whole . Man in his stature , in 's forme more then man , In purest Innocence a Christian . His nature soft , his body such as stole From Heav'n a lodging for so sweet a soul . Nature ( as in the Ermine ) fairly drew His duties ' Embleme in his spotlesse hue . Who so observ'd that rarest caution which Appear'd , when e're he was to passe the ditch Wherein too many welter and lie drown'd , Chusing the softest not the firmest ground . Would almost say more then in Complement Nature , not vertue made him Innocent . To see so young a soule stand all alone I' th' world , as vertue 'twixt two vices , one ; Assaulted now by one , then by another , And neither leare to one , nor cringe to t'other , Made me first see the businesse he had For Heav'n gave him no leasure to be bad , Whose race with so great haste to Heav'n was run 'T was almost finish'd e're we saw 't begun . O pious soule ! who know'st no paralell , To die so young when yet thou liv'dst so well ! To see so choyce a Gemme lye all alone Amidst a croud , and yet caught up by none Must speake a vertue more then naturall Which struck that secret rev'rence into all . To see so faire a flower oft beset With weeds and thistles , and to flourish yet Retain it's Beauty and its sent , and be Ev'n guarded by 't's malignant Enemie , Argues a vigour more then Earth can give , And more then ought but Heaven Could receive . Those pritty tempting bates which lye and hemme Youth in , and prey on those would feast on them , Could in his more resolved Count'nance move A smile at most , and of disdain , not love . Those thundring Oaths , the highest Embloss'd Pride Of brave discourse , which the swolne Deicide Enam'lling all his talke with that rude grace In a Bravado spits in Heav'ns pure face . Spread such an horrour o're his soule , as 't seem'd The tender'st part of what was thus Blasphem'd , So constant at 's Devotion , as though His soule did nothing but his Heaven know . How eas'ly went that soule to God , each day Which made it thus it's taske to learne that way ! For him to goe to Heaven , 't was no more But trace the foot steps he had made before : Knowing that he must run , that wins the Goale , It was his care thus oft to breath his soule . What e're might bring to Heav'n , to him 't was all Becomes so perfectly habituall It was as hard for him to do amisse As 't was for others to obtaine their blisse . Where others with amazement gaze and spie A Phancy'd lustre which puts out the eye , He saw , and seeing loath'd , and loathing shun'd ; Did not his reason ; with his sense confound . His words were such , as onely his could be Sweet perfumes breath'd from that rich Spicery Which did embalme his soule whil'st here it lay Bury'd within it's Sepulchre of clay . He liv'd , as if his arrand hither were To beg of each a passion , each a pray'r . So Heav'nly were his soul's sweet motions all To rest below had been unnaturall . So doth that noblest element of fire Fight with it's fuell and to heav'n aspire , And when that 's vanquish'd , and it upwards gone , Lives the more pure though after seen by none . His busnesse here below was not to wast . A life , or stay 'till some few minutes pass'd ; All that he came to doe was this , no where He had to leave 's mortallity but here . His blessed soul came hither but to shew That all that goe to Heav'n must this way goe : Had it been possible a soul should bound So high without a fall upon the Ground , Could man enjoy aeternall life , and not First dye , then had he never been forgot : Heav'n would have priz'd such jewells much more high , Then to expose them to each vulgar eye . But since the purest Di'mond , e're it stand The pride and Glory of a Noble hand Must first endure the file , and not think much T' abide the Lapidarie's ruder touch . Even so his richer soul now safely set In God's more wide and Glorious Cabinet , ( Enamell rich as those bright Orbes e're wore . ) Was here plac'd to be Cut and polish'd ore . Such was his entertainment here , that day Which first gave life , first took his health away . Born but to practice his mortallity , Only to learn how to be sick and dye . Nature grew jealous at his birth , she saw A face so sweet , so brave a soul , in awe Of her own work she stood , and lest it should Grow more then man , and deifie her mould , She sent him not abroad , but as we do Our Pris●ners ; with his churlish keeper too . His guard's a sad disease , which does essay To stifle 's soul in his infected clay . And when she would have walk'd abroad , to view What Nature made of old , or Art anew , Clapp'd bolts and shackles on each faculty , And made her life a death , who could not die . Till leaning too too heavy on the wall , It had so weakn'd , caus'd at length its fall : And now the joyfull soul escaped is Into a fair aeternity of blisse . O Happy soul , in this thy misery ! For having try'd so long what t is to die , Thou quickly did'st thy work , without all pain , And go'st to rest aeternally again . Whil'st others drop or stumble in , Heav'ns gave Him leave to walke softly into this grave . Such Flowr's are not cut down , but drawn up hence By their bright Sire's attractive influence . No sudden raging Fever parch'd his clay , And in an instant scorch'd his life away : But , as wax in the Sun-shine , when 't has felt That warmth , does rather sweetly yeeld then melt . And seems to smile upon its kinder fates , And to embrace the wounding raies , dilates And kindly spreads it's selfe , and wooes it's death Longing it's last embraces to bequeath : So did his melting body yeelding lie Smiling upon the Courteous Cruelty Of such a kind disease , which in each limbe Did seem to wast it selfe much more then him . Who saw him breath his last would conclude thence , He whisper'd Death in 's eare to fetch him hence . They seemd to strive which should yeeld first of these , His feeble body or his weak disease , He did espouse his sicknesse , was in love With that which first could seat his soule above . Angry with his Phisitians , who did try To kill the Death brought Immortality . His sicknesse to his body was born twin , As every soul since Adam to it's sin . Such entire friends that both must be or neither Since both were borne , both live , both dye together . But why miscall we't sicknesse or disease , Which is his Conduct to aeternall ease ? Which Heav'n sent hither with him , lest when hurl'd Now here , now there in a tumultuous world , He might forget where 't was his bus'nesse lay , This softly pulls , and tells him that 's the way . If ere it pinch'd so hard , as fetch'd a groan , It quickly sends a slumber to atone . The breach of friendship , as an early taste Or soft praeludium to aeternall rest . So like the sisters were in him , his breath , Did onely tell us which was sleep , which death , His last successive breathings did increase In such proportion'd measures , that to cease Did seem Impossible , what e're may be The adverse dictates of Philosophy . His breathings pass'd in such proportion As each respected that aeternall one . When by his long disease his patient brest Did seem to be more then was fit opprest , And made us sometimes over apt to say His spirit was as heavy as his clay , We sinn'd against his piety which thus Sequestred from 's malignant dust and us That purest soule , which up to Heav'n was gone In holy raptures of Devotion : When e're we judg'd him to be sad or dull 'T was absence but no heavinesse of soul . He was a study'ng whil'st he here did stay Onely to make choice of a dying Day . And 't was no wonder , he dispatch'd so soon , Who goes with th' Sun , shall come to Heav'n at noon . 'T was not too soon to goe when God did call , His fruit was ripe before his flow'r did fall . Angels could not too soon their Hooks here bring , 'T is ever Harvest , where there 's such a Spring . He saw but little , dislik'd more : the world Unsetled , alwayes round about him hurl'd ; To fixe there , were not to stand still but reel ; Who would live to be broake on such a wheele ? Yet did he try Towne , Country , and did see Some Reliques of an University : But nought could force his stay : much more he might Have seen , but strove to be at home ere night : And now no wonder if such Flow'rs do fade Set in so lean a soyle , so cold a shade As is the barren world that 's here below : No such faire flow'rs on such foule dung-hils grow . Just blowne he was when Heav'ns all-searching eye In love with 's beauty and his fragrancie , Streight plucks him up , and gives him this new name , A Saint inth Bosome of blest Abraham . This is his name , And now whom I before Did love and honour , I must learne t' adore . He now has happ'ly chang'd his mortall state , And 't was his aemulation , not his Fate : That Death so early call'd a soule so chaste , Argues his timely ripenesse , not it's haste . It was my happinesse when I could call Him friend , not startled at a Funerall . But since 't is more his blisse thus to acquaint Himselfe with Angels , canoniz'd a Saint By Death 's owne hand , I must aesteeme it more To be his vot'ry now , then friend before He was not borne for us , alas we must Not thinke such Iewels fitted for our trust His Goodnesse was our losse , Heav'n often spares Lesse blessings for a greater terme of yeares : We measure Good lives not by yeares but houres , 'T is much that we can say , he once was ours : That we once saw him is enough to boast : And 't is the noblest bragge to say we 've lost , And yet we have not lost our Saint , unlesse In an aeternity of Happinesse . We well may lose our selves in thinking how Heav'n is so mindfull of poor things below , As lend us so long his sweet presence , when It selfe thus picks him out from other men . So when the Glorious eye of Heav'n doth goe To view the wonders which we call below We use to say he sets and falls , when there He 's no lesse high or bright then he was here : His course is one , and Constant , though we call What our owne Nat'rall darknesse is , his fall Hee 's not of life , but we of him bereft , The sorrows we have found , those he has left Going to 't all the morning , now at Even We see him step over the Grave to Heaven . All joy to thee in Heav'n ( blest soul ! ) whil'st we Here weep and groan and pray to rest with thee . T is not thy fate that we thy friends bemoan , T is not thy death , not thy losse but our own . We nee'r shall find our joies again 'till we Can die and lose our griefs in Heav'n with thee . But we disturb thy sacred dust , now close Wrapt up securely in a sweet repose . We not so prize thy soul , as hope to buy It back by th' cheap expences of an eye . Why should'st thou now from all thy joyes descend , Unblesse thy selfe , so to reblesse thy friend ? When we 'd enjoy thee next , 't will be a light Task for thy sake to bid the world Good-night , We eas'ly shall passe through the Grave and death To come to thee , we 'll run quite out of breath . Such pious journeys still successefull be , He 's sure to go to Heav'n that comes to thee . Mors iter ad vitam . An EPITAPH on the same . ASke you , what 's by this Marble meant ? Thus said the soul , which this way went . Friend , I am gone , There nothing lies but dust and stone : Would'st thou be here ? Step in and leave thy body there . Why at the door Do'st stand and talk ? I 'm far before Would'st be where I Now happy rest ? Dispatch and die So shalt thou be that in thy selfe , thou seek'st in me . Strike through this stone , make hast to tast & know , What I enjoy , but cannot tell thee now . Another . KNock not , but enter ; why do'st fear ? His ashes sleep , his soul 's not here . VVhat here thou see'st , this breathlesse dust Liv'd seav'nteen yeares , Chast , Good , and Iust. VVhen here it could no better be , 'T went home ro Immortallity . This Grave , which by its death became The sole surviver of the * * PITT . He being the last heir male of the family . name , VVas left its Heir , 'till that day when These ashes shall revive againe ; And up to those blest mansions sore , VVhither the soul went long before . FINIS . Notes, typically marginal, from the original text Notes for div A39263e-150 * The two tops are the Church and your house .