An elegie upon the death of the mirrour of magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke Lord Generall of the forces of the counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by a musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642. Harington, Henry, fl. 1642. This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A87113 of text R212625 in the English Short Title Catalog (Thomason 669.f.6[119]). 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 A87113 Wing H769 Thomason 669.f.6[119] ESTC R212625 99871228 99871228 160979 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. A87113) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 160979) Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 245:669f6[119]) An elegie upon the death of the mirrour of magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke Lord Generall of the forces of the counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by a musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642. Harington, Henry, fl. 1642. 1 sheet ([1] p.) printed for H.O., London : anno Dom. 1642 [i.e., 1643] Verse - "Back blushing morne, to thine eternall bed,". Signed at end: Ex opere (præsertim) Henrici Haringtoni, philologo. With heavy black woodcut border. Annotation on Thomason copy: "March. 16". Reproduction of the original in the British Library. eng Brooke, Robert Greville, -- Baron, 1607-1643 -- Early works to 1800. Lichfield (England) -- History -- 17th century -- Early works to 1800. Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Early works to 1800. A87113 R212625 (Thomason 669.f.6[119]). civilwar no An elegie upon the death of the mirrour of magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke; Lord Generall of the forces of the counties Harington, Henry 1643 837 0 5 0 0 0 0 60 D The rate of 60 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the D category of texts with between 35 and 100 defects per 10,000 words. 2007-05 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2007-05 Apex CoVantage Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2007-06 Mona Logarbo Sampled and proofread 2007-06 Mona Logarbo Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-02 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE MIRROVR Of Magnanimity , the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke ; Lord Generall of the Forces of the Counties of VVarwick , and Stafford , who was slain by A Musket shot at the siege of Liechfield , the second day of March , 1642. BAck blushing morne , to thine Eternall bed , Ruffle for ever the tresses of thine head In some thick Cloud , and thou whose raies do burn The Center of the Universe , returne : For if thy head beyond its Porch appeares , Thy selfe , thy self must needs melt into teares . Bright Saint thy pardon , if my dolefull Verse Do seem in sighing ore thy glorious Hearse To envy death ; for fame it selfe now weares Griefes Livery , and only speakes in teares . Brave Brooke is dead , like Lightning , which no part O ' th body touches , but first strikes the heart , This word hath murdred all ; it can a shower Enforce from every eye , it hath a power To alter natures course , how else should all Run wilde with mourning , and distracted fall . Is 't not a grosse unttuth to say , thy breath Expir'd too soon ? or that impartiall Death Thy Corps too soon surpriz'd ? No , if thy yeares Be numbred by thy Vertues , or our teares , Thou didst the old Methusalem outlive ; Though Time not forty yeares account can give Of thine abode on earth , yet every hower Of thine unpattern'd life , by Vertues power A yeare in length surpast , each well-spent day , The body maketh young , the soule makes gray . Ah cruell Death ! who with one cursed Ball , Didst make the Atlas of our State to fall , In one thou all hast slaine , whose death alone , A death will be unto a Million . Could none but his sweet Nectard blood appease The fire-sprung Bullets heat ? Must it needs seaze His sacred face , it selfe there to enshrine , Not in an earthly , but a Tombe divine . See lucklesse Liechfield that thou do not hide The precious blood , which from the wound did slide At this Lords death , it may not Cloister'd be In thy fraile earth , alwayes impuritie It did abhor , therefore in Sacrifice , Send it unto its head above the skies , And for an Altar whereon it to lay , A thousand thousand soules through griefe this day Themselves to death have wept , whom thou maist take , And them conjoyne thine Altar for to make . But lift not up thine head , least that the skies In weeping showres of blood put out thine eyes . And is this blessed Brooke ( whose Cristall streames Sweld with such store of Grace , whose blissefull beames Enlightned all ) is it so soone drawne drie , Leaving its ancient current , to fill each eye With mournefull teares , surely in Paradise It selfe it now dischannels , where no vice Or shade of it appeares , a place most pure , Where all such Saints for ever must endure . I might relate thine actions here on earth , Thy mysterie of life , thy noblest birth , Outshin'd by nobler vertue , but how farre Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest starre I cannot speake , nor whether thou art in Commission with a Throne , or Cherubin . I might unto the world , great Lord repeate , Thine owne brave story , and tell it how great Thou wert in thy minds Empire , and how all Who out live thee , see but the Funerall Of glory : and if yet some vertuous be , They but weake apparitions are of thee . Thine actions were most just , thy words mature , And every scean of life from sin so pure , That scarce in its whole history we can Finde Vice enough to say thou wert but man . 'T is past all mortals power , then much more mine , To tell what vertues dwelt within this shrine , Yet if illiterate persons walk this way , And ask what jewell glorifies this clay , Say , good Brookes ashes this Tombe hath in keeping , Then lead them forth , lest they grow blind withweeping . Tell but his name , no more , that shall suffice , To draw downe floods of teares from dryest eyes , Our griefes are infinite , therefore my Muse , Cast Anchor here , mine eyes cannot effuse Any more teares , this for thy comfort know , Fate cannot give us such another blow . Ex opere ( praesertim ) Henrici Haringtoni , {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} London printed for H. O. Anno Dom. 1642.