portrait of John Burgh 
S john Burgh Knight, descended from the house of the Lord Burgh & 〈…〉 male to the Bareny. Capt: of an English foot Company in the United 〈…〉. Gouernor: of Frankendale. Colonel of a regiment of foot, in 〈…〉 with 〈◊〉 M 〈…〉  
JOHANNIS BURGH: EQVITIS AURAT EFFIGIES: GENEROSISSIMI ET FORTISIMI MILITIS:    

THE DESCRIPTION, OF THAT EVER TO BE FAMED KNIGHT,  
SIR JOHN BURGH, COLONEL GENERAL of his Majesty's Army: With his last service at the Isle of Rees, and his unfortunate Death, then when the Army had most need of such a Pilot.  Vivit post funera virtus. 
Written by ROBERT MARKHAM, Captain of a foot Company in the same Regiment, and Shot also in the same service.  for'rs dominatur neque vita est ulli propria in vita. 
Printed, 1628.   

THE EPISTLE.  

I Will not Dedicate these weeping lines  
Unto a laughing Lord for Patronage,  
That without Mourning habit richlyshines  
In gold, nor will I send a Pilgrimage  
My sorrows, brought a bed in this same Book,  
To be protected by a Ladies Look.   

Nor will I invocate a judge, because  
I write upon an Honourable fate,  
Untimely hastened; for within his laws,  
Death's immature are all degenerate,  
He that condemneth life, and goods, shall be  
No pitiless protector (Book) to thee.   

No Sycophant shall see thee by my will,  
No, nor a golden Coward, for I vow,  
I hate his quaking quality as ill,  
As any the worst vice that reigneth now;  
A fool shall never thy sad lines behold,  
Because Brass is as good to him as Gold.   

But I will send thee like a Marshal Book,  
Unto all Soldiers, laced with noble scars,  
That thinks on BURGH with a dejected look,  
And that hath known him well in all his Wars,  
That can repeat all things that he hath done;  
Since the first minute that his sand did run.   

And that perhaps the glory of his worth,  
His noble Birth, his several Commands,  
Will in a larger volume blazon forth,  
Then this that passeth through my feeble hands,  
For to set forth his rise, and not his fall,  
Kirneld with life, and not with Funeral.   

I could myself Heroic stories make,  
Of all the passages, of all his facts,  
But that a mighty volume it would take,  
And I should be so pleased with his Acts,  
I should not half be sad enough, to write  
His last fare well, my Heart would be too light.   

And therefore I will unto other brains,  
Leave the whole progress of his former days;  
I'll only like an Echo take the pains  
To sing his end, and crown his end with Bays,  
Which if I Miser-like too sparing do,  
Let every Soul join in my sorrow too.   

And then shall Robert Markham be,  
Most happy in his Ellegie.    

TO THE READER.  

FAith Reader, if you understand  
But little, in this little Book,  
Go shake Tom Derry by the hand,  
Or on your Cousin Archey look,  
Or if you will not be a Fool,  
Return again, with speed to School.   

But if you understanding be,  
And not a Critic, you may then  
Have Noble leave, and liberty,  
To reap the Fruit of sorrow's Pen  
And when you read, that BURGH is slain,  
Then say her sorrow's not in vain.    

To my worthily esteemed Kinsman the Author.  

IF Poets challenge Laurel as their own,  
Sacred to them, as their deserved Crown;  
Or if a Trophy be the Soldiers right,  
Venturing himself, in many a dreadful fight;  
What is the honour we to thee shall do,  
Who art a Soldier, and a Poet too?  
That thou art valiant, fatal Rees shall tell,  
Which drunk the blood, that from thy body fell;  
That thou a Poet art, who needs to ask?  
That well appears, in this thy Noble task.  
Not for our nearness do I praise thy Book,  
Although our blood, we from one fountain took;  
But what I say, Envy shall not deny,  
Writing the worth of BURGHS, thou canst not die.   
I. E.   

THE AUTHOR'S EYES PURGING WITH THE Pills of sorrow, drops here upon the Obsequies of SIR JOHN BURGH, His Noble Colonel, with such a heaviness, that they do fall in Print as followeth.  


IF tears could tell the Story of my woe,  
How I with sorrow pine away for thee,  
My spongy eyes their banks should overflow,  
And make a very Moor, or Mire of me;  
I would out weep a thousand Nyo●yes,  
For I would weep, till I wept out my eyes.   

My heart should drop such tears as did thy wound,  
And my wound should keep consort with my heart;  
In a red Sea my body should be drowned,  
My gall should break, and bear a bitter part,  
Such crimson Rue as I would weep, should make  
Democrates himself, a wormwood Lake.   

Or if that my blue winged words could tell,  
How dark I mourn without a Star of glee,  
My tongue the clapper, and my mouth the bell,  
Should ceaseless ring thy hapless destiny:  
Whilst that my Pen unable for to speak,  
In Tragic songs should grind away her beak.   

But woe is me, that my woes are so great,  
That neither Eyes, nor Tongue, nor yet my Quill,  
Is able for to limb, to drowned, repeat  
The least Moulewart of such a mount of ill:  
O thou sad Muse, which treatest still of those,  
Whose threads are cut, how shall I view my woes?   

Shall I fall out with Heaven that did decree  
Thy Autumn, ere thy Summer days were passed,  
Or shall I rail upon thy destiny,  
That struck thee first, that shouldst have suffered last,  
Or shall I whore blind Fortune, that did send  
Thee so unluckily unto thy end.   

Shall I complain upon thy own much worth,  
Thy active care of seeing all go well,  
Or shall I plain upon thy going forth  
So openly, so near the Citadel;  
Or shall I still despairing of relief,  
Sat choking in the smoke of sighing grief.   

Shall I chain up my voice, and nothing say,  
O no, for then my sorrows wanting vent,  
All my internal parts would burn away,  
No furnace flames, like love, and discontent;  
My marrow it would melt, my veins grow dry,  
And like a fiery Phoenix I should die.   

What then, shall I resolve to draw away,  
The floodgates of my discontent, and give  
Free liberty unto my Tongue, that so I may,  
Unlade the burden of my Heart, and live,  
O no, for then with too much speaking, I  
Should grow stark mad, and like a Bedlam die.   

Thus, thus alas, dear tear bedabled Ghost,  
I musing stand, how I my love should show,  
And for because I know not which is most,  
My grief, or it, I know not what to do;  
Yet some thing noble Colonel I must,  
Do to preserve, and to Imbalmethy dust.   

Shall I go reap a crop of fatal Rew,  
Of Wormwood, and of Colloquintida,  
Be-pearld all over with the drops of dew,  
Stuck here, and there, with bitter Gentia;  
To show the World that I do follow thee,  
With bitterness of Heart in Obsequy.   

Or shall I purchase boughs of Cyprus trees,  
Of Holly, ivy, and of Misleto,  
Of Bays, Rosemary, and such wood as these,  
With fatal Yeau, that doth in Churchyards grow;  
To make a Garland for to crown my hair,  
As though the King of Funerals I were.   

Or shall I mourning run into a shade▪  
Through which a day beam never yet could skip,  
Where never any other light was made,  
But by a Glow-worm, or a rotten chip;  
And there Immure myself with blacker, black,  
Then ever midnight wore upon her back.   

What shall I do? thus doth my sorrow ask,  
Do: cries an Echo from an Abbey wall,  
Do would I any thing, if that I knew a task,  
Ask, cried the Echo bounding like a ball,  
Grief asked if he should write? within a trice,  
Write, was repeated by the Echo thrice.   

With that a pen made of a Raven's quill,  
Fringed with a mourning plume on either side,  
That had been mewed i'th' corner of a hill,  
A place that Phoebus never yet had eyed,  
Was brought to me by sad Melpomene,  
That I might write as Echo warned me▪   

I took it in my hand, and filled it full  
Of ink (made of the spewing of a fish,) 
The Cuttle is said to spew forth ink.   
That stewed a little piece of Blacke-sheepes' wool,  
Within an acorn cup (or Fairies dish,)  
Which dish Melpomene did also bring,  
That I some sweet sad songs, might write and sing.   

And I intended so myself to do,  
But whether 'twas the greatness of the pain,  
That with a Shot I then did undergo,  
Or greatness of my grief that Burgh was slain;  
I cannot tell, but this I am sure on,  
I could not write for all my wit was gone.   

There never any man was handled so,  
With grief as I was, for my senses five,  
Were all so stun'd they knew not what to do,  
They were to me in use but half a live,  
The death of Burgh was such a fatal Theme,  
That though I waking was, I did but dream▪   

I dreamt me thoughts of voices that did cry,  
Without, and in me, by I knew not whom,  
In spite of my dull brains three quarters dry,  
To carve him out a living worded Tomb:  
To lace his Hearse with lines, to build a frame,  
Of his own virtues mottoed with his Name.   

To hover up his fame above the Moon,  
To gild his Honour with a brighter Star,  
Then Mars himself has when the nighted noon,  
Shows every Heavenly blazing Character;  
Yet still the more I thought for to have writ,  
The more I was confounded in my wit.   

At length I fell into a dainty sleep,  
Such as be-charmes a Country Farmers eyes,  
After the merry shearing of his Sheep,  
Or any other Rural exercise:  
For Morpheus made of Trees, Flies, Dogs, Cats, Streams,  
Did never trouble me with foolish dreams.   

So did I sleep until the morning light,  
Reneued the glory of the World, and then  
I waktagaine, with a more pregnant spirit,  
And once more flew unto my fatal pen,  
Then with a little labour that I took,  
My brains were brought a bed, of this same Book.    


THy wisdom Burgh was like unto a Sea,  
Wherein thy famous actions daily swum,  
Like Neptun's scaly Burghers every day,  
Currant wise men like lesser Rivers came,  
To mix their freshness with thy seasoned wit,  
Only of purpose to grow salt by it.   

And as Pactalus flows on golden sand,  
As Rubies, Pearls, and twinkling Diamonds,  
Do star the Firmament of Neptune's land,  
So did thy virtue, like far brighter stones;  
Be-pibble all the inside, outside floor  
Of thy hid Channel, and thy public Shore.   

Thou didst not covet Mammon's yellow, white,  
Pearls were no more than pebbles unto thee,  
A Pistol, and a Sword was thy delight,  
With a brave Horse to charge an Enemy:  
For other worldly things they were no more,  
Then flowers fading on a Sunburnt floor.   

Thou didst not covet for to bear a show,  
Of gaudy cloth, saust with a Spanish sent  
Upon thy back, as Courtiers use to do,  
That lines by weaving of fine compliment:  
But thou didst love to wear good Soldiers grey,  
Fit for a Corslet, or a Winter's day.   

And yet I must confess the Queen of Hearts,  
All England's Mistress hath bestowed on thee,  
Because thou wert endued with noble parts,  
A dainty Scarf, rich in Embroidery,  
Which thou didst wear sometimes upon that grey,  
Yet never, but upon a Battle day.   

Thy Court was in the Camp, they Dances were,  
Stout Marches footed to a Drummers play,  
'Twas not thy sport to chase a silly Hare,  
Stag, Buck, Fox, Wild-cat, or the limping Grace:  
But Armies, Marquesses, Graves, Counts, Dukes, Kings,  
Archdutchesses', and such Heroic things.   

Guns were thy horns which sounded thy rechate,  
Of noble War (bright honours truest chase,)  
Picks tipped with death, thy hunting poles to beat,  
And rouse thy game, (sport for a jove-borne race,)  
Thy deep mouthed Hounds, a cat of Cannons were,  
Whose brazen throats spewed Thunder in the air.   

When thou didst go a progress noble Sir,  
It was through Kingdoms, Provinces, and States,  
Like to Bellona's chief Ambassador,  
Or jupiter himself, arch King of Fates:  
But with thy power worthily inclined.  
Thou carriest Mercy always in thy mind.   

All the united Holland States can tell▪  
That thou wert infinite in thy desert,  
Both Spain, and France, can also witness well,  
Against themselves how truly brave thou wert:  
And I believe the very Heathen Kings,  
Crown thee with Laurel, and thy Prowess sings.   

For when that thou wert ordering for fight,  
An Army Royal exercisd to do,  
Their Country service, thou wert then a sight,  
For gods themselves to go a gazing to,  
For so much Wisdom, Valour, care in one,  
Was never yet, but in thyself alone.   

Thou hadst as much I dare maintain of skill,  
As all the owners of those Printed names,  
That ever living Chronicles do fill,  
With Martial deeds, to their eternal fames;  
For thou couldst make, of one main body three,  
Front, Battaile, Rear, Exact, and suddenly.   

Thou couldst an Army put into a Moon,  
Or to a Battle cross, or that we call,  
The Diamond, or the Wedge, and do't as soon,  
As Turk, or Scipio, or Hannibal;  
For thou were't of this latter active time,  
The only Mars, and Mirror of our Clime.   

Hadst thou but looked upon a Sconce, or been  
A Horne-worke, Ravelin, either in or out,  
Or else a Cities Parropet within  
Dry ditcht, and also Moted round about,  
With Bulwarks, Curtains, Flankers, fortified,  
False Brays, and other obstacles beside.   

Thy judgement was so ripe, that thou couldst tell,  
Without the calling of a warlike Court,  
How many men would man that City well,  
That Counterscarp, Redoubt, or little Fort;  
For thy brame lay within a Sconce of bone,  
In judgement stronger than a Tower of stone.   

But leaving of the Town, if you will see  
Him in the field, his men in battle ray,  
Resolved for to win a Victory,  
Or lose the World, in losing of the day:  
Upon these ranks of lines but fix your look,  
And you shall see him skirmish in my Book.   

Now he begins, March up into the front,  
Of the bold Battle of yon'daring foe,  
March further yet, and now give fire on't,  
Till drunk with blood they tumble to and fro;  
Charge noble Soldiers, and discharge again,  
And let your thunder cause them drop like rain.   

So, there falls down a Colonel, and there  
Two Ensigns, whose brave silken wings do flap,  
And stooping down they cannot canseleare,  
There falls a Captain with a puling rap,  
There a Lieutenant, here, and there whole sholles,  
Pack hence to Charon, O poor Soldier's souls.   

Now if the death of these Commander's cause,  
In the suruivors a distracted rout,  
Then run like Tigers on, without a pause,  
And spit them with your Picks, and Shoot, and shout;  
And you shall quickly either make them fly,  
Or on their knees for Noble quarter cry.   

You must not trifle, here's no shrinking now,  
Fate with his Sisters, and the Furies to,  
Stare through our Powder clouds, expecting how  
The Epilogue of our strife will go;  
We have the better on't, besides the odds,  
Of a good cause protected by the Gods.   

Give fire then, and always as you shoot,  
If that you think you mangle less than ten,  
When as you charge again put fury to't.  
A Musket proves a very murderer then;  
Then there a volley went wrapped in a cloud,  
Which made their Enemies a fatal shroud.   

For after it as though that Fate had been,  
At sport like push-pin with their Files, and ranks,  
They lay a thwart each other, this man's chin  
Lay over that man's chine, arms over flanks,  
Legs cut away, sops fit for blood and brains,  
Lay stuing in the broth of others pains.   

Which ruin they no sooner looked upon,  
But with amazement they a dreaming stood,  
Whether 'twas best to stay, or to be gone,  
But ere they could resolve for their own good;  
Another storm of Lead flew round about,  
Which put them all into a fearful rout.   

Then went he up, and with his fatal Pikes,  
He ouer-ran, and overthrew his foes,  
He kills a man at every stroke he strikes,  
And headlong throws him down upon his nose;  
At length inior●'st, for quarter they do cry,  
Which he gives in his mercy instantly.   

To see a fight thus managed, and won,  
Would it not make Mars, and Olympic jove,  
Man-hearted Pallas, though a very Nun,  
With Sir john Burgh, most dotingly in love:  
It would, it did; it was his excellence,  
That made the gods so soon to take him hence.   

I saw him at the landing into Rea,  
(The scene of all my grief,) I cannot write,  
So much as I might without feigning say,  
Of his brave, ever to be famed fight:  
For there I saw him strike on every side,  
Hemmed in with danger, till his danger died.   

There did I see him with a Spanish-pike,  
Free himself bravely from a Chavaleer,  
For as he came curveting, he did strike  
Him through the throat, and down he tumbled there:  
And many more he brained with throwing stones,  
Which made an Echo in their dying groans.   

I saw him, though I did but dimly see,  
For I was shot, and lay in purblind pain,  
With not above thrice ten of quality,  
Push the main battle back of proud Champain;  
Nay more I saw, which erst was never done,  
Him and his thirty make that thousand run.   

I will not speak of thee in Frankendell,  
When thou wert there a Governor, for fear,  
Fame, by whose Charter she is bound to swell,  
Her cheeks with praises of thy valour there;  
Should take it ill, and infamous because,  
My pen would rob her trumpet of applause.   

Brave honest Burgh in triumph I could sing,  
A thousand such like stories of thine own,  
But that thy fame through all the world doth ring,  
And what I write would every where be known;  
Therefore I need not in particular,  
Be the recorder of thy noble war.   

It shall suffice then that I only tell,  
All things due unto Martial discipline,  
That could make any Martial man excel,  
Did in thy Understanding, Sphere, and Shine:  
I wish to God thy knowledge had not been,  
So over much, jove pardon, if I sin.   

For thy much knowledge of an Engeneer,  
Made thee to stand in spite of ugly Death,  
With a firm Heart uncapable of fear,  
Where soon thy Soul was winged with dying breath:  
For as thou wer●, (O let me write thy fall,  
With my eyes ink, embrued with bitter Gall.)   

As thou wert standing by the pioneers,  
Directing them with skill to break new ground,  
A single noise, not of more Muskiteers,  
Then one was heard, within the Fort to sound;  
And then a bullet through thy belly flew,  
Which made thee bid the world and us adieu.   

Which word adieu, did Echo every where,  
In each man's heart it did reuerberate;  
Saint martin's could not only keep it there,  
But it took Boat, and went to Rochel strait:  
Thence it to England in a Flyboate flew,  
Where losing a it Ecchod only dieu.   

Dew, was thy due, from them that knew thee not,  
By more intelligence then by their ears,  
But unto me thy Officer, thy Shot,  
Made me to stone my very breast with tears;  
For jove he knows I grieved more for thee,  
Then Fathers, or my Mother's destiny.   

For when first of thy Fate I understood,  
The news ran like to poison through my veins,  
And made a very posset of my blood,  
I moovelesse lay, and yet I felt such pains,  
That Tantalus ne'er felt, nor Cisaphus,  
My livor ached like to Promethius.   

And I do think, if Ovid had but known,  
How plannet-strucke I lay, my paled looks  
Had been a theme for him to treat upon,  
And to enrol me in his Statue books:  
Proclaiming that it was my woeful case,  
So to be changed, by a Gorgon's face.   

Thus did the trance of my benumbing grief,  
A while becharme me, till as from a sound,  
My fainting spirits got again relief,  
And were within their artyres all unbound:  
And then I instantly considered on  
Thy vanished Soul, and whither it was gone.   

Which when I thought upon, sure if I had  
Not wept out all the moisture of my brain,  
With being for thy loss so over sad,  
My joys would have enforced tears again;  
For joys, as well as griefs, do always keep,  
A pair of eyes in their extremes to weep.   

I knew 'twas gone to Heaven, and that it must,  
Be only there, Aestrea liveth here,  
But upon liking, loving humane dust,  
For the soul's sake, Olympus is her Sphere,  
And 'twas her goodness to thy soul she stayed,  
Till thou hadst natures debt which dying paid.   

I need no proofs for to avouch thy bliss,  
More than thy actions, for I never knew  
Thee procreator of a thing a miss,  
Unless 'twas bad for to be just and true:  
I know not unto whom more properly,  
Then unto David for to liken thee.   

For to thy Valour holiness was wed,  
Thy breast was always full of Sacrifice,  
Thy heart thy Altar were, 'twas offered,  
Thy offerings thy Souls best fantasies;  
Thy tongue was taught to Pray, thy hands to fight,  
But both together for the Gospel's right.   

Thy mind was heavenly, and of heavenly joys,  
It always musd, a man should never see,  
Thee drawn away by any tempting toys,  
To any kind of mortal vanity:  
For in the very Centre of thy heart,  
A world contemning Solomon thou wert.   

Thy Maker never was blasphemed by thee,  
And he that cut thee up, when thou wert dead,  
Thought in his very Soul, that thou wert free,  
From the sweet sin, of a lost maidenhead:  
For in no particle of thee he found,  
The bigness of a mite, that was unsound.   

And as for that same belly feeding vice  
Of Gluttony, lulled up in lazy rest,  
That makes a man all brawn within a trice,  
Or else unwieldy, at the very best;  
Thou wast unguilty of, it was thy care,  
Not to eat much, nor yet too dainty fare.   

And as for that same other swinish sin  
Of Drunkenness, the Idol of our days,  
In which our Gallants hourly wallow in,  
As though it was a wickedness of praise:  
Thou didst abhor it, as a thing accursed,  
For thou didst never drink but upon thirst.   

And here i'll speak a little of the times,  
For by detraction I am forced unto 't,  
For there are those that throws these horrid crimes,  
On Soldier's backs, and think it fame to do 't:  
But unto nothing I can liken them,  
But unto Hogs, that dungs, and daubs a gem.   

For he that is a Soldier truly bred,  
Is like a gem composed of worth alone,  
He is not harsh, nor evil qualitied,  
Neither a proud, nor an ambitious one:  
But he is humble, chaste, and liberal,  
Bold in his right, and valiant with all.   

I must confess within an Army are,  
Rogues which in it, like flesh-fly maggots breed,  
The sky was ne'er without a falling Star,  
A field of Wheat without a choking weed;  
But these we make uncapable of fame,  
And but usurpers of a Soldier's name.   

Nay, he that is a Soldier, when he sees,  
A drunken man indenting for a fall,  
He will not suffer such inormities,  
He'll make him after drink the juice of Gall;  
He'll boar the swearer through the tongue, and make  
The leagour Panders back, and side to ache.   

But here at home, a man may night and day,  
Lie leach-like sucking at a wanton lip,  
Swear, and blaspheme, to pass the time away,  
Drink drunk with Tinkers for good fellowship:  
And if he be no Soldier, he is cried,  
In Market-towns to be well qualified.   

But if a Soldier▪ let him be as good,  
As ere Lucina brought into the World,  
As nature ever made of flesh and blood,  
With all her graces in his beauty hurled:  
He shall be held the mirror of disgrace,  
As though his very calling made him base.   

Oh to what poorness is our Kingdom grown,  
Out of the richness of an age's peace,  
Such baseness heretofore was never known,  
And now there is no hope that it will cease;  
Unless some Enemy by landing here,  
Makes them be trained to virtue out of fear.   

But whither do I wander from my theme,  
Have I forsaken the sweet thoughts of thee,  
Have I for sour Milk forsaken Cream,  
Oh no, eternal Star it cannot be:  
All this by thy example was to show,  
That what men thought of Soldiers was not so.   

Now I with wonder will return to thee,  
For never any man had such a grace,  
Of virgin beauty, and of modesty,  
Smoothly beskinning a Mavorticke face,  
Which had it not been upon flesh, and blood,  
Thou hadst been Angel all, thou wert so good.   

Thy Stature was but low, but it was such,  
For the neat making up of excellence,  
That in that little, there was shown as much▪  
As made rich nature poor in her expense:  
Thy speech was slow to show thy judgement deep,  
For small brooks roar, when greater Rivers sleep.   

A Rock that hath a hundred jewels in't,  
Stuck here, and there, at distance values more  
Than twenty Mountains, rigged with fiery flint,  
With Bristoll-stones, or glassy Cristoll over:  
So thy few words were of a greater prize,  
Then twenty volumes of the vulgar wise.   

Talk that comes flying thick and three fold our,  
Dies like to chimney sparks, a chaffy hill,  
Is with a sigh puffed, huft, and blown about,  
When as their weighty kernils lieth still:  
A tattling fellow is compared right,  
Unto a barking Cur which dares not bite.   

But he that doth not let his wisdom leak,  
Nor froth out of the bunghole of his brain,  
doeth never but in the due season speak,  
And such words never are too light a grain:  
Juno's bright husband, and her brother god,  
For one word speaking twenty times would nod.   

But with his silent nods, he'd terrify,  
He'd make the centre of the Earth to shake,  
He'd comfort some, and some he'd mortify,  
He'd raise huge storms, and storms he'd quiet make:  
So thou with but a smile, or with a frown,  
Hadst power to comfort some, and some cast down.   

Then since thy calm of language merits here,  
To be canonised, I mean to ring,  
Thy rare few words, like jewels in my ear,  
That ever they might there be whispering;  
Causing thy silence for to be my theme,  
For there's brave swimming in a quiet stream.   

I must confess, when I but think upon  
Thy words, me thinks into my dreaming ears,  
Some Muse is pouring of sweet Helicon,  
Or else I think, I'm rapt into the Spheres;  
Or else I think, I'm in a silent spring,  
Where now, and then, a Nightingale doeth sing.   

It is a little Paradise to me,  
That I can think upon thy Sentences,  
It sets my troubled mind at liberty,  
Near strangled in a thousand grievances:  
It lends my sorrow this Phaebean beam,  
To see my happiness, lies in a dream.   

For I again shall never spoken here,  
Such words of counsel to preserve the State,  
In safety of an Army, being near  
The brim of a precipitating fate;  
As thou wast wont (when 'twas thy chance to live,  
A mortal upon earth), to plod, and give.   

But thou wast unto Heaven no sooner gone,  
But as our light had left us, we did find,  
Within our understandings to be grown,  
A darkness that had almost made us blind:  
For what we thought most secretly to do,  
Was quickly known, and soon prevented to.   

We never could determine for to fall  
Upon the Citadel, but in a trice,  
Our foes beleaguered, were informed of all,  
They knew who gave, and when we had advice;  
I fear like eggs by the new laying Hen,  
Our plots were cried out by our plodding men.   

When he that would have harvest of his seed,  
Must harrow-heale, and hide it in the furrows,  
So he that would have his design to speed,  
Must lodge it deep, as if it lay in Burrowes:  
For as uncovered corn is jackdaws food,  
So plots discovered, never come to good.   

When thou wert gone away, there went with thee,  
All our good fortune, nothing ever went,  
After thy fall to our expectancy,  
But all our plots did end in discontent:  
Oh cruel Fate, that robbing us of thee,  
Must needs rob also our prosperity.   

The very morning after thou wast dead,  
In came the boats, to the whole Army's grief,  
(That day the Fort should have been rendered,  
Unto the Duke,) and brought a brave relief:  
That morning's mischief quickly hatched up more,  
That morning suited with the night before.   

A little after thinking for to gain,  
That by the Sword, that Famine could not do,  
We fell upon their ontward works a main,  
And winning them, upon their Rampires too:  
But they for us were too well fortified,  
And there a many of our gallants died.   

And three days after that, (I will repeat  
As little as I can of this last blow,)  
Into the Isle of joys we made retreat,  
The thought whereof, nigh broke my heart in two:  
For there we lost the flowers of our Land,  
Such as would sweat their blood, in their Command.   

But he that reads these losses, let him know,  
I do not seek to under value those,  
That in the honourable rank did go,  
Of Burgh (the spring, and author of my woes;)  
For I was never yet Satirical,  
My ink was not made black with bitter gall.   

Our Colonels, that have year, after year,  
Worn out their time to reap experience,  
That awes the Lord, and knows no other fear,  
But bravely can maintain a difference:  
Are honoured in my heart, and ere 'tis long,  
I hope to sing their valours in a song.   

I hope I shall, out of the horsehoofe well,  
Procure a lofty flying Muse that shall,  
In a Poetic thundering fury tell,  
Unto the world the virtues of them all:  
That they with blooming Laurel may be crowned,  
And every little hair of them renowned.   

But in this Book I must not sing the praise,  
Of any man but Burgh, whom I will strive  
To keep in honour, to the end of days,  
Eternally (if possible) alive:  
And if I thought, I should not lose my pains,  
I'd spread my paper with my very brains.   

For here unto the world I justify,  
My love to him was so entire, and true,  
That rather than I would have had him die,  
I would myself have bid the world adieu:  
Although this penance had been set upon,  
My death to add unto destruction.   

That I should in some solitary hole,  
Where fatal Screech-owls, their shrill omen sings,  
Without the comfort of a living Soul,  
Save squeaking Rat-bats, with their leather wings;  
Immure myself, and with a dismal cry,  
Make up the consort, and so puling die.   

There was not any death in my conceit,  
That was so ghastly to have frighted me,  
Or made my resolution retreat,  
From saving, keeping, or preserving thee:  
For thou wert such another noble man,  
I would have saved thee like a Pelican.   

But whither do I in affection  
Run, a wild pilgrimage? let me but eye,  
Thy noble fall with more discretion,  
And what I make a mournful Tragedy:  
I shall to my great joy perceive to be,  
Only a blessing hastened unto thee.   

For if thy fatal thread had been so long,  
That thou hadst had a life for to have known,  
Of many noble friends, how great a throng,  
Was coming off, cut off, and overthrown:  
Thy God that took thee hence did well foresee,  
Thy life had then been worse than death to thee.   

Then since it was, in love, thy Father's will,  
To snatch thee to him into Heaven; I dare  
No longer be so pitifully ill,  
To moan thy absence here, and presence there:  
But I will joy, thou wert so good a son,  
That for thy good, thy Father's will was done.   

I'll joy thou hadst so gracious a King,  
At home so bravely for to bury thee,  
That far from home, the fame thereof did ring,  
To be a masterpiece of Obsequy:  
I'll joy thou hadst so good a General,  
That sent thee home for so brave Funeral.   

And as I have pursued thee to thy grave  
With sorrow, in the shadow of thy Hearse:  
So now let joy, the room of sorrow have,  
And let me with a smile, conclude my verse;  
Because I know the last best part of thee,  
Is made in Heaven, an endless comedy.   

Yet though thy bliss hath made me glad,  
Thy Epitaph, must needs be sad,  
Because the tears that dropped upon  
Thy grave, were turned into stone:  
In which thy Body was enclosed,  
Of which alone thy Tombs composed.     

The EPITAPH.  

Here lies within these Nyobaean stones,  
Brave Sir JOHN BURGH, whose body cannot turn  
To stinking dust like other mortal ones,  
For as he doth dissolve within this Urn:  
His living virtues turns him into spice,  
Which one day must be kept in Paradise.