An Elegy UPON MY DEAR BROTHER, THE JONATHAN OF MY HEART, M r. john Wheeler, Son to Sir EDMOND WHEELER Of Riding Court near Windsor, in the County of Buckingham, deceased.  
Angustia est mihi propter te frater mi jehonathan; jucundus fuisti mihi valde; Admirabilor fuit amor tuus mihi, amore foeminarum. 2. Sam. 1. 26.  
LONDON, Printed by T. C. for N. Alsop, and T. Nicholes; and are to be sold at the Angel in Pope's head Alley. 1637.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY ELIZABETH, Lady Wheeler.  
Madam,  
ALL that job lost in his Affliction, he found double in his Readvancement: His children were not doubled, therefore were not lost. This I speak not to spoil the Compliment of common comforters: I know roone descants upon these Marriages, I will neither recite nor avouch, but will conclude as Charoone does in many things, nothing: Only my drift is, to make known, that this last Marriage was consummated betwixt your incomparable brother (whose funerals I here celebrate) and me; betwixt whom there was rather an Identity, than a brotherhood; Frater, ferè alter, Amicus, verè alter. The Elegy which David wrote upon his jonathan, 2 Sam. 1. 19 warrants me to do the like upon mine; whose loves were both alike, both passing the love of women: What I have done, is the Ensign of my true Affection, whose supporters are, an Honourable Lady, and her noble Son: Accept it from his hands who is,  Yours in the true Compliment of a faithful heart. Fra: Quarles.  

An Elegy.  

1  
AWay, those joys; away, those full delights,  
The late unbenders of my thoughtful mind;  
Which fed my Time with sweeter days and nights  
Than were, at first, allotted to Mankind:  
Go seek out those that feast;  
Leave me to sadness: Sorrow is the Guest  
Which I must entertain, and billet in my breast.   

2  
Break not the Peace of my composed Resolves  
Rebellious fancy; cease to make resort  
Into my settled Brows, whose thought revolves  
Business of great import:  
Invention, rest; till Servile Bribes entice  
Some Bards corrupted Pen, to set a price  
On some unworthy Lord, or paint his noble vice.   

3  
COme then, my Genius; Let the needless Care  
Of acquaint expressions pass:  
The mourner's garb is not to crispe the hair,  
And true bread tears consult not with the Glass:  
Lick not thy lines, nor scan their careless feet,  
Unmeasured Grief and Measures seldom meet:  
Neglected wrinkles best beseem the Winding-sheete.   

4  
DRaw near you gentle heart, draw near,  
Whilst I bedable my suffused eyes;  
You shall not spend a tear;  
You are my Guests, and these my Obsequies.  
No need to beg a drop; my dearest Sim  
And I will fill the Cistern to the Brim:  
Then let me beg my bread, if I beg tears for Him.   

5  
Even Him, to whose sweet Memory I owe  
This sad Memorial of my dear Affection;  
Whereby (who ever please to read) may know  
The perfect Precedent of youth's Perfection:  
But, ah, these too suspicious times! Alas,  
It will surpass  
A good Believers Faith, to tell but what he was.   

6  
FOr me; let scorn and slight Opinion fill  
My undervalued Rhymes with disrepute;  
Let every tongue deride my bafsled Quill,  
And let my lines consume like Summer fruit,  
When I turn Vice's Advocate; or when  
Affection, or base by-respects of Men,  
Shall falsify the just Geometry of my Pen.   

7  
Goodness, and vettue, and heroic worth,  
Sweetness of Nature, seconded with Arts;  
A noble breast, and Birth;  
Completeness both of Person, and of Parts:  
Must be our Theme: We charge the mouth of Fame  
To blow her louder Trumpet, and proclaim  
His Merits, whom we monrne, and glorify his Name.   

8  
HE was an early Spring, and beautified  
With all that Flora's bounty could bestow;  
Life-breathing Zephyr took a pride  
To see his Buds sprout forth, and flowers grow;  
The Nymph Pomona feared the Lord of Time  
Mistook his Tropic, to show fruit in prime  
Before the Time of fruit, and in so cold a Clime.   

9  
Injurious Sisters, tell me why you made  
His Twine so small, yet spun so short a twine?  
Thread had been the Glory of your Trade,  
Had you spun strong as well as fine:  
But ah! what strength is able to withstand  
The direful stroke of your imperious hand,  
Which prayers can not entreat, nor power countermand?   

10  
Now, Readers, know, he was a Mark too fair  
For Death to miss; His ripeness did invite  
Her over-daynty Palate not to spare  
My life's delight:  
He was the flower of youth; the joy of Art;  
A faithful Partner of a faithful heart:  
The very Soul of love, and friendship's Counterpart.   

11  
LEarning divine and moral did enrich  
His wealthy Soul with her abundant store:  
There was no Excellence, in which  
He was not half a Master, if not more:  
Sometimes, the busy Quadrant, now and then,  
Appelles' Pencil, and Apollo's Pen  
Employed his skinful hand: He studied Books and Men.   

12  
MVsick, the language of th'eternal Choir,  
Breathed in his soul celestial strains,  
And filled his Spirits with Seraphic fire,  
Whose gentle flames calcined his ravished brynes;  
And made him ripe for heaven: He did depart  
More than a Scholar in that sacred Art,  
His fancy, singers, voice, performed a Master's part.   

13  
NOble were all his Actions, strict and just,  
Quick, but advised; and mild, yet full of spirit:  
His heart was buxom, tender, full of Trust;  
Prudently simple, free to men of merit:  
His Resolutions weighed, reserved and strong,  
His silence studious, sweet his tongue;  
Less ready to require, then to conceive a wrong.   

14  
O, but those firm Indentures, sweetly passed  
Betwixt his soul and mine,  
(Thy bands, o Hymen, are not half so fast;  
Ours are too strong for death; death cancels thine)  
O, how they urge my frailty! How they thresh  
My wounded Soul, and tribulate my flesh!  
And all my tears being sqent, they spueeze out tears afresh.   

15  
PAssion usurps the kingdom of my Soul:  
My heart is full and it must vent, or break:  
Peace, judgement, peace; O, shall I not condole  
So dear a loss? Give losers leave to speak.  
Thou knowest my tears are just  
Shall, shall they not embalm the precious dust  
Of my true bosom friend? They shall, they will, they must.   

16  
QVench not those flames which your own breath hath blown  
In my Affection;  
O, limit not those Bonfires which are grown  
Beyond your reach; love burns without direction:  
Nor tell me, what I know, that he sits crowned  
With endless joy: My sorrow does propound  
The joys that I have lost, not those which he hath found.   

17  
REason must stoop, and judgement strike her sail:  
His joys befool the wisdom of a Pen;  
Fancy must flag, and language must turn tail;  
No, these are heights for Angels, not for men:  
Alas the storms of passion  
That burst from nature's Clouds, have dispensation  
To ease themselves by vent, & vent by lamentation.   

18  
SO vain, so frail, so poor a thing is Man!  
A weather cock, that's turned with every blast;  
His Griefs are Armefulls; and his mirth a span;  
His joys soon crossed, or past  
His best delights are sauced with doubts and fears:  
If had; we plunge in Care: If lost; in tears:  
Let go, or hold, they bite; We hold a Wolf by th'ears.   

19  
TIme, shake thy Glass, and let thy Minutes fly,  
Switcht on with Angels, till thy Sand be spent;  
Till then, their's nothing certain, but to dye;  
Or worse, to droyle in fears, or discontent:  
Thy best of all thy Sweets are but a Snare;  
Thy Honours, blasts of Air;  
Thy wealth, but golden Trash; and trifles, full of care.   

20  
Undress thyself, my Soul, and dissinvest  
Thy thoughts of all these Rags of flesh and blood;  
Return thee to thy Rest;  
O, there be Monsters lurk in Nature's flood:  
Close up thy springs; thy banks are to the brim:  
Weep for thyself; my Soul, thou canst not swim  
In the dead Sea of tears; O, weep no more for Him.   

21  
WAnder no more in the distracted Path  
Of Sense: The tears are lost which Passion vent;  
O, rather seek the Pleasures that he hath,  
Whose death thine eyes lament;  
He lives in joy; Thou showest a weeping eye;  
He sits in Glory; Thou sittst down to cry;  
Thou either lov'dst him not, or giv'st his joys the Lye.   

22  
YOu, that are Partners in so great a loss,  
Strive to be partners in so great a gain;  
Pry not too much into his Dust, his Dross;  
The hopes of Comfort there, are less than vain.  
Cast up your better eyes,  
And view that Palace, where his Glory lies,  
Where Time cannot suppress, where Death cannot surprise.   
FINIS.