For a Funeral Elegy on the death of HUGH ATWELL, Servant to Prince CHARLES, This fellow-feeling Farewell: Who died the 25. of Sept. 1621.  
SO, now he's down, the other side may shout:  
But did he not play fair? held he not out  
With courage beyond his bone? Full six years  
To wrestle and tug with Death? the strongest fears  
To meet at such a Match. They that have seen,  
How doubtful Victory hath stood between,  
Might wonder at it: Sometimes cunningly  
Death gets advantage: by his cheek and eye  
We thought that Ours had been the weaker part:  
And strait again, the little Man's great Heart  
Would rouse fresh Strength, and shake him off awhile:  
Death would retire, but never reconcile:  
They to't again, again; they pull, they tug;  
At last, Death gets within, and with a hug  
The faint Soul crushes. This thou mayst boast, Death,  
thoust thrown him fair, but he was out of breath.  
Refresh thee then (sweet Hugh,) on the ground rest;  
The worst is past, and now thou hast the best:  
Rise with fresh breath, and be assured before,  
That Death shall never wrestle with thee more.  
Oh, hadst thou, Death, (as Wars and Battles may▪  
Present thee so) a Field of noble Clay,  
To entertain into thy rhewmie Cell;  
And thou wouldst have it be presented well,  
Speak thy Oration by this Man's tongue;  
Amongst living Princes It hath sweetly sung,  
(While they have sung his praise:) but if thy Court  
Be Silence-tyde, and there dwells no Report,  
Lend it to Life, to store another Flesh;  
We miss it here, we'll entertained afresh.  

EPITAPH.  
Here lies the Man, (and let no Liars tell)  
His Heart; a Saints; his Tongue, a siluer-Bell:  
Friend to his friend he stood: By Death he fell:  
He changed his Hugh, yet he remains At-well.  
Will. Rowley