AN ELEGY ON THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Sir Arthur Chichester Knight, Lo. Baron of Belfast, Lo. high Treasurer of Ireland, one of the Lords of his Majesty's most Honourable Privy Counsel, and of the Counsel of War.  Honour sequitur fugientem. 
By ALEX. SPICER.  
Printed at London by M.F. for Robert Bird, and are to be sold at his shop in Cheapside at the sign of the Bible. 1625.   

TO THE MOST NOBLE and most Illustrious George Duke of BUCKINGHAME his Grace, etc.  

SJr, like Parrhasius, I have thought it meet  
To draw the work, I wrought on, in a sheet:  
If your quick eye discern unhandsome feature,  
Where 'twas my part to limne a comely creature:  
Deign to believe (my Lorenzo) my hand did shake,  
Because much sorrow made my heart to ache.  
Be then your gracious patience as the veil  
To cover that, wherein my skill did fail.   
Your Grace's most submissive and devoted Orator. ALEX. SPICER.   

An Elegy on the death of my Lord Chichester.  

DEad? and before we heard him sick, incline  
To draw his breath towards that utmost line,  
Which leads to earth? this moves me to inquire,  
Why noble Belfast should so soon expire.  
'Twas thus, death knew that such a gallant prey  
Can not be had unless 'twere snatched away:  
And therefore struck him in a deadly hour,  
Beyond recovery by Physician's power.  
But we are bound to fame which keeps alive  
This Nobleman, whom death would not reprieve.  
Dead? with sad throbs my fainting spirits trip  
In sorrow's maze, and by my mournful lip.  
My tears make way to tell my heart 'tis so,  
And leave deep dints, like furrows, as they go.  
The twines of all my hopes are riveled and  
Like to some pinnace in no hope to land  
At any port of safety, altogether  
I lie exposed unto wrack of weather.  
The point I aimed at was untimely lost  
Not in March Winds, but Februaries frost:  
Noble Belfast, I'll hug thine honoured worth,  
That in the warmth of it may issue forth  
Forms of perfection; to express thy beauty:  
Or if I fail in that, my humble duty  
Shall kneel in public to pin on a Verse  
With trembling fingers on thy sable Hearse,  
Which must be arched high, to stand above  
That Lord who filled all the world with love.  
My muse shall have in charge to write of him,  
As a noble branch of an ennobled stem.  
From Chichesters' descent he took his name,  
And in exchange of it, returned such fame  
By his brave deeds, as to that race shall be  
A radiant splendour for eternity:  
For fame shall write this Adage, Let it last  
Like the sweet memory of my Lord Belfast.  
When once the time of childhood did begin  
To step aside, that youth might enter enter in,  
He went to Oxford, that the liberal Arts  
Might be ennamel to his native parts.  
Fair education with good parentage  
Made all his virtues walk in equipage,  
That they who knew him young, presaged his scope  
Was ever bending to that Cape of Hope  
Where Honour rides 
* 
He was a Captain of the ship called the Victory, under the command of the Lo. Sheffield, employed against the Spanish Invasion, Anno 1587., & 88  
Afterwards he was Captain and Commander in the Portugal voyage of 200. foot, in the Regiment of the General sir Fra. Drake, 88 and 89.  
He went with sir Fra. Drake to the West Indies, where he was Captain of a Company of foot, and Lieutenant Colonel of a Regiment. And in Porterico he set fire of the Admiral of the Spanish Frigates, 95. & 96.  
After their return from that voyage, he was employed in France, being Captain and Lieutenant Colonel of a regiment with sir Th. Baskervile, 96  
After his return out of France, he was employed into Ireland with the Earl of Essex, etc.  ; For after he had seen  
The Muses, he returned to serve his Queen  
With arms of valour, the report of them  
May be a Chronicle: for so large a theme  
Requires a book in Folio, not one leaf,  
To show the homage due to josephs' Sheafe,  
All bowed to his, and no worth finds extent  
Beyond the bounds of his, whom I lament.  
Grave, brane, sure, pure, and like a heavenly star,  
In peace, war, speech, and life, was Chichester.  
Renowned Lord, whose noble acts yield matter  
For me to praise, and yet abhor to flatter.  
Besides the several voyages which he made  
Against the Spanish foe, which would invade  
Our British coast: the civil wars of France  
Drew forth our English Scipio to advance  
His colours there, which he displayed, and won  
Honourable knighthood, when the fight was done.  
Henry the 4. of France in graceful manner,  
Upon desert conferred this warlike honour.  
And fame imprints this Character on his shield,  
Knighted by Bourbon, in the open field.  
Desert neglected, droops; encouraged, bears  
Its motions well, as the well ordered Spheres.  
Our minds prove then, best active, when we know  
Our plants are set where they are like to grow.  
The homebred flames of France extinct, our own  
Portend a hot combustion by Tyrone  
A Traitor, who like a Tiger gnaws  
The womb which bore him, with his bloody paws.  
The Queen bestowed some favours, and he thought,  
Had she done more, s'had done but what she ought.  
Through the perspective of his fantasy,  
He dreamed he saw his virtues grow so high;  
That, part of Ulster, for the great Oneale,  
Was not so fit, as was a commonweal.  
So, by ambitious projects, looked for gales  
Which might fill full, and yet not rend his sails.  
Among the valiant chieftains which were sent  
To stop the current of his proud intent,  
Came Chichester, whose acts did carry sense,  
And weight of honour with experience.  
His colours flew with such anspitious fate,  
As if that fair Bellona there had sat  
With wreathes of gold to make a crown for him,  
Who harboured prowess in each manful limb:  
And made him after his victorious trial,  
The Sergeant Mayor of the army royal.  
The Lord Mountioy, Lord deputy of that realm,  
Who sat as Pilot in that dangerous helm,  
Wrote to the Lords in England his opinion,  
Touching the safety of that sick dominion.  
Because experience taught him oft to learn,  
That bogs and fastness made the Irish kern  
To nestle in the North, he did propound,  
That some one man whose judgement was profound  
And valour matchless, might have forces ready  
To curb the rebels at the first, if heady  
Attempts should move them to an insurrection,  
Or draw them (as they speak) to go in action:  
For this employment (so records affirm,  
And i'll the liver it in its proper term)  
Sir Arthur Chichester is the fittest man,  
(Says he) in England or in Ireland, can  
Fame be more copious in her bounty: then  
To praise his worth above a world of men?  
That camp had many worthies who survive,  
And live to see their reputation thrive.  
Yet all with famous Mountioy, do agree  
To write in that of Chichester, this is he:  
But now they writ he was, from whence abound  
Our floods of grief like Springtides to surround,  
Tyrone himself, whose lewd affections stood  
To cross, with malice, the increase of good:  
Who lay in wait with unappeased spleen,  
In secret ambushments, to wreck his teen  
On careful Chichester, did protest, so many  
Parts of a Soldier were in him, that any,  
Who lead in warlike marches, could not be  
More just, more valiant, nor more wise than he.  
Those flames of good desert must sparkle high,  
Whose brightness is approved by enmity.  
Great Britain's Monarch read his true Essay,  
In a fair copy, for a beaten way  
Was made by Fame, which in the Presence told  
The King in earnest, Ireland did hold  
Such fair esteem of Chichester, that he might  
Safely prefer him to maintain his right  
In that adjoining and uncivil Nation,  
The King thinks on it and approves the motion.  
The Post took leave, & brought bacl certain word,  
An honoured Gentleman should receive the Sword.  
Fame thou art sudden, and mayst err; in this  
I'll take my oath thou never went'st amiss.  
Almost twelve years in such a government?  
If ages past can show a precedent,  
I am deceived: such rules of requity  
Were drawn forth by his hand, as piety  
Gave order for: That learning which was poor,  
Found means to help itself out of his store.  
Virtue did meet with Honour; and Religion  
With Wisdom, it with Bounty: all in One,  
Valour rejoiced to find a sure protection,  
Upon the word of his brave inclination,  
Which set an edge on Courage, when it found,  
A gracious hand to bear it from the ground.  
He loved both Arts and Arms: just such another  
As Pembroke's Uncle, or as Leicester's Brother.  
A Sidney, a Chichester, and that's as much,  
As to write in plain English, a None such:  
For in good sooth never before or since,  
Can a Viceroy do more honour to his Prince.  
The people prayed, Lord if it be thy will,  
Let this Lord be Lord Deputy with us still.  
I seek not to detract, Boetius says,  
Good is diffusive and hath ample praise,  
To give this man his due, and yet retain  
Good store for others, when it gives again.  
One writes, the Deputies of that Kingdom are  
Like Aple-trees, and if their fruit be fair,  
The Cudgels than must fly: 'Twas so with him,  
For some Informers, whose aspect was dim,  
Who see no right, nor can discern religion,  
Unless i'th' habit of their superstition,  
Tax him of much injustice, by a rabble  
Of false suggestions at the Council table.  
But Royal Solomon did observe the cause,  
And found 'twas not his Deputy, but his Laws  
Were called in question: therefore deigned to give,  
Words which might make a dying man to live.  
This man is clear, upon examination,  
I find that all's an unjust accusation,  
With other Princely speeches which transcend,  
Nor can they, as they ought, by me be penned:  
When innocence, his truest advocate,  
Made replication to the Plaintiffs hate;  
And that the Agents for their false report,  
Should undergo the Censure of that Court;  
His meekness followed and besought the King  
To pardon his accusers, who did bring  
Their own disgrace, not his: a rare example,  
In these malicious times, inimitable.  
They sought his ruin, he their good: we see  
The lesson kept, Christ taught him, learn of me.  
When the King's pleasure ordered his remove  
From that high place, the State with general love,  
Bade him farewell, that every acclamation,  
Seemed a discreet and studious Oration  
To speak in order of those noble parts,  
Which were the Loadstone of the Irish hearts.  
His credit had just interest to assume  
josiahs' blessing, as a sweet perfume,  
Which being odoriferous in scent,  
Fills all the standers by with much content.  
His name sounds just as when one sweetly sings,  
To tuneful music on harmonious strings.  
No praise, but what's exact, can fit his spirit,  
Whose fair composure did consist of merit.  
In these day's Virtues lodge apart, but he  
Prepared one lodging where they all might be:  
I mean, his pious and courageous breast,  
Where all the Graces built their common nest.  
His natural gifts had tenors on condition  
To yield to Grace: for his good disposition  
Held it unequal in its wise Idea,  
Fair Rachel should submit to blear-eyed Leah.  
Cheer up my Muse, and fly aloft to raise,  
A lasting Column by thy towering Lays.  
Inscribe upon it, Chichester: for that word  
Is a large Tomb of goodness; a Record  
Of honour, wit, experience, valour, worth,  
And Time's the Filizer to produce it forth.  
It signifies a Captain or a Knight;  
A Sarjeant Major when the Armies fight,  
A princely Viceroy, a Lord Treasurer,  
Or else the German Lord Ambassador,  
In England a great Statesman: and to end,  
Truth's Champion, Arts encourager, Valour's friend,  
All which employments do present a taste  
Of several honours in my Lord Belfast,  
Whose happy Genius being put in action,  
Drew forth the view of public admiration.  
One night, not long since, in the sky was shown,  
A Star depending on the forked Moon:  
But now the Moon waits on the glorious Star,  
Whose brightness doth surpass the Moonshine far.  
Honour and Life, like to the Moon, have wanes,  
Christ is the morning star: in piercing pains  
Of death, this Lord disdained the Moon's respect,  
For the felicity of the Stars elect:  
He did confess, like that Divine S. Paul,  
Christ was his gain, his hope, his life, his all.  
His Tongue was tipped with golden sentences,  
Which recollect the Soul, when her offences  
Have made her thoughts unsteaddy, that she stands  
Giddy, like the foun dation on the sands,  
Until that Word of God afford a light,  
To put the Soul in a more hopeful plight.  
The goodly structures which were framed by  
The curious platforms of his industry,  
In earthly things, he did conclude were wind,  
And subject to corruption: that his mind,  
Empty of her own good, might mount up higher,  
Wither a Christian ought for to aspire.  
The Angels were on wing, to bear away  
His soul, and yet he argues, their delay  
To be o'er long; lamenting his abode  
Was yet on earth, divided from his God.  
Each faculty of his soul strived which should be  
Best learned in the school of piety.  
Zeal moved as lively in those christian strains,  
As blood enclosed in the narrow veins.  
To see him die, was dolour: thus to die,  
Ravished the Mourners with alacrity,  
Because they saw, he went a glorious Guest,  
At Suppertime, unto the Marriage feast.  
Thus he expired; nor could a humane Creature,  
With more content discharge a debt to Nature.  
England laments: and where his body goes,  
That Land is drowned with a Sea of woes.  
Would I might live here still, the Irish Shores,  
Will be as gloomy as the tawny Moors:  
Their blacke-dide countenance will misinform  
The skilful Pilot: and as in a storm,  
Confusion will succeed; for beds of sand,  
Will move the waves to drive them toward land,  
That they may vie their multitudes with All,  
Who shed a tear at his sad Funeral.  
'tis well Knockfergus stands upon a rock,  
For otherwise the fierce impetuous shock  
Of dismal out-cries when the Corpses come thither,  
Will make the Fort, and Wall, and houses shiver,  
Or crumble into dust, like jericho,  
When josuahs' Rams horns were observed to blow.  
Yea the whole Realm will make a doleful cry,  
To make an Earthquake for his Elegy.  
The swift wind will be reasty, as afraid  
To waft the noise, lest all the land be made  
Subject to ruin, in astonishment,  
With much bewailing this dire accident.  
joy-mount can be no mount of joy, but moan, 
The name of his house at Knockfergus.   
Like to the Turtle when her mate is gone.  
The Drums and Fifes clad in their mourning suit,  
Will sound, as if his death had made them mute.  
The air will be all black, and like a Fuller,  
Dye the light Banners in a sable colour.  
The burial must be wet, sigh no eye's dry,  
I'th' swelling deluge of this misery.  
Among the press, my Muse desireth room,  
To speak one word to him, who makes the Tomb:  
Be sure to cut his Ear indifferent; and  
A golden Pen in his laborious hand.  
Show forth his eyes with such resplendent light,  
As one who still retains his wont sight.  
As for his Robes of Parliament, let them be  
Put on with such advice, that we may see  
His Sword, and know a Soldier: on his Arms  
Writ this; The Bucklers to defend from harms  
His Prince and Country. And beneath his head  
A Pillow, as if he were gone to bed.  
Thou mayst limb Honour, speaking; This is he,  
Whose brave exploits hath thus deserved me.  
Let it not be, as if he sought for her,  
For that will wrong the King, who did preser  
His Deputy, of himself; and gave th'impress,  
I'll honour him, who sought for nothing less. 
Honer sequitur fugientem.   
Make his Tomb wide and high, to imitate  
The copious circle of his ample fate.  
If in thy fabric thou dost want a stone,  
Sith grief hath made me Niobe, I'll be one.  
I wish this happiness to his Heir; Inherit,  
Like to Elisha, this Eliahs' spirit:  
For that's a stately imp of Fame, by which  
More honour is, then is, by being rich.  
Lord, What is man? when such a man as he,  
Whose parts excelled in the highest degree,  
Dies by a Pleurisy, a corrupted tumour,  
Proceeding from a bad unhealthful humour.  
How ought we then, who are but Atoms small,  
And in respect of him, are not at all,  
To know our bodies but an house of earth,  
And think on God before the soul goes forth?  
His last to me was this; Much thanks, Good night.  
May my best service study to requite  
His noble compliment: For it I return,  
Millions of tears on his bewailed Urn.  
And sith, the bed he sleeps on, is his Bier,  
I'll bid, Good night, and draw the Curtains here.   
FINIS.