LACHRYMAE musarum.  

Quam cu●eret, ●acrymans augusti Herois in uruam,  
Musa tuum Niobe corpus▪ et Arge tuum!  
Vt fiveret Morbi dolour aemulus; utque tume●at  
Pustula, sic tumeat Lachryma, mille oculis  
Flete De●e: Britonum hunc Florem tellure repostum  
Expromta in Lachrymas Castalis unda riget     

LACHRYMAE MUSARUM; The Tears of the MUSES: expressed in ELEGIES; WRITTEN By divers persons of Nobility and Worth, Upon the death of the most hopeful, Henry Lord Hastings, only son of the Right Honourable FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon heir-general of the high-born Prince GEORGE Duke of Clarence, Brother to King EDWARD the fourth.  
Collected and set forth by R. B.  
Dignum laude virum Musae vetant mori.  Hor. 
London, Printed by Tho. Newcomb. 1649.   


The Names of the Writers of these following ELEGIES.  
Earl of Westmoreland.  
Lord Falkland.  
Sir Aston Cokaine.  
Sir Arthur Gorges.  
M. Robert Millward.  
M. Tho. higgon's.  
M. Charles Cotton.  
M. Tho. pestle sen.  
M. George Fairfax.  
M. Francis Standish.  
M. I. joins  
M. Samuel Bold.  
M. I. Cave.  
M. Phil. Kindar.  
M. Robert Herrick.  
M. John Denham.  
M. Io. Hall.  
M. I. B.  
M. John Benson.  
M. I. Bancroft.  
M. Will. pestle.  
M. Tho. pestle jun.  
M. R. P.  
M. Io. Rosse.  
M. Alex. Brome.  
M. Edward Standish.  
M. R. Brome.    


Upon the death of the most hopeful young Lord, The Lord HASTINGS: A Remembrance from a Kinsman.  
IS there a bright Star fallen from this our Sphere,  
Yet none sets out some newer calendar?  
Do the Orbs sleep in silence? Is the Scheme  
Struck dumb at th' apprehension of the Theme?  
I shall not challenge Booker here; nor will I  
Call up the Mathemat-like dreams of lily,  
To search the reason, sift prognostics out,  
How this so sad Disaster came about;  
Since that to every one it is well known,  
The best and precious things are soonest gone.  
Such Grief by th'cause is heightened to excess;  
And where that falls, expression goes less.  
Yet if we'd scan why thus he's Hasting hence,  
His name may give you some intelligence.  
The World with him this opposition had;  
He was too good for it, and that too bad.  
Westmoreland.   

On the death of my worthy Friend and Kinsman, the Noble, virtuous, and Learned Lord HASTINGS.  
Farewell, dear Lord and Friend, since thou hast chose  
Rather the Phoenix life, than death of Crows:  
Though Death hath ta'en thee, yet I'm glad thy Fame  
Must still survive in Learned Hastings Name.  
For thy great loss, my Fortune I'll condole,  
Whilst that Elysium enjoys thy soul.  
FALKLAND.   

A funeral-elegy upon the death of Henry Lord Hastings, Son to the Right honourable, Ferdinando Earl of HUNTINGDON, &c.  
KNow all to whom these few sad Lines shall come,  
This melancholy Epicedium,  
The young Lord Hastings death occasioned it,  
Amidst a storm of Lamentations writ;  
Tempests of sighs and groans, and flowing eyes,  
Whose yielding balls dissolve to Delugies;  
And mournful Numbers that with dreadful sound  
Wait this bemoaned Body to the ground,  
Are all, and the last Duties we can pay  
That Noble Spirit that is fled away.  
'Tis gone, alas! 'tis gone, though it did leave  
A body rich in all Nature could give:  
Superior in beauty to the Youth  
That won the Spartan Queen to forfeit truth,  
Break wedlock's strictest bonds, and be his wife,  
Environed with tumults all her life.  
His years were in the Balmy Spring of age,  
Adorned with blossoms ripe for Marriage,  
And but mature: His sweet Conditions known  
To be so good, they could be none but's own.  
Our English Nation was enamoured more  
Of his full Worths, than Rome was heretofore  
Of great Vespatian's Jew-subduing Heir,  
The love and the delight of mankind here.  
After a large survey of Histories,  
Our critics (curious in Honour, wise  
In parallelling generous souls) will find,  
This youthful Lord did bear as brave a mind:  
His few, but well-spent years, had Mastered all  
The Liberal Arts; and his sweet tongue could fall  
Into the ancient Dialects; dispense  
Sacred Judaea's amplest Eloquence,  
The Latin idiom elegantly true,  
And Greek as rich as Athens ever knew:  
The Italian and the French do both confess  
Him perfect in their Modern Languages.  
At his Nativity, what angry Star  
Malignant Influences flung so far?  
What Caput Algol's, and what dire Aspects  
Occasioned so Tragical Effects?  
As soon as Death this fatal blow had given,  
I fancy mighty Clarence sighed in heaven;  
And (till this glorious soul arrived there)  
Recovered not from his Amaze and Fear.  
Had this befallen in ancient credulous times,  
He had been deified by poet's Rhymes:  
That Age (Enamoured on his Graces) soon  
Majestic Fanes in Adoration  
Would have raised to his Memory, and there  
On Golden Altars, year succeeding year,  
Burnt holy Incense, and Sabaean Gums,  
That Curls of Vapour from those Hecatoms,  
Should reach his soul in heaven. But we must pay  
No such Oblations in our purer Way:  
A nobler Service we him owe then that,  
His fair Example ever t'emulate:  
With the advantage of our double years,  
Let's imitate him; and (through all affairs,  
And all encounters of our lives) intend  
To live like him, and make so good an end.  
To aim at brave things, is an evident sign,  
In Spirits, that to Honour they incline;  
And (though they do come short in the Contest)  
'Tis full of glory to have done one's best.  
You mournful Parents, whom the Fates compel  
To bear the loss of this great Miracle,  
This Wonder of our times; amidst a sigh,  
(Surrounded with your thickst Calamity)  
Reflect on Joy; think what an happiness  
(Though human Nature here conceits it less)  
It was to have a son of so much worth,  
He was too good to grace the wretched Earth.  
As silver Trent through our North Counties glides,  
Adorned with Swans, and crowned with flowery sides;  
And rushing into mightier Humber's waves,  
Augments the Regal Aestuarium's braves:  
So he, after a Life of Eighteen years,  
Well managed, (as Example to our Peers)  
In's early youth (Encountering sullen Fate)  
O'ercome, became a trophy to his state.  
Didst thou sleep, Hymen? or art lately grown  
T'affect the Subterranean Region?  
Enamoured on bleared Libentina's eyes,  
Hoarse howling Dirges, and the baleful cries  
Of inauspicious voices, and (above  
Thy Star-like Torch) with horrid Tombs in love?  
Thou art; or surely hadst opposed this high  
Affront of Death against thy deity;  
Nor wronged an excellent Virgin, who had given  
Her heart to him, who hath his soul to heaven:  
Whose Beauties thou hast clouded, and whose eyes  
Drowned in tears of these sad Exequies.  
Those famed Heroes of the Golden Age,  
Those demigods, whose virtues did assuage  
And calm the furies of the wildest minds,  
That were grown savage, even against their kinds;  
Might from their Constellations have looked down,  
And (by this young Lord) seen themselves outgone.  
Farewell, admired Spirit, that art free  
From this strict prison of Mortality.  
Ashby, proud of the honour to enshrine  
The beauteous Body, (whence the Soul divine  
Did lately part) be careful of thy Trust,  
That no profane hand wrong that hallowed Dust.  
The costly Marble needs no friend t'engrave  
Upon it any doleful Epitaph:  
No good man's tongue that office will decline,  
Whilst years succeeding reach the end of Time.  
ASTON COKAINE.   

Upon the Death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS.  
SInce that young Hastings 'bove our hemisphere  
Is snatched away, O let some angel's Wing  
Lend me a Quill, his Noble Fame to rear  
Up to that choir which Hallelujah sing.  
Sure Heaven itself for us thought him too good,  
And took him hence just in his strength and prime,  
When virtue 'gan to make him understood,  
Beyond the Peers and Nobles of his time.  
Wherefore 'twill ask more than a Mortal Pen,  
To speak his worth unto Posterity;  
Whose judgement shined 'mongst grave and learned men,  
With true Devotion, and integrity:  
For which, in heaven, the Joys of lasting Bliss  
He reaps, whilst we sow Tears for him we miss.  
But I no praise for poesy affect,  
Nor Flatteries hoped meed doth me incite;  
Such base-born thoughts, as servile, I reject:  
Sorrow doth dictate what my Zeal doth write:  
Sorrow for that rich Treasure we have lost,  
Zeal to the Memory of what we had:  
And that is all they can, that can say most.  
So sings my Muse in Zeal and Sorrow clad;  
So sang Achilles to his silver Harp,  
When foul affront had' reft his fair delight;  
So sings sweet Philomela against the Sharp;  
So sings the Swan, when life is taking flight:  
So sings my Muse the notes which Sorrow weeps;  
Which anthem sung, my Muse for ever sleeps.  
ARTHUR GORGES.   

EPIGRAM Upon the death of the most hopeful, Henry Lord Hastings, Eldest son of the Right honourable, FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon, Heir general of the high-born Prince, GEORGE Duke of Clarence, Brother to King Edward 4.  
'TIs a Mistake; Lord Hastings did not die,  
But 'twas our Hopes, and his great Parents Joy  
That did depart. Is he said to decease,  
That reigns in Glory now, and lives in Peace?  
Yet may we gently mourn, not that he's gone,  
But left us till the Resurrection.  
Our Joy ought to be more, since he doth get  
A Heavenly Crown, for an earth's Coronet.  
Then let us cease our Tears: for if we grieve  
Too much, too little surely we believe.  
ROB. MILLWARD.   

Upon the death of my Lord Hastings.  
THese are thy Triumphs, Death, who prid'st to give  
Their lives an end, who best deserve to live.  
Dull, useless men, whom Nature makes in vain,  
Or but to fill her Number and her Train;  
Men by the world remembered but till Death,  
Whose empty story endeth with their breath,  
Stay till Old-age consume them; when the Good,  
The Noble, and the Wise, are killed i'th' bud.  
Such was the Subject of our Grief, in whom  
All that times past can boast, or times to come  
Can hope, is lost: whose Blood, although its Springs  
Stream from the Royal loins of England's Kings,  
His virtue hath exalted and refined;  
For his high Birth was lower than his mind  
But that the Fates, inexorably bent  
To mischief Man, and ruin his Content,  
Would have this Sacrifice, the Sisters might  
Have been affected with so sweet a sight,  
And thought their hasty Cruelty a Crime,  
To tear him from his Friends before his Time.  
THOMAS higgon's.   

An elegy upon the Lord HASTINGS.  
AMongst the Mourners that attend his hearse  
With flowing eyes, and wish each Tear a Verse,  
T'embalm his Fame, and his dear Merit save  
Uninjured from th' oblivion of the Grave;  
A Sacrificer I am come to be,  
Of this poor offering to his Memory.  
O could our pious Meditations thrive  
So well, to keep his better part alive!  
So that, in stead of Him, we could but find  
Those fair Examples of his lettered mind:  
Virtuous Emulation than might be  
Our hopes of Good men, though not such as He.  
But in his hopeful progress since he's crossed,  
Pale virtue droops, now her best Pattern's lost.  
'Twas hard, neither Divine, nor human Parts,  
The strength of Goodness, Learning, and of Arts,  
Full crowds of Friends, nor all the prayers of them,  
Nor that he was the Pillar of his Stem,  
Affection's Mark, secure of all men's Hate,  
Could rescue him from the sad stroke of Fate.  
Why was not th' Air dressed in prodigious forms,  
To groan in Thunder, and to weep in Storms?  
And, as at some men's Fall, why did not His  
In Nature work a Metamorphosis?  
No; he was gentle, and his soul was sent  
A silent Victim to the Firmament.  
Weep, Ladies, weep, lament great Hastings Fall;  
His House is buried in his Funeral:  
bath him in Tears, till there appear no trace  
Of those sad Blushes in his lovely face:  
Let there be in't of Guilt no seeming sense,  
Nor other Colour then of Innocence.  
For he was wise and good, though he was young,  
Well suited to the Stock from whence he sprung:  
And what in Youth is Ignorance and Vice,  
In him proved Piety of an excellent price.  
Farewell, dear Lord; and since thy body must  
In time return to its first matter, Dust;  
Rest in thy melancholy Tomb in peace: for who  
Would longer live, that could but now die so?  
CHA. COTTON.   

For the Right Honourable, lucy Countess of HUNTINGDON. 1649. From her honour's humblest Servant, T. P. Her soliloquy, or her Meditation.  
'TIs mystic Union, Man and Wife,  
Yet scarce distinct from Single life,  
Till like the Sun, a Son arise,  
And set them Both before their eyes:  
No sweeter, braver, fairer sight,  
Then thus to stand in our own Light.  
And such a Son I joyed: (Ay me!  
Was ever such a Son as he?)  
And felt what fervent spirits of Love  
Orbs of Maternal Bowels move.  
I would not shun those outward snares,  
Of Shape, of shining eyes and hairs;  
Which still the more they catch, or wound,  
More pleasing still their power I found.  
And it is lawful, godly too,  
To love what God's own fingers do:  
Whose Angels still are sweetly faced,  
Himself with perfect Beauty graced.  
But eager virtue from the Clay,  
In words and actions making way  
To Sense: in All that heard or saw  
Became a fierce almighty Law,  
And stooped all hearts that were not stone,  
Or drowned in Malice; or in Moan,  
Like mine. So overgone with woe,  
My very Reason bids it go:  
Nor lies it in the power of Wit,  
By Reason to recover it.  

The Rational Reply.  
By Reason to recover it,  
Sans forlorn Hope, or wings of Wit,  
Who serves you, his main battle brings.  
Hark how the feathered Tempest sings;  
Your clouds of Grief transpiercing quite,  
Or hurrying to disordered Flight.  
Then (Sorrow vanquished) on his hearse  
Rears Trophies of victorious Verse.  
First, let us ask Impatience why  
At gentle Death's approach we cry.  
Sweet Favourite of heaven, that flies  
With Cupid's face, but Hermes eyes;  
Whose Rods, and Snakes, and seeming harms,  
Our souls in slumber wisely charms.  
For that poor Spark called Life; the brand,  
The Rush we carry in our hand;  
Which dropping and defiling spends:  
Death gives Delight that never ends.  
O mad mistake! Sea-tossed, a Calm;  
And wounded, we reject a Balm:  
Rabide for want of Rest, we keep  
a-bawling, and refuse to sleep:  
Dead-weary tired, yet scorn to stay;  
And, Cripple, hurl our Crutch away.  
But these are General: for your pain  
Here's water of a Special vein;  
Wherein no relish you shall feel  
Of sulphury Wit, but reason's steel.  
What could you wish your Son? A pair  
Of dovelike Eyes; as Joseph fair;  
Straight as young Mountain-Pines, whose arms  
The Sun with early kisses warms:  
Guilds, blazons so each Leaf and Limb,  
That Paint is dirt, and Metal dim.  
He was all this, and all that we  
Can fetch from beauty's pedigree.  
The Case so bright, what radiance threw  
The Jewel that it did endue!  
The Queen that held the Throne in state  
Of Grace, there dressed and recreate:  
Till like a Lark from earthly Cage  
Enlarged, and fired with strong new Rage,  
She mounts, and sings in heaven. And what?  
May we not fall some drops thereat?  
Good reason, if the Tears you shed  
From joyful brains expansion spread,  
Call it not Grief; foul envy 'tis,  
To whine at Saints enshrined in bliss.  
Reflect on all the whole world's frame,  
It climbs and twines to whence it came:  
So Beams that shine, and Streams that flow,  
Back to their Sun and Ocean go.  
So Vernal Flowers, which, at their birth  
Thrust up pure crowns from impure Earth,  
Grow by degrees full ripe, and then  
Must hide them in their Roots again.  
He parted in Perfection's time,  
In Golden Number, and in Prime  
Of Life, of Love, and White Report  
For virtue; past the ranker sort  
Of Flash-green youths; no Vicious Stain  
Envenoming his Blood or Brain:  
From Duels, Drink, Dice, Cares, Age, Laws,  
Faces of Dames, and eagle's Claws,  
Exempt: he laughs at us that still  
Bleat round the bottom of the hill.  
Last, think of your clear open way  
To heaven, obstructed by his stay;  
While, more than mermaid, face and words  
All Ear-wax melts, and breaks all Cords.  
Did not his Look, his Voice and Deed,  
With full commerce of Pleasure feed  
Your Sense and Soul? which now takes wing,  
Checks not at aught; nor spies fair thing  
Worth stooping at. O let it fly  
To Quarries there above the sky.  
THO. pestle, Pat.    

On the untimely death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS, only Son to FERDINAND and Lucy, Earl and Countess of Huntingdon.  
UP, Beldame Muse! thy Climacterick's past:  
But one work more; thy lastingst, if not last.  
Lord Hastings glorious shade before us stands,  
Whose virtue exacts this Duty from our hands:  
'Twill be a Night-piece, friends: Here never seek  
Lucy large-souled, and Ferdinand the meek;  
Who both esteemed it braver work and worth,  
To bring this Son up, then t'have brought him forth.  
He th'Exposition to their double Text,  
The Glass wherein they saw themselves reflext;  
He, that was He; and She, and both in one,  
Both she and he, all three, in him are gone.  
This sunset all obscured: with Aetna pressed,  
Their burning Giant Grief can take no rest.  
To print so black a Sorrow fair, I want  
Gold-plate for Paper, Pen of Adamant.  
Veils on those chief Close-mourners faces spread;  
I pencil out all gentler eyes in Red  
Swollen lids; as having spent their bottom-store  
Of precious dew-drops, till their hearts are sore.  
Which fast congealed Balm has his hearse infixed  
In crystal Case, with Pearl and Amber mixed.  
Rare Monument! but cannot him refine,  
So rich a Saint impou'rishing his Shrine.  
Was he not purest, fairest, wisest, best?  
All Graces magazined, yet unexpressed.  
When his bright Bodies eminence I viewed,  
With such a sovereign Intellect endued,  
So just and pondered temperature to find,  
So early ripe, so richly matched in mind;  
Choice Gem of Nature, set in Nuturing Gold;  
Exulting Fancy quick conceived the mould  
Was ready now, wherein th'almighty's hand  
Would cast new Nobles, and restore the Land;  
Whose finest Gold, if in compare it bring,  
Is sure to find his strong Mercurial Sting.  
He caused us hurl our Vows, and gave free scope  
To change our Wishes into Present Hope.  
But O Sydneian! O Blood-Royal Fate!  
Great Britain's curse, whose sinful, shameful State  
Makes all heroic virtue soon decay;  
Which mad she throws, or just God takes away.  
So fell our Ripheus in New Troy, lest he  
Perchance her Fires and instant ruin see:  
For will that sacred thunder never pour  
On such a Sodom his revengeful shower?  
Where Lust and Pride, with their five brethren stand  
In bold defiance of his armed hand:  
Where Lords and Gentry, mindless of white Fame,  
Graceless of old, are now beneath all Shame.  
Pardon, fresh Saint, to set thy shining Good  
With such coarse foils, to make it understood:  
To topless height, from their base depth below,  
Thy flaming Pyramid of Praise would grow.  
But for thou joy'st th'applause of Angels there,  
How frivolous are our weak echoes here!  
THO. pestle the father.   

Illustrissimi Herois, Domini HENRICI HASTINGS, EPICAEDIUM.  
INcipe Musa dolens (causaest heu magna doloris)  
Edere lugubri Carmina moesta sono.  
Squallida funerea cingas mea Musa cupresso  
Tempora, & in lacrymas fons Heliconis eat.  
Tristia prol●tis jam sunt celebranda choreis  
Funera; plorantes tristia sola decent.  
Nunc fletus, pallor, gemitus, suspiria, luctus,  
Atque decent madidae funera tanta genae.  
Heu quanta est rigidi dura inclementia Fati?  
Corripit egregium mors inopina virum;  
Cujus erant animo Pietas, Sapientia, Virtus,  
Qui fuerat generis spesque decusque sui;  
Dum parat ut Sponsus taedas celebrare jugales,  
Vrna vicem thalamis cogit inire suis.  
Sperata arescit tenera modò messis in herba,  
Absumptus subito funere penè Puer.  
Sed cum Nestoreis fuerat dignissimus annis,  
Tam citò cur tetricis praeda deabus erat?  
An quia pulcher erat, primaeque in Flore juventae  
Parca fuit teneri capta decore viri?  
An quod amant juvenum pasci Exanthemata Flore,  
Signavit niveam Pustula rubra cutem?  
Pustula Lernaeo crescens pollentius angue  
Insperata lues, torruit igne jecur.  
Insuetas Libitina dapes Bellaria gestit,  
Nullaque plebei corporis off a placet.  
Moestus cecinit, Geor.. FAIREFAX.   

{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
PHOCYLIDES.   

LEt every generous soul pay to this hearse  
Some tribute of his Grief to flow in Verse.  
Hast not a vein for Verse? yet if thou could  
Distil each word in Numbers, sure thou would.  
All Sorrows, streams flow not from Pens, but Eyes:  
Let others write; thou ow'st thy Sighs and Cries.  
G. F▪   

Upon the Right Honourable, Lucy Countess of Huntingdon's heroic and most Christian bearing of that grand Affliction, the death of her only Son, The young Lord HASTINGS, &c.  
Heaven's bless your Wits (dear Madam) here's a sad  
Trial, enough to make a Man stark mad.  
A Cross might vex a blessed Saint's patience,  
Were he not mounted 'bove the reach of Sense.  
How shall a female breast be able then,  
To bear a shock might shake the best of men?  
To me, a Miracle it is, you live;  
Much more, to hear that you do only grieve:  
Nay, what is yet more strange to me, that you  
In point of Grief, pay Nature but her due:  
As if you could do more than others, and  
Had all those rebel-Passions 〈◊〉 command.  
Upon a loss so heavy as yours is,  
Some Niobe had been a stone, by this:  
And we might plain have read her discontent,  
On her still weeping Marble-monument.  
Madame, you shame the very Stoics, who  
But talked of those brave matters, which you do.  
They could boast much, and well discourse upon  
The patient suffering of affliction:  
But, when it came to th' point, they ne'er came nigh  
This acting part of your philosophy.  
But, 'tis no wonder that a Stoic you  
Outstrip; I'd see a Christian thus much do:  
Show me a Christian that a Cross will take,  
So heavy, freely, for his Jesus sake;  
Or, that shall be presented with a Cup  
So bitter, and willingly shall drink it up.  
Well, I had thought, in point of suffering, no-man  
Could me have stripped; but now, I yield t'a woman.  
And (Madam) this I am resolved upon,  
Your heart is full of Grace, or made of Stone.  
FRANCIS STANDISH.   

An elegy Upon the death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS, the only Son and Heir of the Right honourable FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon; Deceasing immediately before the day designed for his Marriage.  
FOrbear, forbear, Great house of Huntingdon,  
T'engross this Grief, as if 'twere all your own:  
The Kingdom has a share; and every Eye  
Claims privilege to weep his elegy.  
The mirror of our Age, Lord Hastings dead?  
And in his Urn, our hopes, thus, buried?  
And shall not we come in, (who share i'th' smart)  
In your sad consort, to lament our part?  
We must— or, if that language be you say,  
Rude, and uncivil; we entreat we may.  
Alas! our griefs swell high, whilst inward penned;  
They'll burst our hearts, unless we give them vent.  
For pity then, if not to spare your eyes,  
Let our tears join, to mourn his Obsequies.  
Sweet souls, alas! when we have wept our fill,  
You'll find enough of tears, for you left, still.  
But stay— What voice was that? Methinks I hear  
My better Angel whispering in my ear  
Words of another strain, which purer are  
Then what my Carnal Muse suggesteth, far.  
What though our loss be great; so great, that none  
In our Age has exceeded it, but One?  
Yet, this is not the way t'express our Pieties,  
By making large alembics of our Eyes.  
The greater our loss is, the more's his gains;  
And, whom our eyes think dead, our hearts know  
A Saint in heaven: who, being there enthroned, (reigns  
How can he take it, here to be bemoaned?  
Away then with these Pagan Rites, and be  
More Christian-like in your Solemnity:  
And know, he celebrates his funeral best,  
Who comes unto't, as to a Nuptial-feast.  
And truly, 'tis his Nuptial-feast indeed;  
Not, that which Man meant, but, which God decreed.  
A Marriage fit for him; and, in my sense,  
Most suitable unto his Innocence:  
A Marriage with the Lamb, who took his sin,  
First, quite away from him; and then, took Him.  
Why should we mourn then? how can it but please us?  
When young Lord Hastings married to his Jesus.  
FRA. STANDISH.   

On the incomparable Lord HASTINGS: An elegy.  
TO speak thy Praises, or our Sorrows, now,  
Are both impossible. Alone they know  
(Exalted Soul) thy worth, who now above  
Converse with thee by Intellect and Love.  
Grief only, and dumb Admiration, are  
The Legacies thou hast bequeathed us here.  
This only woeful Comfort's left us now;  
Our Misery's complete: Fate knows not how,  
Beyond this, to inflict another wound:  
" They fear not falling, that lie on the ground.  
Not perfect Bankrupt was this Land till now,  
Nor her sick lapsed desperate state below  
The hopes of all recovery: till His fall,  
We could not justly say we had lost All.  
We could not say, while he was yet alive,  
Truth and Religion did not still survive:  
There was a Church and Academy still:  
All virtue, whilst he lived, they could not kill.  
Justice and Honour; whatsoever's good,  
Was not yet fled from Earth to Heaven. Still stood  
In him (that cipher for these many years)  
Th'oppressed, and now quite ruined House of Peers.  
All these, not lost, but outlawed, did conspire,  
To him, as to their centre, to retire.  
But he is gone; and now this carcase, World,  
Is into her first, rude, dark Chaos, hurled.  
Virtue and Knowledge now for Monsters go:  
To grope out Truth henceforth, how shall we do?  
Or find what's Just or Sense? To whom repair,  
To let us know those things have been (not are.)  
Further than him, before, you need not move,  
To learn the Placits of the 
a Stoic and academic Philosophy.  Porch or Grove.  
Or had you pleased to consult the Sprite  
Of the deep 
b Pythagoras  Samian, or 
c Aristotle.  Stagirite,  

d Seneca.  Cordova's Sage, or 
e Plutarch.  him that did renown  
The scarce-before-him-known 
f Cheronea.  Boeotian Town:  
Rome, Athens, sibyl's Oracles could teach  
Nothing not comprehended in his reach.  
Was none so hopeful Instrument as he,  
The savage World t' reduce from Levity;  
Purge and restore our Manners, and call home  
Civility to barbarous Christendom.  
For this great Work, he furnished was like those  
Upon whose sacred heads did once repose,  
In shape of parted Tongues, celestial Fire:  
What they infused had he did acquire:  
Unless we justly make a doubt, whether He  
At Eighteen could in full possession be  
(Without a Miracle) of all Tongues; one  
Whereof to purchase asks an Age alone.  
Him in's own Language might have heard indite,  
The Swarthy Arab, or the Elamite:  
What Athens heard, or Solyma, or Rome  
Of old, that from his tongue did flowing come:  
He that now drinks of Tiber, or of Po,  
Utters not that word that he did not know:  
No more doth he that tastes the Streams of Sceine,  
Or those of Celtica, or Aquitain.  
He was indeed a Miracle: and we,  
That Miracles are ceased, may now agree.  
How could we hope t' enjoy him, being one,  
Whose new profane Opinion says, There's none?  
Besides this, our own wicked Merits might  
Instruct us; twixt our Darkness, and his Light,  
There could not be a long Communion.  
In vain therefore, alas, did we go on,  
To light his Nuptial-Tapers, and invoke  
Juno and Hymen, and the air to choke  
With echoing Epithalms; the whilst above,  
Th' angelic choir, inflamed with his love,  
Court him from us, to those Celestial Bowers,  
As fitting for their Consort, and not ours.  
So unto Heaven (our thoughts being fixed on Clay)  
In's Fever's fiery Chariot he takes way:  
The weeks first day sets forth; and six days done,  
(As God had his) his Sabbath he begun.  
Thrice happy Soul! whose Work and Labour gone,  
Holds with thy Maker's such proportion.  
Now whether he a Constellation be,  
Intelligence, or Tut'lar Deity,  
Is hid from us. 'Tis great'st part of our cross,  
Nothing of him to know or feel, but's loss:  
Which though we could not read in leaves of Fate,  
Thy towers (O Ashby) did prognosticate,  
Which fell the duteous ushers to his fall:  
There was no further use of them at all,  
Since he must fall, for whose sake they had stood;  
" Not be at all, as to no end, 's as good.  
This these prophetic Buildings did perceive,  
And, bowing to the ground before, took leave,  
JO. join.   

A funeral-elegy upon the Right Honourable the Lord HASTINGS.  
WHat Soil is this, where nothing that is good,  
Nor virtue's branch, can live, nor beauty's bud?  
For thou wast both, great hero, on whose head  
The Muses and the Graces both had shed  
And poured out all their store: for Form and Wit,  
Virtue and Honour, there did crowned sit,  
As in their Temple, where they chose to shine;  
And, being Deities, made thee their Shrine:  
Yea, great Apollo thought once to resign,  
And make thee precedent of all the Nine.  
For us, poor Dwarfs in Science, we thought fit  
To hold in Fee, of thy great Giant-wit,  
Those smaller parcels which we have of Art,  
And pay thee Tribute, each one for his part.  
For thou wert second Verulam, to disclose  
Nature's dark Secrets: and if any pose  
'Bout metaphysics, he might answered be,  
And read no other Suarez o'er, but thee,  
wherefore great Phoebus did at length combine  
With Hymen, to perpetuate thy Line,  
By matching with Astraea: this seemed fit,  
To him that's god of physic, and of Wit;  
That in this ebb of Justice, Wisdom, Grace,  
Thou mightst be Stem and Root of such a Race,  
As might revive dead virtue, and restore  
To present view what th' Heroes did of yore,  
By quelling Monsters, purging Ordures hence,  
Of Vice and Sin, that stain the Conscience.  
And this we hoped all: yea, 't had been done,  
Had not the Soil been England, whereupon  
This noble Branch was planted: but she hates  
Ever her generous Plants: here culminates  
Old Saturn, enemy to all that's good,  
Eating his children's Flesh, swilling their Blood:  
And England is his Sister; Mother of Sins,  
Stepdame to virtues, Nurse of assassins.  
A Soil that fosters Brambles, Shrubs, and Thorns;  
Slaughter's the Lamb, and sets up Beasts with Horns.  
A Soil, that nurse's Briars, Weeds, and Rape;  
But starves the Olive, figtree, and the Grape;  
Those Nobler Plants, and glory of the Wood,  
To all that know what's sovereign, Sweet, and Good.  
Go travel then, brave Soul, take wing, and fly  
From place accursed, where nought but perjury,  
Rapine and Blood do swagger; and where all  
Must turn eith'r Country-Carl, or Cannibal,  
That means to live: Noble here must be none,  
Nor generous Plants, whilst Brambles hold the Throne.  
Fly then from Babylon up to Zion; there's  
In Heaven both Monarch, and an House of Peers;  
Yea, there are Bishops too, with grave aspect,  
The church's Nobles, all with glories decked:  
And there's an academic, though here's none now,  
Where high Degrees are given to such as thou.  
Doctors, Virgins, and Martyrs, these are three,  
Say ancient Fathers, that have Dignity;  
Certain Aureola's above the rest,  
Because that these have earned Glory best.  
Thou art these three: Doctor in learned Lore;  
Virgin as pure, as any there before,  
Save only one: and Martyr sure thou art,  
If either Love or Fever played his part.  
Hie then, immortal Soul, to thine own Sphere,  
Where these three Crowns attend thee; and shine there  
A glorious Constellation, far above  
The frowns of Fortune, or the pangs of Love.  
S. BOLD.   

An elegy Upon the most lamented death of the Lord HASTINGS, only Son and Heir to the Right honourable the Earl of Huntingdon.  
Deceased at LONDON, 1649.  
TEach me (dread Fate) out of thy strong-clasped book,  
Whose every Marble page as vast doth look  
As th'immense Volume of Eternity,  
Whereto for Index serves Mortality.  
Teach me (dread Sire, while I have time a while)  
These two flat Contraries to reconcile;  
Th'Effect to be, and still and still subsist;  
The Cause to vanish, and yet ne'er be missed:  
Goodness one main toward subsistency,  
As convertible in the 
* Ens, Verum & Bonum convertuntur. Arist.  trinity  
Of Being, thus to pass as nothing were  
Dependent from it in this world's Matter;  
And yet that Matter 'tis supposed to be,  
Except as truly Good, no Entity.  
The Riddles out th' Abstract HE took away,  
Yet left the Concrete World Good still; to stay,  
To tell the Speculators of our time,  
How merely supernatural, sublime  
HIS being in it was; and (if of HIM)  
Our notions may be: so shall we esteem  
No Loss be our losing Goodness; but't more improved,  
More highly honoured, and more dearly loved,  
Then when 'twas Consubstantial: so shall all  
That but mind HIM, grow metaphysical,  
Rarely transcendent, as HE was: for mind,  
An Extract 'bove the mix of earth-mankind;  
Such as to which, Place, Wealth, power, Goodness, give,  
To make them (what they would be thought) To live.  
This Noble Top-sprig grew from such a Stem  
As well might serve t' adorn a Diadem;  
To give and take a lustre, whose bright rays  
Might have dispelled the Fog of these black days.  
Oh what an Expectation have we lost,  
That now but t'have had such, we are left to boast!  
And with an impious modesty shall blame  
Even Destiny, that left us nought but's Name:  
A Name so glorious in what e'er is high,  
That it will stand enrolled t'eternity.  
Great Huntingdon's graced HEIR went from us hence  
A gracious Victim to high Providence.  
Ad raptum primi Mobilis Domini C. C. raptim sic flevit deditiss. familiae ejusdem & Humillimus servus, J. CAVE.   

Upon the death of the Lord Hastings.  
HEre— Stay, Tears, until these Obsequies  
Have had their Rights performed. Here— here lies  
Th'Off-spring of the gods, Apollo's glory,  
The muse's morningstar; the true Story  
Of feigned Adonis. Whatsoe'er is said  
Of angel's bliss, within this Tomb is laid.  
Nature, if ever, as before of old,  
Thou shalt form virtue, frame it of this mould.  
Flow Tears, now flow amain, to wash this Tomb,  
And keep it fair until the day of Doom.  
PHIL. KINDAR.   

The New Charon, Upon the death of Henry Lord Hastings. The Musical part being set by M. Henry laws.  The Speakers, Charon and Eucosmeia. Euc. 
CHaron, O Charon, draw thy Boat to th'shore,  
And to thy many, take in one soul more.  Cha. 
Who calls? who calls?  Euc. 
One overwhelmed with ruth;  
Have pity either on my Tears or Youth,  
And take me in, who am in deep Distress;  
But first cast off thy wonted Churlishness.  Cha. 
I will be gentle as that Air which yields  
A breath of Balm along th'Elizean fields.  
Speak, what art thou?  Euc. 
One, once that had a lover,  
Than which, thyself ne'er wafted sweeter over.  
He was—  Cha. 
Say what.  Eu. 
Ay me, my woes are deep.  Cha. 
Prithee relate, while I give ear and weep.  Euc. 
He was an Hastings; and that one Name has  
In it all Good, that is, and ever was.  
He was my Life, my Love, my joy; but died  
Some hours before I should have been his Bride.  Chorus. 
Thus, thus the God's celestial still decree,  
For human joy, Contingent Misery.  Euc. 
The hallowed Tapers all prepared were,  
And Hymen called to bless the Rites.  Cha. 
Stop there  Euc. 
Great are my woes.  Cha. 
And great must that Grief be,  
That makes grim Charon thus to pity thee.  
But now come in.  Euc. 
More let me yet relate.  Cha. 
I cannot stay; more souls for waftage wait,  
And I must hence.  Eu. 
Yet let me thus much know,  
Departing hence, where Good and Bad souls go.  Cha. 
Those souls which ne'er were drenched in pleasures stream,  
The Fields of Pluto are reserved for them;  
Where, dressed with garlands, there they walk the ground,  
Whose blessed Youth with endless flowers is crowned.  
But such as have been drowned in this wild Sea,  
For those is kept the Gulf of Hecate;  
Where, with their own contagion they are fed;  
And there do punish, and are punished.  
This known, the rest of thy sad story tell,  
When on the Flood that nine times circles Hell  Chorus. 
We sail along, to visit mortals never;  
But there to live, where Love shall last for ever.  
ROB. HERRICK.   

An elegy Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.  
REader, preserve thy peace: those busy eyes  
Will weep at their own sad Discoveries;  
When every line they add, improves thy loss,  
Till, having viewed the whole, they sum a Cross,  
Such as derides thy Passions best relief,  
And scorns the succours of thy easy Grief.  
Yet lest thy Ignorance betray thy name  
Of Man, and Pious; read, and mourn: the shame  
Of an exemption from just sense, doth show  
Irrational, beyond excessive Wo.  
Since Reason then can privilege a Tear,  
Manhood, uncensured, pay that Tribute here  
Upon this Noble Urn. Here, here remains  
Dust far more precious than in India's veins:  
Within these cold embraces ravished lies  
That which completes the Ages Tyrannies;  
Who weak to such another Ill appear:  
For, what destroys our Hope, secures our Fear.  
What Sin unexpiated in this Land  
Of Groans, hath guided so severe a hand?  
The late Great Victim that your Altars knew,  
You angry gods, might have excused this new  
Oblation; and have spared one lofty Light  
Of virtue, to inform our steps aright:  
By whose Example good, condemned we  
Might have run on to kinder Destiny.  
But as the Leader of the Herd fell first,  
A Sacrifice to quench the raging thirst  
Of inflamed Vengeance for past Crimes: so none  
But this white fatted Youngling could atone,  
By his untimely Fate, that impious Smoke  
That sullied Earth, and did Heaven's pity choke.  
Let it suffice for us, that we have lost,  
In Him, more than the widowed World can boast  
In any lump of her remaining Clay.  
Fair as the grey eyed Morn, He was: the Day,  
Youthful, and climbing upwards still, imparts  
No haste like that of his increasing Parts:  
Like the Meridian-beam, his virtue's light  
Was seen; as full of comfort, and as bright.  
Ah that that Noon had been as fixed as clear! but He,  
That only wanted Immortality  
To make him perfect, now submits to night;  
In the black bosom of whose sable spite,  
He leaves a cloud of Flesh behind, and flies,  
Refined all Ray and Glory, to the Skies.  
Great Saint shine there in an eternal Sphere,  
And tell those Powers to whom thou now drawst near,  
That, by our trembling Sense, in HASTINGS dead,  
Their Anger, and our ugly Faults, are read:  
The short lines of whose Life did to our eyes,  
Their Love and majesty epitomise.  
Tell them whose stern Decrees impose our Laws,  
The feasted Grave may close her hollow Jaws.  
Though Sin search Nature, to provide her here  
A second Entertainment half so dear;  
She'll never meet a Plenty like this hearse,  
Till Time present her with the Universe.  
JOHN DENHAM.   

To the Earl of Huntingdon, On the death of his Son.  
My Lord,  
COuld any Tears our Miseries remove,  
Redeem our Losses, or assuage our Love,  
Blest were you, though you paid for every Tear  
As rich a Jewel as the West can bear,  
And did, for every Sigh or Groan, dispense  
An odorous Tempest of Masle Frankincense.  
But these impossible Wishes cannot find  
A place; and are but scattered by the wind.  
The Laws by which the World is governed, are  
As Indispensable as Regular.  
A perished Flower can from that Central fire  
That lurks within its seed, next Spring aspire  
Unto its former life and beauty: But  
Pityable Man, when once his eyes are shut,  
Is no more seen; but past recovery lost;  
A tender fleeting Form, a Bloodless Ghost.  
And, 'las, that godlike Youth that did amaze  
All Expectations, and fallen virtue raise  
Beyond her known ideas He, in whom  
So many Noble Bloods had found their home;  
(Like some famed River, whose proud streams are great,  
Because that Other Rivers therein meet:)  
He that was only like Himself; hath quit  
His Cage of Clay; I saw a paleness sit  
Upon his lips, and lurid darkness break  
And chase the Orient Purple of his cheek.  
I saw his Eyes sealed to eternal Night,  
And all those Spices which Corruption fright  
Strawed on his Waxen Limbs. He's gone, he's gone,  
And cruelly fled; and yet not he alone,  
But Courage, Sweetness, Innocence, and Truth,  
And all those sweet embellishments of Youth;  
And all those full Perfections which engage  
Our praise, and cast a reverence on Age;  
And all those Arts, which by long toil acquired,  
Do make men either useful or admired:  
All which he Mastered, not as others, who  
By lame Degrees to a Full stature grow;  
He, at the first, was such: what other men  
From Climate, Humour, Temper, Custom gain,  
Nature endowed him with: and though she please  
To d'all her works at leisure, by degrees;  
In this vast Miracle she herself surpassed,  
And showed, at once, Perfection and Haste.  
Nor was there any thing in him to weed,  
To prune, or straighten: that Celestial Seed  
The Stars had shed into him, could not flow  
To looseness, nor yet poorly under-grow.  
Nothing in him was crooked, lame, or flat,  
But Geometrically proportionate:  
Nor had he that which the severely Wise  
Deplore in Men, and would abolish; Vice.  
His was a snowy soul, a pure Essence  
So clearly shining in'ts first Innocence,  
That He did that Opinion true declare,  
That Vice and Evil utter Nothings are.  
Nor was his Knowledge other: that pure mind  
Was too Aethereal, and too refined,  
To know or common Paths, or common Bounds:  
His was like Lightning, which all Sight confounds,  
And strikes so swiftly, that it seems to be  
Rather the object of the Memory.  
Thus did he oft his tutor's sense prevent,  
And happily surprise him in's intent:  
Thus he overrun all Science, (like a King  
Conquering by approach) as if that every Thing,  
Stripped of its outward dross, and all refined  
Into a Form, lay open to his mind:  
Or his pure mind could suddenly disperse  
Itself all ways, and through all Objects pierce.  
Yet whatsoe'er into his mind did pass,  
Though writ in Water, did remain in Brass.  
Yet has this Genius made a sad depart,  
Maugre those strong Resistances of Art,  
●hich the wise-pow'rful MAYERN, (who can give  
●s much as poor Mortality can receive)  
Could, like a Father, make; maugre the Vows  
And holy Ardences of a melting Spouse;  
Maugre that strength of years which had not known  
His tender Cheeks blossomed by their first Down;  
Maugre those Hopes which did so bravely feign  
That a great Race should spring from him again;  
A Race of Hastings's, whose High Deeds should raise  
New lustre to their grandsires' Images.  
But ('las) these Hopes are now mere Dreams become,  
And all those Glories buried in his Tomb.  
Too rigorous Fates, 'tis but an envions' sport,  
To make those Lives that are most brave, most short;  
Or in destroying Heroes do you find  
A way so oft to Massacre mankind?  
Or cannot milder Heaven one Influence throw,  
To make one thing Glorious and Lasting too?  
But there's a difference twixt heaven and Earth,  
And those things which from Each receive their birth:  
On Earth, the finest things fade soonest; there,  
Ill-boding Meteors the most short-lived are.  
And yet, (my Lord) since that Celestial fire  
That is shut up within us, doth aspire,  
Being once freed, like an ambitious Flame,  
Unto that Fountain, from whence first it came;  
With what a glorious Brightness is He gone,  
May we suppose, that so augustly shone  
Even through his Clay? What ravishing Transports now  
Seize on that Intellect? How doth it glow  
With fresh Illapses of the purest Light,  
Free from the Bondage of chill Sense and Night?  
How do the ghosts with admiration gaze  
On this great Shade! With what a proud amaze  
Some look on what he was, whiles others ween,  
With emulous Sorrow, what he should have been!  
Whilst that his Love, exalted by its Loss,  
Does more sublimed intuitive species toss;  
And, swollen above itself, serenely move  
In that great Centre of Light, Life and Love;  
Where I must lose him: For, can I express  
What He's, that am not He? But this confess,  
My Lord, that since you measure by his bliss  
Your Wishes, this his Apotheosis  
(Where part of you is deified) must call  
Your Acclamations, but no Grief at all.  
He's now at peace, disturb him not with Fears,  
Nor violate his Ashes with your Tears.  
J. HALL.   

In obitum Henrici Domini Hastingii, Filii, FERDINANDI Comitis Huntingdonii, unici: Simulac* Unionis, totius Angliae, pretiosissimi. Epitaphium.  
HIc* Gemma est, pro quâ, Venus & Cum Pallade, Juno,  
Antiquam litem, tresrenouâre Deae.  
Vincere erant omnes, ipso Jove Iudice, dignae;  
Vincere, sed cunctae non potuêre Deae.  
Ergo, memor strages quantas lis prima dedisset,  
Jupiter hanc Gemmam condidit hoc Tumulo.  

Anglicè.  
Here lies a* Jewel, for which strove  
Pallas, Juno, and Queen of Love.  
Jove being Judge, they all were thought  
Worthy to ha''t, but all could not.  
Remembering therefore what great Wars  
Fell out, upon their former Jars;  
Jove, to prevent the like to come,  
He locked this Jewel in this Tomb.  
FRANCISCUS STANDISH.    

In Honour to the Great Memorial of the Right Honourable Henry Lord Hastings, deceased; Late, the most Hopeful, only Son, and Heir apparent to the Right Honourable FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon.  

BLush, ye Pretenders to astrology,  
That tell us Stories out of Ptolemy,  
Kepler, with others; what shall be this year  
Th'effects of Saturn joined with Jupiter;  
But could not tell us that our Sun should Set,  
To rise no more within this Sphere; nor yet  
Th'Effects we have since felt: That such a Star  
(For whose vast Loss we now sad Mourners are)  
Its much-admired Influence should withdraw,  
And be No more, to us, Ye ne'er foresaw.  
This, had you but predicted long ago,  
We might have been prepared for such a blow.   

But Oh Accursed-Envious-Fowl Disease!  
Within thy Circuit, could none other please  
Thy Palate: Was thy Thirst so great,  
That, only, Noble Blood must quench the Heat?  
Hadst thou miss him, we could have spared thee Store;  
Or with thy fangs hadst marked him, and No more;  
Our Curses had been spared: nor should we  
Have called thy Footsteps a Deformity.  
But thus, to seize on Honour, Beauty, Youth,  
And at one Draught Carouse them, plainly doth  
Convince us, That with Death thou didst agree,  
To Storm this Fort, which, else, had kept out Thee.  
Cupid, no more be styled a Deity;  
Thy bow and Quiver, may they shattered lie:  
And Hymen, henceforth be thine Altars razed,  
Thy Priests be dumb, thy Temples all defaced:  
Since that for This, your powers conjoined were,  
To sport yourselves with this so Noble Pair.  
Why were your Torches lighted in their Eyes?  
Pretending Nuptials, meaning Sacrifice.  
What Advocate will dare to justify,  
Or Story match, this Matchless Tyranny?  
But 'tis in vain; in vain we do Increase  
Our Woes, complaining, which are Numberless▪   

But Fate, we serve, not search thy deep Intents,  
Nor dare we Quarrel at those cross Events  
accost us daily. We would only pay  
The rites of our poor Tears, t'his Memory.  
Had this our Loss been but a Private one,  
'T had been the loss (yet) of a Precious Stone:  
But as a Mighty Rock, shrunk from his place,  
Unfixeth all about it, is our Case.  
Should we now drain the Fountain of our Eyes,  
And bring in Rivers 'stead of Elegies;  
Could we at once weep Blood, and rend our Hearts,  
Still we should come far short' his great Deserts.  
Since than there is no virtue in our Tears,  
To warm his Bloodless Limbs: since w' ought to bear  
Our Crosses with smooth brows, and to submit  
To Heaven's Decree, who best knows what is fit;  
Thrice-Noble Pair of Mourners at this Hearse,  
Who claim Chief privilege; Why do your Tears  
Still issue forth? Oh do not lend a Voice  
To Grief so sad; and make so shrill a Noise,  
Echoing Fruitless Groans, that fill the sky,  
And thus Lament his state ye should envy.  
There is a time for Tears; but certainly,   

There is a time to lay those Sorrows by.  
Resolved, therefore, on the Question, We  
Will dote no more on Earth's Inconstancy:  
For, If to Man and Beast the Lot's all one,  
What privilege have we to build upon?  
If the tall Cedars must be leveled, why  
Should humble Shrubs expect Security?  
Resolved, also, Their Condition's best,  
Whom Heaven hath taken to Eternal Rest:  
Whither, Great Soul, thou'rt fled, and now dost reign  
Above in majesty, near Charles his Wain.   
I. B.   

Upon the much-lamented death of the Lord HASTINGS.  
HOw richly is thy Sepulchre adorned!  
With how much State thy Obsequies performed!  
Dressed in their Sable Robes, each Muse outvies  
The other, in their mournful Elegies:  
Mournful indeed, since thy own Loss sends forth  
A Grief as great, as (living) thou hadst Worth.  
Our Pens grace not thy hearse enough; it wears  
The mournful Livery of thy Country's tears;  
Widowed, ere Married, to thy Parts; that so  
Thy Love writes Maid, yet is half Widow too.  
All good men mourn: she weeps, 'cause thou art gone.  
Fain would I die, to be thus wept upon.  
JO. BENSON, Hosp. Lincoln.   

To the never-dying Memory of the Noble Lord Hastings, &c. The meanest Son of the Muses consecrates this elegy.  
WHat? will my cloudy forehead never clear?  
Shall I the arms of Sorrow ever bear  
Crossed 'bout my Skeleton? and shall mine eye  
Be like Aquarius Pitcher, never dry?  
O surely never! Grief from year to year  
Rents my poor Heart, and makes his Home-stead there:  
Affliction gripes me, as young Hercules  
The gasping Snakes: Nor can I hope for ease,  
When noble Hastings, in whom Hope did lie▪  
At Anchor, is stormed hence by Destiny;  
And, like a Paphian Rose but newly thrust  
Out of its Green Bed, blasted into Dust.  
Remorseless Fate! be hateful as thy Harms,  
That rudely pluckst out of their country's arms  
Her loveliest Pledges: couldst thou not have seized  
Upon some worthless Wretches long diseased,  
Or felled some sturdy Oaks, that have so long  
Done with stiff arms the bending Willows wrong;  
But needs thou must a Noble Plant remove,  
So fixed in Piety, so filled with Love  
And Goodness, as before our Grandsire's Fall  
He had begotten been, and Nature (all  
That intersected time till he was born)  
Had studied how her dear Work to adorn?  
Thou in mere pity mightst have taken Truce  
A while, and given him longer use  
Of vital Joys. But thus rare Flowers fail  
As soon as blown; sweet Spices most exhale;  
Fair shining Gems too frequently are cracked;  
And richly-laden Vessels quickly wracked.  
Come, noble Nymphs, drop Sorrows Pearls apace  
Into his Sepulchre, and on that place  
Sweet Flowers plant, that Embleme-wise may show  
His sweeter Graces for whose sake they grow;  
And cause his fresh Grave visited to be,  
As a rare Garden, and rich Treasury.  
You worthy Parents of this peerless Son,  
Think that you see him (now his Part is done  
On this low Stage) applauded by the high  
Angels, i' th' Court of blessed Eternity:  
And let such towering Contemplations throw  
Your Sorrows down, and smother all your Wo.  
What e'er was wanting in his Life's extent,  
His Fame supplies, without a Monument:  
Who with all weight of Worth that Youth could have,  
Sank to the restful centre of the Grave,  
As th' Indian dives for Pearls. But Pearls, and Gems,  
And all those dazzling things called Diadems,  
What are they to the Glories that surround  
His dearer Soul, i' th' heavenly Palace crowned?  
Where, above Mortal Change, and Fatal Chance,  
He (while the rapt Orbs their Lavolta's dance)  
Sings Hymns of Joy, and with the angel's choir  
Keeps a blessed time, that never shall expire.  

An Epitaph on the same.  
Tread off, profaner feet, forbear  
To press this hallowed mould, where lies  
Fair virtue's and high Honour's Heir,  
The Darling of the bounteous Skies;  
Who by rare Parts, the flight of Fame,  
In Life, outwent; in Death, his Name.  
THO. BANCROFT.    

An elegy On the death of the Right Honourable, Henry Lord Hastings; Presented at his Funeral.  
HOw comes this press of People to this place,  
Oppressed with inward Anguish? On each face  
Sorrow sits deeply printed; and each eye,  
Swollen big with Grief, drops down an elegy.  
'Tis Love, that Magnes of the world, that drew  
This sad Assembly hither, not to view  
Each other, but with Zeal and Service pure,  
To wait on him, who, living, I am sure,  
Was so complete Perfection, that I may  
(Sans flattery) call him Miracle, and say,  
He died to make his Motto good, this way,  
In height of Gratitude, for to express,  
He honoured us to wait upon his hearse.  
Who can be silent now, or so dull grown,  
Not to have sense? An universal Groan  
Befits a Gen'ral Loss. Come, let us sigh  
Together; so conspiring far more high  
To raise his Fame and Monument: I know  
The gentler winds will their assistance show,  
And on their wings transport his lovely Name  
As far as Titan with his fulgent Flame  
Doth gild the World. This done, their latest breath,  
In hoarse and hollow murmurs against Death,  
They will expire: which I should also do,  
Were it not Womanish, and Childish too.  
We may not grieve too much, lest it should prove  
Envy at Happiness, not signs of Love.  
For he was virtue's Magazine, and thence  
He did disperse his precious Influence  
On all about him. He was right complete,  
And, which is wonderful, as Good as Great.  
Cease then your Grief, and dry your eyes: though hence  
He's fled, yet still a great Intelligence  
He lives; and will for many Ages stand,  
For Life and Learning, mirror of the Land.  
W. pestle.   

ON HENRY Lord HASTINGS.  

THree Loyal Henry's, sprung from Huntingdon,  
We saw alive: the First and Last are gone,  
Bright Saints to Heaven, above all fancied Spheres,  
To meet their sovereign in That House of Peers:  
The Third, God's hand by Wonder hath preserved,  
In whom their Honour Trebly is reserved.  
So sibyl's Books consumed; the Last, contains  
Their precious Truths, and Treble Value gains.  
However, we sadly mourn his Nephew's Fate  
Makes widowed England still more desolate.  
Oh, never Such a Son to Parents mind;  
oh, never Subject Loyaller inclined;  
Oh, none more Pious, none more Man, so soon;  
Ripe for his Set, ere raised to half his Noon.  
That mightier hand, that stopped the mighty Sun,  
Can through his Circle, sooner, make him run.  
A varied Fever had surprised his Head,  
And Death ensued, when Royal Blood he bled.  
Bodies live not, when Head and Heart decays,  
Where all their Veins are right basilicas.  
The Fountain dried, how should the channel run?  
Good-night to Stars, when darkened is the Sun.   

Thus Royal, Loyal, learned, loved Hastings lies;  
All Good men's Loss; to Saints, a glorious Prize.   
THO. PESTELLUS, filius.   

EPICEDION In obitum Domini HENRICI HASTINGS Baronis, Illustrissimi.  

SAnguineas Oculis lachrymas effundere possem,  
Infandum damnum si reparare queam.  
Sed frustra. Tantum lachrymis aequare dolorem  
Non opis est nostrae. Tetrice siste dolor.  
Quomodo virtutes comprendam Epicedia scribens  
Carmine, quas nullus vel numerare potis?  
Doctrinae, ingenii lumen columenque sepultum  
Hoc, nostro Zenith, Sole cadente jacet.  
Nonne vides Flores excindi tempore Verno?  
Dulcis sic cecidit Flosculus ingenii,  
Heros illustris, nulli Pietato secundus;  
Tantum annis juvenis, Cognitione senex.   

Ingenuas Artes didicit juvenilibus annis;  
Virtutum centrum, Relligionis honos.  
Mystica cunctorum primordia novit ad unguem:  
Doctrinae eximiae calluit omne genus.  
Procedam ulterius? tantum est renovare Dolorem  
Infandum. Iam nunc gurrula Musatace.  
Auree Flos Sophiae, requiesce secure Sepulchro;  
Nostrum, Te extincto, plangere munus erit.   
R. P.   

Upon the much-lamented Departure of the right Hopeful, and truly Noble, HENRY Lord HASTINGS, Son and Heir to the Right honourable, FERDINANDO Earl of Huntingdon.  
COme, tragic Muse, find me one Spring through all  
Parnassus Rise, womb-swelled with bitterest Gall,  
To write my Heart, as Sable as the hearse;  
My Thoughts as Black, as ever stood in Verse.  
Resign, for once, th' elixir of All yet  
Ere vowed unto thy Shrine; their fancy, Wit,  
Their Language; Youth of all; yet all this Store,  
Too small to pencil That, which calls for More.  
Lend me a fancy, which may reach; a mind  
As full of Excellency, in every kind,  
As th' Earth of Causes, or the Heavens of Light:  
The Sun's but full, and fulll's the Margarite.  
Fit me with Tiptoe-Language, to command  
The sharpst-eyed Intellect, and force a stand:  
Such may the Subject be, so full of dress,  
Deserving more than Language can express.  
Furnish my Brain with only so much Art,  
To tell the World, There was One, whose least part  
Deserved the largest Volume: tell me then,  
If so much Youth was not th' Abstract of Men.  
When These have done their parts, and Thousands more,  
All is but Calais, unto Tagus' shore;  
A Minute, to an Age; Lead-Oar, to Gold:  
So precious was that Gem now Caskt in Mold.  
If (Passenger) thou ask whom this may be,  
Thus throned on such an height of Dignity;  
I may not tell, but blushing, when each Letter  
Terms my speech rude, because 'tis spoke no better.  
Guess by the sequel; see the Mourners all,  
Even drunk with Asps, and cockatrice's gall;  
Pensive to death: view next th' Attendants; see  
How each one droops, because it was not he.  
The very Steeds which drew that heavenly Load,  
Went such a pace, as if they'd understood  
Their Master's fall; so slow, yet full of grace,  
As ne'er to come unto a parting-place.  
Like hairy Comets pregnant with Mishaps,  
Do seldom come alone; but afterclaps  
Of Princely horror, (issues of that Womb:)  
Such (though in State) are Waiters on a Tomb.  
Lo here, the Crest, the Sword, the gauntlet, all  
Applauded Rites, that speak a Funeral,  
Like Comets, come before, and tell us plain,  
Some Prince his Death, or Noble Hero's slain.  
I can no longer hold: Look ye upon  
The Royal Arms, and then say, Huntingdon  
Hath now the largest share in this sad Fate;  
Though Darby, Suffolk, Clarence, great in State,  
May challenge Blacks; yet much more Royal Blood,  
Centred in Hastings, t'make a perfect Good:  
Amongst this Throng of Nobles, we may set  
A Stuart, Tudor, and Plantagenet:  
None e'er disdained this Royal, Loyal Stem,  
Faithful to Church, true to the Diadem:  
Well might it be thought Honour to fix there,  
Where God's sole sovereign, and the prime sole Peer.  
So much of every Line, of every Good,  
Of every virtue, extant in their Blood  
Was here; that as in him they lived all  
Sweetly united; so in him they fall.  
I here dare tell the mad Pythagorist,  
Helyes; his Transmigration now hath missed:  
A Body so composed; each Lineament  
So perfect, full, exact, 's if Nature meant  
To show her masterpiece: and that possessed  
With such a noble Soul, as ne'er can rest  
In coarser Roofs; it can no other fit;  
There's not a Subject capable of it.  
Judge in three words: he was, at these young years,  
A Synod, Commons, and an House of Peers.  
His pure, diviner Parts, show him but lent  
The World, a Pattern for their Parliament;  
Where every Member, like a Loyal Soul,  
Assists each other, to complete the Whole.  
Of a just Temper, Gracious and Good  
To God and Man; kept close, yet understood;  
Apparent, yet unvoiced; made known to all  
But to himself: no ways Thrasonical  
Of what whole Ages might: therefore in brief,  
His Lords and Ladies highest Joy and Grief.  
Should I attempt each Circumstance to scan,  
Which makes the Grief unequalled, as the Man;  
●ight by odds far sooner end this Strife  
〈…〉 Dead myself, than This to th' Life.  

Epitaph.  
Here lies our Ages Paramont; the Store  
Of Albion's shame, because it mourns no more.  
And since the Fate is so, if, for his fall  
We cannot weep enough, our Children shall.  
JOH. ROSSE.    

Upon the unhappy Separation of those united Souls, The honourable Henry Lord Hastings, And his beloved Parallel.  

WHat make I here? how ill this place befits  
A Shrub, to sprout i' th' Lebanon of Wits?  
'Mong such Caesarean Muses, whose pure strains  
Out-soar the Clouds of Sublunary brains.  
I'd quit the place, but that I know I may  
Lament as much, though not so well as they.  
Thus Princely Eagles, when together theyare  
Met at a Carcase, yield the Fly a share.  
The tongues and jews-trump too, when they do come  
In Consort, serve to fill a Vacuum,  
And to complete the sound, though artless Tone:  
So he that can't sing Elegies, can groan.  
Sad accident! how pityable's Man!  
billowed about this restless Ocean;  
Born to be wretched; who no sooner doth  
Begin to live or love, but dies to both:  
The Tennis-ball bandied 'tween Love and Fate,  
Whom both do court, yet both do emulate.  
Whom (like young Doctors) Women use to kill,  
To try Experiments, and nurse their skill:  
The Females trophy. Or if Love can't do't,  
To sink him, Fate contributeth her foot,  
To crush i' th' Bud. Thus the great Hastings died;  
The young-men's Glory, and the Scholars Pride;  
envy's just Zenith—   

But why should I lament his death? since he  
Loseth not by't: but 'tis his LOVE and We;  
She, we 're undone; for both have lost that All,  
That She could Love, or We could virtue call:  
One who by's Learning did demonstrate, that  
There is a Plebs in Brain, as well as State;  
And by his Studies laboured to derive  
Nobility from Worth, its Primitive:  
Whom he that would mourn, as he ought to do,  
Must be the Poet, and the Subject too.  
Now others Obsequies are my Thanksgiving;  
Nor mourn I for the dead, but for the living.  
Poor hemistich! that but began to be  
Inoculated, when she lost the Tree.  
She that had flamed her soul with Hymen's fires,  
Who with full sails, blown on with strong desires,  
In reach of haven, in sight of Safety, sinks;  
Up to the lips in Nectar, yet not drinks.  
She that had past the Gulf of Love and woe,  
(Which none but we, that taste and feel, can know)  
Now must love o'er again, and come to be  
New disciplined in Cupid's A, B, C.  
How vast a world has she to range about?  
How long a search, ere she can find one out,  
Second to him? An equal we despair,  
Like Pallas born o' th' brain of Jupiter.  
Riddle of Nature, of unfathomed parts,  
Whose Brain was the Synopsis of all Arts:  
Whose Soul, whose Heart, whose Person justly can  
Style Lover, Scholar, and a Gentleman:  
Whom loaden Nature did design to die  
Unwedded, being a genealogy  
Unto himself, and therefore thought it shame  
To live in any Issue but his Fame.  
This Sun in's Zenith, totters now, and falls;  
And Death's the Vigil to love's Festivals.  
Thus purest Lovers, when their joy is near,  
Are by't struck dead, as Cowards are by Fear.  
Yet though he could not know what Joys wait on  
The Bridal-Bed, but by privation;  
Now woes the Angels, and intends to be  
Wedded to them in their Virginity.  
Yet are the Muses crossed: for had this hit,  
We'd joined Yorks Wealth, to th' Lancaster of Wit.   
Sic flevit ALEX. BROME.   

An elegy On the much-lamented death of the Lord HASTINGS.  

A Lack, good young Lord Hastings, is he dead?  
He's rise again, as sure as buried.  
There's Comfort yet that's worth our Sadness then:  
But yet w'are bound to grieve, as to love men.  
Shall I be silent then, not to relate  
The Grievance of my mind for this sad Fate?  
Wanting the Learned Phrases to set forth,  
In high Expressions, such a Subject's worth.  
Let deep Divines, that long have studied Art,  
Adorn their Lines to please: I'll write my Part.  
Then on, my mournful Pen, help, Muses nine,  
That he may drop a Tear, that reads a Line;  
When he shall know the grievous Sighs and Groans  
Of that sad Noble Race of Huntingdon.  
Great pity 'tis, so young a Branch as He,  
Should drop so sudden, from so good a Tree.  
But Heaven th'Author of all earthly things,  
Must have his will on Lords, as well as Kings.  
Nor is the Root so faded, but hath power  
To plant a Graft that may produce a Flower,  
To equalise the Loss you so lament,  
And cure the Malady of Discontent.  
Cease not to mourn, yet, let not inward Grief  
Cause a Despair, since heaven can give relief.  
They're Angels guard him; King of kings hath sent,  
Where's difference twixt a jail from Parliament.   

Cease then to weep; for he and Angels sing  
Halle lujah in heaven, with Charles our King.   
EDWARD STANDISH.   

To the Memory of the Right Noble, and most Hopeful, Henry Lord Hastings, Deceased.  
A Way, my Muse, or bid me hence from thee;  
No Subject for thy help, nor Work for me,  
This Story yields. For, by thy dictates, I  
Never spilt Ink, except in comedy;  
Which in the thronged Theatres did appear  
All Mirth and Laughter. What should we do here,  
Amidst an Inundation of such Grief,  
As to be dried up cannot hope relief  
Till the Last fiery day▪ Yet since 'tis so,  
How can we scape our shares of general woe?  
And (pardon me, Thalia) your sublime  
Spirit, since this Vicissitude of Time  
Has found no cause to smile, nor have you been  
But Mourner-like, and but by Mourners seen.  
And, though you cannot express Sorrow, I  
Must be allowed to show Mortality;  
And grieve without your aid. No painting forth,  
Or Flourishes of Art, on Weight and Worth  
Are requisite: This Story is too true  
To be made more perspicuous to our view,  
By adding Fiction to 't. All may be said  
Or written in few words, Lord Hastings's dead.  
But who can stop at this! when these few words  
An Argument wide, as the World affords,  
Of Grief? Yet see! th' expression to prevent,  
It stupifies us with Astonishment  
Which dumbs us, and benumbs our Faculties▪  
And like an overcharge within us lies:  
Such, as in its Report, the Canon breaks:  
No less this Sorrow threatens, ere it speaks.  
Now let Sigh-tempests and Tear-torrents rise,  
To pour out Marble-hearts, through melting Eyes,  
For this dear Loss: when we are forced to say,  
The Hope of Huntingdon is turned to Clay;  
Henry Lord Hastings, He— Here let me stay:  
Sad World, I tell thee Who he was, not What;  
That would overswell the Volume: Read thou that  
In the precedent Elegies, here writ,  
By Masters of best Eloquence and Wit.  
Read, and mark well his Character, and know,  
They do of Truth more than Affection show.  
On this ingenuous Subject none could lie,  
Though ne'er so much inspired with Poetry.  
every thy Knowledge, once, by having read  
More virtue, then is Living, of one Dead.  
They are Marched on. Now I bring up the Rear,  
And not without as True and Salt a Tear  
As the Van-leader of this solemn Train:  
Only to thee I utter this again,  
Thou World, Read and Collect all, here, expressed  
Of Excellencies on this Lord deceased;  
And add, with it, all thou canst think is good;  
And all that thou canst wish were understood  
To be thine own, to all is said before;  
Great Hastings was, and is all that, and more.  
RIC. BROME.   

HEre was the end of the Book intended to have been; and so was it Printed, before these following Papers were written or sent in.  
Of all those the Noble, Reverend and worthy Writers nominated in the Catalogue without their due Additions of Title, or listed contrary to their Degree or Quality, a Pardon is most humbly desired for the Collector, whose Crime of Ignorance grew out of the want of timely Instruction.    

POSTSCRIPT.  

ELEGIES, Written by  
M. Andrew Marvel.  
M. M. N.  
M. Joannes Harmarus.  
Johannes Dryden.  
Cyrillus Wyche▪  
Edw. Campion.  
Tho. Adam's.  
M. Radulphus Montague▪   

Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.  
GO, intercept some Fountain in the Vein,  
Whose Virgin-Source yet never steeped the Plain.  
Hastings is dead, and we must find a Store  
Of Tears untouched, and never wept before.  
Go, stand betwixt the Morning and the Flowers;  
And, ere they fall, arrest the early Showers.  
Hastings is dead; and we, disconsolate,  
With early Tears must mourn his early Fate.  
Alas, his virtues did his Death presage:  
Needs must he die, that doth outrun his Age.  
The phlegmatic and slow prolongs his day,  
And on time's Wheel sticks like a Remora.  
What man is he, that hath not Heaven beguiled,  
And is not thence mistaken for a child?  
While those of growth more sudden, and more bold,  
Are hurried hence, as if already old.  
For, there above, They number not as here,  
But weigh to Man the geometric year.  
Had he but at this Measure still increased,  
And on the Tree of Life once made a Feast,  
As that of Knowledge; what Loves had he given  
To Earth, and than what Jealousies to Heaven!  
But 't is a maxim of that State, That none,  
Lest He become like Them, taste more than one.  
Therefore the democratic Stars did rise,  
And all that Worth from hence did Ostracize.  
Yet as some Prince, that, for state-jealousy,  
Secures his nearest and most loved Ally;  
His Thought with richest Triumphs entertains,  
And in the choicest Pleasures charms his Pains:  
So he, not banished hence, but there confined,  
There better recreates his active mind.  
Before the crystal Palace where he dwells,  
The armed Angels hold their Carouzels;  
And underneath, he views the tournaments  
Of all these Sublunary Elements.  
But most he doth th' Eternal Book behold,  
On which the happy Names do stand enroled;  
And gladly there can all his kindred claim,  
But most rejoices at his mother's name.  
The gods themselves cannot their Joy conceal,  
But draw their Veils, and their pure Beams reveal:  
only they drooping Hymeneus' note,  
Who for sad Purple, tears his Saffron- coat;  
And trails his Torches through the Starry Hall  
Reversed, at his Darlings Funeral.  
And Aesculapius, who, ashamed and stern,  
Himself at once condemneth, and Mayern;  
Like some sad chemist, who, prepared to reap  
The Golden Harvest, sees his Glasses leap.  
For, how Immortal must their Race have stood,  
Had Mayern once been mixed with Hastings blood!  
How Sweet and Verdant would these laurels be,  
Had they been planted on that Balsam-tree!  
But what could he, good man, although he bruised  
All Herbs, and them a thousand ways infused?  
All he had tried, but all in vain, he saw,  
And wept, as we, without Redress or Law.  
For Man (alas) is but the heaven's sport;  
And Art indeed is Long, but Life is Short.  
ANDREW MARVEL.   

On the untimely death of the Lord HASTINGS, Son to the Earl of HUNTINGDON.  

IT is decreed, we must be drained (I see)  
Down to the dregs of a democracy:  
Death's i' the Plot, and in his drunken mood  
Swills none, of late, but streams of Noble Blood▪  
Was't not enough the Hatchet did hew down  
Those well-grown Oaks, and Pillars of the Crown,  
But that the tender Sapling too must fall  
Thus, to enhance the kingdom's Funeral?  
Ye widowed Graces, and ye Muses too,  
Bring your Perfumes; with Tears and Flowers bestrew  
This sacred Temple, where ye once did sit  
Crowned with all the pomp of Youth and Wit.  
'Tis HASTINGS, he that promised to appear  
What Strafford, Falkland, and brave Capel were;  
Whose pregnant Brain spoke a descent from Jove,  
And Shape Celestial, from the Queen of Love;  
So that, to charm the World, he matched the grace  
Of Nestor's Wisdom with Adonis' Face.  
The Nurse Minerva boasts how this her son  
Sucked dry the Poets and their Helicon;  
With what a nimble pace he posted o'er  
The fields of phantasy, rifled all her Store,  
Cropped every flower and Tulip which did grow,  
To make a Garland for his own fair Brow;  
That young Apollo never won more Praise,  
When he pursued his Love, and catched the Bays.  
This but the Bud, these but the Blossoms were;  
The Fruit grew ripe in Studies more severe,  
Where he seemed born to master and control  
Both the Cecropian and the Roman School,  
Big with design t' usurp the Chair of Wit  
From Tully, and depose the Stagirite.  
Add next to these, the Grace which did belong  
T' unlock those Treasures with a Golden tongue;  
A Tongue so rarely furnished, as might boast  
Itself of kin to those at Pentecost;  
And in their proper Languages begun  
To court the Rising and the Setting Sun;  
Fit to reform our own degenerous Sprites,  
And plant the world with Loyal Proselytes.  
Thus ripened, (see!) this rare Example stood  
No less ennobled in Desert then Blood;  
Whilst others, swollen high with an empty Name,  
Leave nothing but their Lusts and Sins to Fame:  
But if you'll Noble be indeed, your years  
Improve like him, strive to become his Peers.  
How joyed, (think you) the Noble Huntingdon,  
To be thus copied in so brave a Son!  
How did he bless, admire, and smile, to see  
This young Ascanius of his Family,  
As did Aeneas that his only Joy,  
The precious relic of confounded Troy!  
What Fruits he reckoned would the Harvest bring,  
After so sweet and so serene a Spring!  
How fair an Issue should the Boy beget,  
Good as their Sire, and as their grandsire's Great,  
Whose virtues claim this Title to their Line,  
Of all the British Heroes most Divine.   

No marvel then the famous Mayern strove  
To place his child where he had fixed his Love,  
Melting the Indies, to unite in one  
His only Daughter with this only Son;  
That so his longing Soul might once behold  
This Jewel set within his Ring of Gold.  
The old man wooed, as if he meant to prove  
An earnest Rival in his daughter's love;  
Gave Hymen speedy Orders to prepare  
The Triumphs due unto this harmless War;  
Invited all the gods of Mirth and Wine,  
That, as Themselves, the Feast might be Divine:  
Venus her Trinkets sent, without delay,  
To dress ten thousand Cupids for the day:  
The duelists with plighted hands did greet,  
And promised quick within the Lists to meet;  
The lustre of whose mutual Smiles and Rays,  
Foretold a Sunshine of auspicious days.  
But Oh! the Scene is altered; some cross Star  
Darts down Infection through the hemisphere:  
Those eyes which Hymen hoped should light his Torch,  
Aethereal flames of Fevers now do scorch,  
And envious Pimples too dig Graves apace,  
To bury all the Glories of his face:  
The Boy-god sighing, soon unbends his bow,  
And, with his Mother, lies extinct below,  
In vain expecting Succour, while the Race  
Of Stygian Monsters seize upon the place;  
Where they their Revels keep, mocking the skill  
Of best physicians, and then rage their fill,  
Till ugly Death his dire magnetic Dart  
Shot through the Veins, to hit his tender Heart,  
Ruined the Fort, and then snatched the Prize  
Due to the conquest of his Lady's eyes.  
The only Legacies he left us, are,  
Grief to his Friends; and to the World, Despair▪   

So when fair Phoebus begin to gild the Morn,  
Some sullen Cloud, within a moment born,  
Sends Hell and Darkness through the air to fly,  
And all with Mourning hangs the lofty sky.   
M. N.   

De honoratissimo Juvene, Dom. HENRICO HASTINGS, Linguis, Artibus, & Virtutibus excultissimo,  
Comitis HUNTINGDONIAE Filio Unico; qui undevicesimum Aetatis suae annum agens, diem obiit, magno cum Literarum juxtà & Literatorum detrimento.  

PEgasus excussit fontem unum e Vertice montis;  
Laxat at hìc fontes singula Musa duos.  
Semper ut è teneris lacrymae Labuntur ocellis,  
Sic LACRYMAE Musis Musica semper erit.   

Apostrophe ad defunctum.  
Qui Musas omnes in Te complexus es uno,  
Musa Tibi non est quae fleat una satis.   

{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.   

{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.   
Joannes Harmarus, Oxoniensis. {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}, & C. W. M. moerens posuit.   

Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.  

MUst Noble Hastings Immaturely die,  
(The Honour of his ancient Family?)  
Beauty and Learning thus together meet,  
To bring a Winding for a Wedding-sheet?  
Must virtue prove Death's Harbinger? Must She,  
With him expiring, feel Mortality?  
Is Death (Sin's wages) Grace's now? shall Art  
Make us more Learned, only to depart?  
If Merit be Disease, if virtue Death;  
To be Good, Not to be; who'd then bequeathe  
Himself to Discipline? Who'd not esteem  
Labour a Crime, Study self-murder deem?  
Our Noble Youth now have pretence to be  
Dunces securely, ignorant healthfully.  
Rare Linguist! whose Worth speaks itself, whose Praise,  
Though not his Own, all Tongues Besides do raise:  
Then Whom, Great Alexander may seem Less;  
Who conquered Men, but not their Languages.  
In his mouth Nations speak; his Tongue might be  
Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.  
His native soil was the Four parts o' th' Earth;  
All Europe was too narrow for his Birth.  
A young Apostle; and (with reverence may  
I speak' it) inspired with gift of Tongues, as They.  
Nature gave him, a child, what Men in vain  
Oft strive, by Art though furthered, to obtain.  
His Body was an Orb, his sublime Soul  
Did move on virtue's and on Learning's Pole:  
Whose Reg'lar Motions better to our view,  
Than Archimedes Sphere, the Heavens did show.  
Graces and virtues, Languages and Arts,  
Beauty and Learning, filled up all the parts.  
Heavens' Gifts, which do, like falling Stars, appear  
Scattered in Others; all, as in their sphere,  
Were fixed and conglobate in's Soul; and thence  
Shone through his Body, with sweet Influence;  
Letting their Glories so on each Limb fall,  
The whole Frame rendered was Celestial.  
Come, learned Ptolemy, and trial make,  
If thou this Hero's Altitude canst take;  
But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all▪  
Could we but prove thus Astronomical.  
Lived Tycho now, struck with this Ray, (which shone  
More bright i' th' Morn, than others beam at Noon)  
He'd take his Astrolabe, and seek out here  
What new Star 't was did gild our Hemisphere.  
Replenished then with such rare Gifts as these,  
Where was room left for such a Foul Disease?  
The Nations sin hath drawn that Veil, which shrouds  
Our dayspring in so sad benighting Clouds.  
Heaven would no longer trust its Pledge; but thus  
Recalled it; rapt its Ganymede from us.  
Was there no milder way but the Small Pox,  
The very Filth'ness of Pandora's Box?  
So many Spots, like naeves, our Venus' soil?  
One Jewel set off with so many a Foil?  
Blisters with pride swelled, which through's flesh did sprout  
Like rosebuds, stuck i' th' Lily-skin about.  
Each little Pimple had a Tear in it,  
To wail the fault its rising did commit:  
Who, Rebel-like, with their own Lord at strife,  
Thus made an Insurrection 'gainst his Life.  
Or were these Gems sent to adorn his Skin,  
The Cab'net of a richer Soul within?  
No Comet need foretell his Change drew on,  
Whose corpse might seem a Constellation.  
O had he died of old, how great a strife  
Had been, who from his Death should draw their Life?  
Who should, by one rich draught, become what ere  
Seneca, Cato, Numa, Caesar, were:  
Learned, virtuous, Pious, Great; and have by this  
An universal metempsychosis.  
Must all these aged Sires in one Funeral  
Expire? All die in one so young, so small?  
Who, had he lived his life out, his great Fame  
Had swollen 'bove any Greek or Roman Name.  
But hasty Winter, with one blast, hath brought  
The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to nought.  
Thus fades the Oak i' th' sprig, i' th' blade the Corn;  
Thus, without Young, this Phoenix dies, new born.  
Must then old three-legged graybeards with their Gout,  
Catarrhs, Rheums, Aches, live three Ages out?  
Time's Offal, only fit for th' Hospital,  
Or t' hang an Antiquaries room withal;  
Must Drunkards, Lechers, spent with Sinning, live  
With such helps as Broths, Possits, physic give?  
None live, but such as should die? Shall we meet  
With none but Ghostly Fathers in the Street?  
Grief makes me rail; Sorrow will force its way;  
And, showers of Tears, Tempestuous Sighs best lay.  
The Tongue may fail; but overflowing Eyes  
Will weep out lasting streams of Elegies.   

But thou, O Virgin-Widow, left a●●ne,  
Now thy beloved, heaven-ravished Spouse is gone,  
(Whose skilful Sire in vain strove to apply  
Medicines, when thy Balm was no Remedy)  
With greater than Platonic love, O wed  
His Soul, though not his Body, to thy Bed:  
Let that make thee a Mother; bring thou forth  
Th' ideas of his virtue, Knowledge, Worth;  
Transcribe th' Original in new Copies; give  
Hastings o' th' better part: so shall he live  
In's Nobler Half; and the great Grandsire be  
Of an heroic Divine progeny:  
An Issue, which●t' Eternity shall last,  
Yet but th' Irradiations which he cast.  
Erect no Mausolaeums: for his best  
Monument is his Spouses Marble breast.   
JOHANNES DRYDEN, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.   

In Obitum Honoratissimi Viri, Domini HENRICI HASTINGS.  
INcipe lugubris, Musa incipe nostra, querelas;  
Contineat Lachrymas nec Cytherea suas:  
Excidit amplexu Mus●rum abreptus Alumnus;  
Pulchrior Idalio Sponsus Adone perit▪  
Cum celebranda forent lae●o connubia cantu,  
Ferres accensas túque Hymenaee faces:  
Pronuba praebebant piceas funalia flammas;  
Junonis subiit tunc Libitina vices.  
Vertitur in moestum genialis sponda feretrum;  
Fit vespillo, priùs qui Paranymphus erat.  
Flent omnes tristíque irrorant imbre cadaver;  
Et superat morbi lachryma fusa notas.  
Pro virtute tuâ si vota superstite dentur,  
Victima si pro te sospite digna cadat;  
Vt Pietas, Virtus, Linguaeque, Artesque supersint,  
Nec pereat formae, aut Nobilitatis honos;  
Qui pro communi renuit se tradere Fato,  
Non tibi, sed Patriae denegat officium.  
Occidis exemplar, generosae & norma juventae;  
Insequitur morum magna ruina tuam.  
Vita tibi dempta est, sed nobis Regula vitae:  
Tecum Nobilitas semisepulta jacet.  
Graecia, Roma, tuam excoluit (quotae Natio!) Linguam:  
Qui totum excoleret te, minor orbis erit.  
Tantus es, ut coeli tumulandus in orbibus esses;  
Non satis in Tumulum terra Britanna patet.  
At quid amator eras? Musarum castra sequenti  
Permansi● puro sanguine sana cutis.  
Mox ubi pectus amor, Morbilli corpus adurunt:  
Tabe omni costas fortiùs urit amor.  
Protegis arte tuâ cultores Phoebe; dolendum est  
Arte quod in Medicâ nil Cytherea potest.  
Sponsa parata, velut pulchrae virtutis Idaea,  
Interiore animam concremat igne tuam.  
I procul hinc conjux, auges incendia fletu,  
Vulnerat ex oculis ignea gutta tuu.  
Est toleranda mihi duri inclementia morbi;  
Virtus, aut facies non toleranda tua est.  
Exturget mihi Mens, & laxat Corporis arcta  
Vincula, in amplexus non satis ampla tuos:  
Extendítque cutem, partésque exporrigit omnes,  
Ruptá; que mille aditus per sua membra parat.  
Exit Sponsi anima, i●gremium Sponsaeque recepta est:  
Non duo, jam nexi mentibus unus erunt.  
Totus amor, totus nunc Spiritus, I pete coelos:  
Non Sponsus, Christi sis modo Spousa tui.  
CYRILLUS WYCHE, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.   

PVllâ hâc in Vrnâ saeculi Genius sui  
Reclinat augustum caput:  
Natura multâ dote quem ditaverat,  
Hominúmque coetu exemerat.  
Mortalitatem nisi fateretur suam,  
Intelligentiam putes.  
Desideratiùs quis unquam vixerit,  
Poterítve flebiliùs mori?  
Meditentur alii busta, suspendant Tholos,  
Titulis onusti grandibus:  
Quorum superstes fama Marmoribus manet  
Tribuenda non meritis suis.  
Non poscit Hastings Funeris pompam hanc sui;  
Sibi non Sepulchra postulat,  
Epitaphiúmve, quod recenseret quibus  
Sit ortus è Penatibus.  
Pietate, Factis, Arte, Linguis Inclytus  
Stat Ipse Monumentum sibi.  
EDW. CAMPION, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.   

ARtibus, & Linguis, & Sanguine Nobilis Heros,  
Vrnula tot dotes non capit unae tuas.  
Vix capiti locus est; in coelis quaere sepulchrum:  
Terra negat, Tumulo non satis ampla tuo.  
Scribenti titulos mihi longa excrescit Honorum  
Pagina; & inceptis grandior illa meis.  
Nescimus Patriam, tua si modò lingua loquatur:  
Esse suam credit Graecia, Roma suam.  
Non unus moreris, funus non plangimus unum;  
Sed strages hominum, sed {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} obis.  
Fama superjectam Coelo dignissima te●ram  
Rumpit, & ad similes te vehit alta deos.  
Pallas virtutes, artes donavit Apollo;  
Mors tamen has, ill as invidiosa rapit.  
Parca parat sua tela, parat sua tela Cupido;  
Comburit corpus pustula, pectus amor.  
Festinat Citherea suas accendere taedas:  
Accendit taedas invi a Parca suas.  
Exornat Citherea torum, Libitina Sepulchrum;  
Illa suum sternit floribus, illa suum.  
Laberis ex Thalamo in Tumulum; mirabile Spectrum  
Visus es, & Sponsae non procus esse tuae.  
Sponsa tuam mirata luem, restinguere vulnus  
Conatur lachrymis; sed magis ardet amor.  
Impatiens morbi ruit in contagia; cura  
Tanta Tui est, ut sit nulla relicta Sui.  
Sit licet atra lues, & nil nisi pustula corpus,  
Ibit in ampexus (vel moritura) tuos:  
Et placuere tui magis exanthemata vultûs,  
Quàm flores propriis qui rubuere genis.  
Cum Sponsâ mea Musa tuâ te plangit amátque,  
Cum linguis muta est sed mea Musae tuis.  
THO. ADAMS, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.   

NObilium pueris bullae olim insignia; Morbi  
Nos insignivit plurima bulla notis.  
Me nuper languente, infecit pustula corpus;  
Iam mentem affecit, Te moriente, meam.  
Morbi iterum videor tecum sentire dolores:  
Quàm leve ferre meos, quàm grave ferre tuos!  
Partior ipse tui languores corporis▪ O si  
Virtutes animae partiar ipse Tuae!  
Radulphus Montague, EDWARDI MOUNTAGUE Baronis de Boughton Filius natu minor, ex Scholà Westmonast.  
FINIS.    
— Vana Salus hominis. 
PIETATI SACRUM. 
 H. S. E. 
 Quod mortale fuit 
 I. N. R. I. 
 Praestolans Epiphaniam, depositun 
 HENRICI Baronis HASTINGS 
 Com. Venantoduni Haeredis designati, 
 Sobole antiquissimâ & vere Regiâ prognati. 
 Quippe cujus 
 Praenobile fluentum per Hungerfordios & Piperelios à Ludovici 
 VI Francorum-Regis origine devolvit 
 Per Polos Masculo rivo è Venedotiae principe desilit; 
 Foemineo ductu è Clarentio, è Lineâ Plantogenistarum, 
 Ebullienti Nevillorum Scaturigine è Bello-campo promanat, 
 Qui è Mortuo-mari prosilit, 
 Bello-campi per dispensatores ab Henrieo primo Angliae 
 Per Nevillos Monte-acuto impetu ex Edv. I. Regio; 
 Noviss. per Stanlaeos luculenter prolabitur ab Hen. VII. sinu, 
 Terreni Sanguinis factus exhaeres, 
 Coelestem crevit haereditatem. 
 CLARITATEM SANGUINIS INGENII DOTIBUS SUPER A VIT. 
 H. I. 
 Trilinguis Sacer; nec non Gallici & Vernaculi idiomatis ornamentum. 
 Par decus artium. 
 Historiarum indagator Sagacissimus. 
 Omnifariae eruditionis Academia, magnum Numen. 
 SED VICIT INGENIUM MORUM ET PROBITATIS CANDOR. 
 E C C E, 
 Suavitatis Suada, Cor Gratiarum, Sedes Amorum; 
 Votum & deliciae populi dudum; Nunc desiderium; 
 Divini amoris flamma: Denuò Astrum. 
 Filius obsequen●, Dominus benignus, impubes ●thicus Senex; 
 Unicum familiae columen; 
 Pridiè Sponsalium (proh Hymenaee) Funere luit immaturo. 
 AT, at 
 Sanguine Christi longè maxumè Nobi●ior, 
 Sacrarum Literarum studio consultior, 
 Trini-unius cultu Sanctior, cluens, 
 Raptus in patriam obiit. 
 Divi defuncti manibus ingens hoc doloris Amphitheatrum tota Gens Britonum 
 L. M. Q. 
 Posuit.  Gloria Dei est celare verbum. Prov. 
Denatus A. D. MDCXLIX. ix. Kal. Iulii. h PHIL. KINDE●.