AN ELEGY Upon the much lamented Death of that Noble, and Valiant Commander; the Right honourable the Earl of TIVEOT, Governor of Tangiers. Slain by the Moors.  

CAn TIVEOT, Britain's glorious victim, die,  
And no Vein bleed with a kind sympathy?  
Shall one presumptuous 
* An Elegy with Pictures.  Ballad-scratching Pen  
Fame the worst Bard, to shame the best of men?  
Let indignation once a Muse create;  
A rage, may mourn, if not revenge his fate:  
Whose active soul has not deserved to have  
A double silence of his Name, and Grave.   

Did the stupendious news, like lightning, blast  
Our Wits, from Trances to break forth at last?  
Never did Echo strike so many dumb  
Since that, first howled out the King's Martyrdom!   

Thou afric Monster, whose unbridled shame  
In scorn has borrowed our grand 
⋆ Gayland calls himself Cromwell.  rebel's Name;  
Just heaven thy sanguine humour satiate;  
OH mayst thou with his Name adopt his Fate:  
How canst thou offer, (knowing where he lies)  
To his Triangular shrine a sacrifice?  
The blood, flesh, bones, sowed in that dismal place  
In time, shall bring forth a Cadmean race  
Of English Giants, whose high gallantry  
Gayland shall combat, not the gods, but thee.  
'Tis not thy Spirit, but thy Spite, w' abhor:  
Villain, thou dost not fight, but massacre.   

Ye cruel Serpents, whose low cowardice  
Lurks in the woods and grass, but dares not hiss  
'Gainst a just foe; save when your Treachery can  
Oppose a thousand to each single man!  
So Butchers conquert feeble lambs, and thus  
Our Cromwell played the Cannibal with us.  
No Dodonaean grove? no Vocal tree  
TO Alarm this miscreant, lawless enemy?  
Henceforth may every Tree, on hills or plains,  
Make gallows for Rebel. Africans:  
May Lions, Panthers, and all natures Evils  
Join in Battalio to destry these Devils.  
The Combat would appear more equal, when  
Beasts fight with beasts, not beasts with civil men.  
No blade of grass grow near that fatal Wood,  
Till it be dunged with Mauritanian blood.  
But let that sap, fell from the British oaks  
Assist next fight with sympathetick strokes;  
Or rise in fiery Meteors, to annoy  
These Lion's whelps, both beast and den destroy.   

Vain Execrations, now brave Tiveot's lost!  
Not to be ransomed by all Nature's cost:  
But Tiviot shall act still, his injured Ghost  
Shall Van and rear, and flank proud Gayland's Host:  
His spirits, (though their soul belodged in bliss)  
Shall, by a happy Metempsychosis,  
Transfuse themselves into each Soldiers breast,  
And 'gainst the Moors in every heart contest.  
Tangiers her Confines shall extend, as far  
As Gayland dares appear, in peace, or war.  
If any Region lie without the world,  
(As some dispute) he shall be thither hurled.   

The Royal Mould, yet under-deck, shall rise  
Now Tiveot's Monument, once his Enterprise.  
Loud Cannon from the Forts shall issue shot  
Doubly inspired with flames, and Tiveot.  
Dunkirk his nearer glory shall advance,  
Whose strength drew out the very blood of France.  
[By him confirmed against her proudest force;  
Was only equal to her conquering purse.]  
Let's not the loss of that, but Tiveot weep;  
Princes know best, both what to gain, and keep:  
Dunkirk was à fair bride, but apt to jar;  
Better divorce her, then espouse a War:  
But whether she belong to France, or Spain,  
Or by new Policy return again;  
Tiveot thy Name shall there in garrison rest,  
Though not her Governor, yet her glorious guest.   

No Satyrs more the Scottish borders tread,  
Nor make a wanton Helicon of Tweed:  
No Bard, inveigh against that Northern clime,  
Unless you bring Cleveland's wit, with his rhyme.  
That very guilt the Royal party scourged,  
Was after by the blood of Royalists purged.  
If there remains yet any national spot,  
'Tis now wiped off by Scotland's Tiveot.  
Why should that soil, gave us a Race of Kings,  
Be scorned by fools, as barren of good things.   

England, and Scotland, both to Tangiers fly,  
Let not your Tiveot unrevenged die;  
Love whet your anger, and this whet your swords;  
While both are quickened by persuasive words:  
First take up Tiveot's spirit, than his bones;  
They'll prove as fruitful as Deucalion's stones.  
Now fight, now plant, and conquerors remain,  
Till Africa be Christian once again:  
That quadrant-Region never will be good,  
Till manured with this Renegado's blood.  
No wonder Gayland-Cromwel does survive,  
Fate will not let a Cromwell hang alive.   By JO. CROUCH Gent.  

London. Printed for Tho. Palmer, at the Crown in Westminster-Hall. 1664. 50.