AN ELEGY Upon the Death of S R. WILLIAM DAVENANT.  
If those Great Heroes of the Stage, whose Wit  
Swells to a wonder here, shall think it fit,  
When Poet Laureate 's dead, that he should lie  
Twelve days, or more, without an Elegy:  
I that am less, presume to undertake,  
A short Memorial for their Credit's sake.  

DEath in the shape of a thin Poet's come,  
To summon Davenant to Elysium:  
Sent for by strict Express, for to appear those  
Upon the Stage of Tempe's theatre.  
His Voice completes the Chorus among  
Who sing the Numbers they themselves compose.  
Now Davenant is arrived, the Fields and Plains  
Resound unto his Welcome, Lofty Strains.  
For every Poet there it shall be free  
To raise his Joy unto an Ecstasy.   

Imagine him encircled in a Sphere  
Of those Great Souls who once admired him here:  
First, Johnson doth demand a share in him,  
For both their Muses whipped the Vice of time:  
Then Shakespeare next a Brother's part doth claim,  
Because their quick Inventions were the same.  
Beaumond and Fletcher their Petitions join,  
This, for clear Style, that, for his deep Design:  
Tom Randolph asks a Portion 'mongst the rest,  
Because they both were apt to break a Jest.  
Shirley and Massinger comes in for shares,  
For that his Language was refined as theirs:  
Laborious Heywood, witty Brome, and Rowley,  
The learned Chapman, and ingenious Cowley,  
Ask their proportions as they've gained applause,  
By well observing the Dramatic Laws:  
Last, Sir John Sucklin saith his Title lies,  
Because they both (were Knights, and) writ concise.   

Thus the Experienced Davenant did engross  
A Soul of Wit divided among those,  
Whose pregnant Muses have, from age to age,  
Fixed swelling Glories on the English Stage.  
A Mirror of the World, that it might see  
Virtues sweet looks, Vices deformity.  
And all is in one moment gone, since now  
The Laurels snatched from mighty Davenant's brow,  
For ever withered must neglected lie,  
T' impale the head of Night's obscurity.  
But soft— yond black Chimaera sure doth bear  
The Muse of Davenant through the yielding air;  
Through clouds of Melancholy she is brought,  
Clad in a weed of discomposed thought:  
A pendent brow hath hid her smiles, as if  
It were a sable Veil, and not a Grief:  
Her arms (without Bracelets of mirth) across:  
And thus she doth bewail her Davenant's loss.  
" Engines of Fancy, crack, and now let loose  
" Spirits of Ignorance, that shall reduce  
" The World to its first Chaos, that not one  
" But shall drink Lethe 'stead of Helicon.  
Down with Parnassus, and thou Great Apollo,  
Patron of Arts, I need not wish thee follow  
This wrack of Time; for when it shall be said  
With one poor moment's breath that Davenant's dead  
Thou wilt resign that happy place, and leave  
Practice of Arts, and only learn to grieve.  
See here Heroic Tragedy, hard fate!  
None to assume her Crown or Robe of state.  
Comedy wants a head, on which to place  
Her worthy Wreath of almost fading Bays.  
Now thou (Great Soul) art gone, who shall maintain  
The Learned Issue of thy pregnant Brain?  
Thy Lovers (now so different is their state)  
Are both Platonic and Unfortunate.  
Thy Cruel Brothers smooth designs shall be  
Laid open to Times greater Cruelty.  
Now Ignorance is loose, it is a wonder  
If Madagascar do avoid a Plunder:  
Since Rhodes itself will be besieged again,  
Nor can great Numbers such a foe restrain.  
How canst thou hope that any should escape,  
When on thy Wits it will commit a rape?   

Since Davenant's dead, I can forget my birth,  
And in that rocky substance of the earth,  
I'll cut my passage deeper than the Seas,  
And whisper something to th' Antipodes  
Shall raise Imagination to conceit,  
There are no Gods, but Poets Laureate.    

The EPITAPH.  

Here lies a Subject of Immortal praise,  
Who did from Phoebus' hand receive his Bays:  
Admired by all, envied alone by those  
Who for his Glories made themselves his foes:  
Such were his virtues that they could command  
A General Applause from every hand:  
His Exit then this on Record shall have,  
A Clap did usher Davenant to his Grave.   
FINIS. 194.