AN elegy upon THE Death of THOMAS Earl of Strafford, Lord lieutenant of IRELAND.  
Who was beheaded upon Tower-Hill, the 12 of May, 1641.  
By THOMAS HERBERT.  
Take an example from Lord Wentworth all,  
Lest by high climbing you do chance to fall.  
Printed Anno Dom. 1641.   

AN elegy upon the death of THOMAS Earl of Strafford, Lord Lieutenant of IRELAND.  

Awake my drowsy Muse, no longer dream,  
But in Apollo's Sisters divine stream;  
Go wash thyself, swiftly return again,  
Begging Melpomene, her tragic strain,  
No Epithaliums', I intend to write,  
Nor will I comic, Love Letters indite,  
To want on Females, I must touch the urn,  
Thaw frozen hearts, and make them with zeal burn;  
I do intend, all mortals to tell plain,  
From Earth they came, to Earth they must again:  
But yet before that sad tale I do begin,  
I'll tell man what his Nature is, and how by sin,  
Death is his wages, assist me then great GOD,  
Whilst I show man, how he may scape thy Rod:  
Draw an Example from Lord Wentworth all,  
Whose virtues lay obscured by his fall:  
Man's definition is a Lump of Clay,  
At first Divine, until sin drove away,  
That happiness, joy, and felicity,  
Were then transformed into misery;  
Then man sublime, by Nature did he grow,  
His soul with sin, like high water did flow:  
But Oh, Alas! by it what did he get,  
A world of sorrow, and to live by sweat:  
Adam did lead the way, and we like fools,  
Continue truants out of virtue's school.  
Poor men are not content, but murmur still,  
Because the World they have not at their will;  
Rich men (like Poets Icarus) aloft do soar,  
Never regarding they owe death a score;  
Like Phaeton they vow for to ascend,  
Although Jove's thunder, forces them to bend:  
But whither ramble I? my theme is to treat,  
Of one whose virtues once were counted great:  
His vices I condole, wondering to see,  
The devil's malice, linked with policy:  
When he perceives a man like for to thrive,  
In God's affairs, then doth he plot and strive,  
Casting his golden baits, Riches, and pride,  
To hale him from such virtues clean aside:  
angels rejoice when as man doth do well,  
Devil's Triumph, when as he is in Hell:  
Was not this man, whose deeds we did despise,  
Once pious, virtuous, learned and wise;  
Which caused our King his fortunes for to raise▪  
In an iron age, for to see golden days,  
Which he had enjoyed, had not the devil,  
By sugry baits acquainted him with evil.  
O what is wisdom if it be abused,  
Or what the best of things, if but ill used;  
The costliest gem, ill usage doth deface,  
The best of men sometimes come to disgrace▪  
Nor do I excuse him which doth amiss,  
Nor will I Serpent like, at's sorrows hiss  
Had I his Honours upon me conferred,  
Why might not I, as well as he been barred  
From doing well, without Jehovah's aid?  
My fame with his, in darkness might be laid;  
O therefore let none in derision say,  
There once the head of a false traitor lay;  
We all are traitors unto Heaven, we all,  
Are guilty of our grandsire Adam's fall:  
If GOD let slip, who is it which can stand?  
The best may fall, and feel his powerful hand.  
Satan himself was once an angel bright,  
Who now is Prince of the infernal night.  
Those which do think themselves clearest from sin,  
Know not the danger which their selves are in;  
As before said, we all base traitors are,  
For which judgements do wait on us, though no care,  
Is taken to repent, if GOD strikes, we  
Suffer not Earths, but Hellish misery.  
Were GOD not merciful this very day,  
Death might Arrest, Oh who could his debt pay;  
That were not for to lose a life or name,  
Wife, or Children, or a glorious fame,  
But soul and body, which do far excel,  
Such Earthly trifles and be cast in Hell.  
But to my theme again, he wisdom had,  
Honour and Riches, why was he so mad,  
Then not to be content, but covet more,  
And by ill courses to increase his store;  
Some such a question may propose I know,  
I answer thus, and thus their error show;  
Why marvelest thou that when man hath honour,  
He is apt to follow Satan's displayed Banner;  
It is man's Nature still aloft to sore,  
Though daily rising, yet would he rise more▪  
Honour 'tis true, an Earthly blessing is,  
But yet sometimes it makes man do amiss;  
Aiming at honour what Tragedies have been,  
Acted by puffed up Spirits, blood was seen,  
To die our Channels with a crimson gore,  
Once here in England traitors were sad store;  
Man having Honours, and conjoined with pride,  
To all affections made a nuptial Bride:  
Whence came the Roman civil War which taxed  
The total circle orb, and each man vexed;  
But by two Spirits honoured of all,  
By which Caesar did rise, but Pompey fall:  
Had not proud Haman honour as a King,  
Who 'gainst poor mordecays complaints did ring;  
Sitting i'th' Gate and to him did not bend,  
Wherefore his Life on gallows he must end.  
But he escaped, and Haman he must die,  
His honour brought him unto misery;  
By which we may perceive, honour oft times,  
Ruins that man which highest seems to climb?  
But yet mistake me not, I do not say,  
Honour makes all men perish and decay:  
Be that far from me. Peers are in our Land▪  
Decked with Honour, and yet firmly stand;  
But GOD protects them, he doth give them grace,  
To rule their actions, and maintain their place;  
Which that he may do still, let good men pray,  
And condole him, which lately went astray;  
Let all lament, that Satan hath the force,  
Man from his Heavenly maker to divorce;  
To see that one, which late was of renown,  
By Satan's malice should be overthrown:  
Gush out in tears ye barrenest of eyes,  
Break Adamantine hearts, that one so wise▪  
Unfortunate should be, so low to fall,  
Let all good men lament his funeral;  
Not that he died, but that his death was bad,  
Let that the object be to make us sad;  
O ye Honours, why did ye not preserve  
Your Master's life, why did you let him swerve,  
From doing well, why did he eschew good,  
Staining by Treason his most noble blood.  
Why stand ye silent, and me no answer give,  
Tell me where is your Master, doth he live?  
Are Honours dumb, tell me ye riches then,  
Where is your Lord, once famous amongst men  
Methinks they answer me, and thus do say,  
Going to death from him we fled away:  
O why do men then with so greedy speed,  
Run after Riches, when in our greatest need,  
They cannot help us, why do mortals so  
Hugg bags of gold, authors of Terrene woe?  
Honour and Riches each man doth desire,  
Which causes are to set their hearts on fire:  
With worldly vanities and damned sin,  
Which are the causes we do grief live in;  
O then contemn them, do them not regard,  
But about thy bulwark still keep watch and ward▪  
Thy soul I mean, which if but entered once,  
'tis ten to one thou losest not thy sconce;  
O did we know the devil's malice all,  
We would for Riches not so often call,  
Which are but miseries, the devil's baits,  
Stuffed with venom, and crambed with decayts;  
What will our usurers refuse to do,  
To obtain wealth, their souls they will forego;  
Rather than tenths i'th' hundred, as for death,  
They do not fear it, push, they yet have breath.  
O foolish worldling, soothe not up thyself,  
That thou must live, because of worldly pelf:  
This very night thy soul may taken be,  
And then for gold thou've nought but misery:  
Death feareth none, no not the greatest Kings,  
Monarchs he wounds, and to the grave down brings;  
His dart can pierce the thickest coat of Male,  
Undaunted still he rangeth with looks pale,  
And hideous, none sees him but doth fly,  
All are afraid death's dart for to come nigh,  
But fly whither they came, Death will them meet,  
And for their Honour, give a winding sheet;  
Courageous soldiers, and the Courtier neat▪  
In person though tall, low, little or great,  
If Death say unto them, ye mortals stand,  
They dare not answer, Sir, at whose command?  
If man but knew his own brittle estate,  
And how he suject is unto each Fate:  
His looks so lofty he would sure cast down,  
Upon his grave, digged in some hole i'th' ground,  
Who knows how soon his glass it may be run,  
Which being out, alas his life is done.  
Then doth he wish he sooner had repent,  
And in the world so vainly not been bent:  
Their Riches, Honour, or their earthly fame,  
Cannot redeem them from eternal shame.  
As man must die, so is there several ways  
To cut him short, and end his wretched days.  
None knowing when first borne what death to die,  
Whether by Rope▪ Knife, Axe, Artillery.  
My Lord of Strafford, once sure little thought  
Crimes at so high a rate to have had bought.  
Each man can tell what present is, but who  
What in the future he shall undergo?  
Wherefore you which have honour and renowned,  
Be sure that guilty you be never found▪  
In offering to your King and country wrong▪  
By heinous deeds, or by offensive tongue▪  
If that your King do show unto you love,  
Oh Love again, and treachery remove  
Far from your hearts; if this you do deny,  
Though Noble, yet disgraceful death you die▪  
Art thou admired for wisdom, praise thy God,  
O be not selfe-conceited, lest his rod  
Do bruise thee into atoms; thy fame  
Being metamorphosed to eternal shame.  
Hast Honours, Riches? O employ them well,  
He which is Righteous bears away the bell.  
Without the which, what thing so ere be thine,  
Is but vanity, puffed with blustering wind▪  
They which desire to see Jehovah's face,  
Earth must contemn, and seek for heavenly grace.  
O let Lord Wentworth's fall, which once was wise,  
Cause us repent, that by it we may rise:  
The quintessence of valour he accounted was,  
But yet the devil was too strong, alas!  
Who can deride him? and not rather weep,  
That he by Satan should be laid asleep  
In vain security. Ireland forget his sin,  
Only forsake those steps which he trod in.  
To England's peers, let him example be▪  
Let them take warning by his misery.  
A traitor's name, o let them count it base,  
For of all scandals, that's the worst disgrace▪  
O here in peace, let them still sit and sing  
Praises to God▪ and Prayers for our King.   
FINIS▪