AN OXFORD elegy, ἘΚ ΘΑΝΆΤΟΥ ἈΘΑΝΑΣΊΑ.  
Or a Fallacy put upon Death by our most Gracious Prince and sovereign, OLIVER LORD PROTECTOR of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and the Dominions belonging thereunto.  Seriùs in coelos utinam rediisset. 
A midst such Sorrow, what pen can be dry?  
And drop no tear into an Elegy:  
He that abstains through numbing winter's smart,  
May know his Inck's not frozen, but his heart,  
Were paper wanting, Press, and such supplies,  
I'd publish forth my grief in sobs and sighs.  
Weep, weep, my friends, and seeing a Cloud is hurled,  
To Muffle up with night our British world:  
Let's open wide the sluices, drench our brain,  
And prove that this our Cloud is full of rain.  
His Highness now lies under Sagittarus,  
And shall not we sit under moist Aquarius?  
If that our spring fails with the watery store,  
Let's drop two eyes, instead of two tears more.  
The glittering light of Heaven, the Sun,  
Hath put his Mourning cloak, and dark Suit on:  
With fogs and Mists Invelloping his rays,  
And drowning, ever since our Nights and Days,  
With rainy weepings, Heaven doth sympathize,  
The Sun close mourner keeps within the skies:  
All Creatures seem to say for such a loss,  
For ever England's Arms may bear the Cross.  
And whereas it hath Argent been till now,  
Hence forth convert it to a Sable Hue.  
In naturals, and politics we read,  
What danger 'tis, to Chop and Change the Head:  
When once our Head, begins to ache or swim,  
We find decays and wastes in every limb:  
In such a juncture all our body stands,  
The Crown gives virtue to both legs and hands,  
So he through every Vain of th' commonwealth,  
Glided along, and tempered it to health.  
As general head he influenced our hands  
To Fight and Conquer at his own Commands:  
As for his enemies, his Noble Blood,  
So influenced their Heels, they never stood.  
The Scotish Rout, and Dunbarr's famous Fight,  
Wherein there was no Colour left for Flight:  
Witness the Terror carried in his Name,  
Whilst they for fear made use for wings of Fame.  
Me thinks I read in every Flag a Verse,  
Which all the letters of his name rehearse.  
Those Mottoes which expressed his freely breath,  
Turn now to Epithaph's and speak his death.  
Seeing he, our life is dead, then let's die all,  
To make our Prince, a greater funeral.  
What greater grief, What more lamented urn?  
Then that where Prince and people jointly burn:  
Gather his Ashes, gather all his Train,  
No less a Grave will serve, than England's plain.  
Sure Oliver that died in every place,  
Cannot entombed be in ten foot space.  
If that be true, that dying men stretch out,  
Sure he by now, the World Surrounds about.  
What though his Body here, contracted lies,  
The Greatness of his Soul fills up the Skies.  
His royal Burden would weigh down the sphere,  
Had He not left his Son an Atlas here.  
If Hercules made Heaven's Supporter groan,  
Sure Cromwell's weight will quickly press it down:  
Shoar up then gracious Sir, let it appear,  
That only Cromwell, can a Cromwell bear.  
Duke Hamilton, and Worcester him display,  
The one his head the other lost the day.  
Methinks I hear how Drum and Trumpet sounds,  
And see him dig his way through blood & wounds,  
A Paradox to most, Peace making wars,  
A healing sword, and reconciling jars  
He always exercised; such skill had he  
To bring us out of discord harmony.  
Beyond the Line, upon the foaming Main,  
He wasted o'er Old England to New Spain.  
To Flaunders than he rides. Where Austrian John,  
Hath little left besides his Title Don.  
Had not the Fates him hurried so soon,  
The Triple Crown had fell, and Turkish Moon:  
This had Eclipsed been, that brought so low,  
His holiness had su'd to kiss his Toe.  
But death the Princes, and the peasant's fate,  
Cast up his years, as loath to come too late,  
She shook him, and as often as she hit,  
She put three Nations in an Ague fit.  
he's gone, he's gone. Lament, lament my verse,  
And drowned thyself in tears, upon his hearse.  
And after that Solemnity is done,  
Direct thy feet unto his Princely Son.  
That as he bears the ancient Cromwell's name,  
he'll pillar up, the ancient Cromwell's Fame.  
And though his Father, and our Father's gone,  
We still shall boast, We are not left alone.  
Your head, and hearts as good. Your father's Grace  
Methinks I see shine brighter, in your face.  
Were we not told, that RICHARD was your Name,  
No change had been, for CROMWELL is the fame.  
Without an heresy believe we all,  
The souls Traduction pythagorical.  
T. M. AE. C. Of Oxford. 37.