AN elegy upon THE DEATH OF THE RENOWNED SIR John Sutlin.  
Printed in the year, 1642.   

AN ELEGY upon THE Death of The Renowned, Sr. John Sutlin.  
I Had thought (great King of Poets) thy death must  
Have raised the meanest Stationer from the dust,  
Inspired with sacred raptures every pen,  
Dead Sutlin living in the mouths of men,  
That from they consumed Pile there would have flown,  
Amazing us, more phoenixes than one.  
All Presses would have groaned and Presse-men too,  
Sweat at the thought, how much they had to do.  
Pardon me Reader, if that I did think,  
The very drops would have washed away the ink:  
As when warmed Vulcan to make arms was won,  
Not for his own, but for fair Venus' son.  
Such was his ardent and inflamed desire,  
The sweaty streams had almost quenched the fire.  
Nought seen in every town but watery eyes,  
And no book read but Sutlins' Elegies.  
What not one line, one word, one tear, not any?  
To sing him dead, who hath eternizd many.  
What is become of Davenant, who alone,  
And only he, is able to bemoan  
So great a loss, thou too Mayst praise his wit  
With all the skill thou hast, not equal it:  
Speak learned Davenant, speak, what was the reason?  
To praise thy friend, I hope will not prove treason:  
Or was thy grief so great, thou didst conceal  
What neither tongue, nor pen can well reveal?  
Or art thou dead with him? When a true friend  
Is dead, what follows, but the others end.  
Vberious Horace had Moecenae died,  
Would not have writ, not sung, but only cried▪  
Or if he needs must sing, as well as cry,  
H''ve done as Swans do, only sing and die.  
I might conclude, since one's so far hence fled,  
And th'other silent, that they both are dead.  
Dead to their country both, the one's not here,  
The other present, dares not speak for fear.  
Which of these two is surest slave to death.  
One breathes not, th'other dares not use his breach:  
Pardon, if with the rest, I silent be,  
Great Sutlin, since all Poets died in thee.  
That he was valiant, none can better show,  
Then can the valiant Scot that was his Foe.  
That he was full fraught with all human wit,  
Will need no proof of mine, Aglaura doth it.  
That he was constant ever unto the end  
Ask Davenant who was once, and still his friend▪  
His hundred Horses hooves, do yet still ring,  
His liberal loyalty to his King.  
Rip up this fleshy Casket where there lay  
Much gold, much silver, but much more of clay.  
Nature did never make a piece so rare  
Where all the virtues met, each hath his share.  
Some this, some that, should he give all that's best  
To one, that one would laugh at all the rest  
That he was noble, generous, open, free,  
Is not denied, even by his Enemy.  
Which might have been approved too, as some say,  
Even to the State, had he not run away.  
I'll not maintain his Faults, if any one  
List, may read these Verses on his Stone.  
Whom many thousand Foes could not make fly,  
Fled from his Friends to France, and there did die.  
FINIS.   

To Sir John Sutlin upon his Aglaura: First, a bloody tragedy, then by the said Sir John, turned to a comedy.  
WHen first I read thy Book, me thought each word  
Seemed a short Dagger, and each line a Sword.  
Where Women, Men, Good, Bad, Rich, poor, all die;  
That needs must prove a fatal Tragedy.  
But when I find, whom I so late saw slain,  
In thy first book, in this revive again:  
I cannot but with others much admire,  
In human shape a more than earthly Fire.  
So when Prometheus did inform this Clay,  
He stole his Fire from heaven. What shall I say?  
First for to kill, and then to life restore,  
This Sutlin did, the Gods can do no more.