A Congratulatory elegy Offered up to the Earl of ESSEX, upon his Investiture with the dignity of Lord Chamberlain.  
By Thomas Philipot Master of Arts of Clare Hall in Cambridge.  
London printed. 1641.   

TO THE RIGHT honourable ROBERT DEVOREUX Earl of Essex, Lord Chamberlain of his majesty's household.  
My Lord,  
BE pleased to accept this grain of Incense, offered up to your name, on the Altar of a real heart, and if I have erred in my devotion, style it the sin of an hallowed ignorance, rather than the crime of any wild presumption; deign to confer upon me the epithet of Superstitious rather than the attribute of profane, since the latter issues from a defect of Worship, and the former results from an excess of adoration. My Lord, your name is followed with such a train of acclamations, that I should have appeared dull even to stupidity, if I had not been wakened with their alarm, to the expression of my zeal, which I have endeavoured to improve by pouring it forth into this Congratulation, and if it be too inconsiderable to entitle itself to so great a Patron, set upon it the noble character of your mercy, and let it derive that from your charity, which it could not hope to find from myself, the remission of many errors: The lowest hearts are the fittest sacrifice for the highest. Altars. Therefore, though this Poem cannot lay claim to your lordship's praise, suffer it to pretend to your lordship's pity: though I have no sublimity of fancy to marshal me amongst the chiefest of Poets, yet I have humility, which shall rank me amongst  
The humblest of your lordship's adorers,  
THOMAS PHILIPOT.   

A Congratulatory elegy offered up to the Earl of Essex upon his Investiture with the dignity of Lord Chamberlain.  
My Lord,  

'tWere malice to your fame not to comply  
With the world's public joy, and amplify  
My thoughts to such extent of mirth, they might  
Digest themselves to action, and indite  
Something to show that I had found the art,  
To write with ink compounded with my heart;  
For every vulgar spirit can improve  
His joy to shouts, and can exhale his love  
To clamorous acclamations, which he  
Is easily steered to be that sympathy,  
Which does the people in one vote combine,  
And like a thread does all their hearts entwine:  
So when a Lute string is but touched, each string  
That does confine upon it seems to ring  
A peal of music too, and the first note  
Repeats, as it 'twas echoed forth by rote.  
But when a Poet writes, he should distil,  
And melt his very brain into his quill,  
And strive to shake off all that envious weight  
Of earth, which does control the growing height  
Of his exalted thoughts, that being redeemed  
From that rude heap of dross, which only teemed  
With faint and sickly numbers, he might turn  
All souls and fire which might so clearly burn.  
The flame might from his ink all dregs assoil,  
And that dull juice to air and spirit boil,  
So that each drop his flowing pen lets fall  
Might be like that too immaterial.  
This I pretend to, if it be my crime,  
T'ave wrapped my joy up in unseasoned rhyme,  
I'll weep so many tears for this offence,  
They shall to every line some salt dispense,  
To which, although I could no brain impart,  
Into each word I have distilled my heart,  
For my extended joy did so dilate  
Each angle of it, it did e'en estate  
A pleurisy upon it, which was then  
Dissolved and scattered when 'twas by my pen  
Extracted into verse, to celebrate  
Your rising like a star i'th' sphere of State,  
Who dart such cheerful beams forth that we might  
Turn superstitious, and e'en court their light,  
Which will to our enlivened State dispense  
Such a benign propitious influence;  
It will those clouds of discontent dispel  
Which did before in our horizon dwell:  
And may you in this orb shine ever bright,  
Not bleared with any sullen mist or night,  
Exhaled from black detraction, that you may  
Still with your beams improve and guild our day,  
Still may you in your course as y''ave begun,  
Like Mercury's bright star, move ne'er the Sun,  
Like Aaron's Rod may your staff fruitful be,  
And bud each year, with a new Dignity,  
May sprigs of hallowed myrtle on it grow,  
May peaceful Olive spring from thence, that so  
The world may be induced at your Decease  
To say your staff became the tree of peace,  
May you be still inskonsed in every heart,  
That when pale Envy has discharged each dart,  
She tipped with malice, 'gainst your name, and found  
By their recoil they did herself but wound,  
She may insert this in your Epitaph,  
You innocence was whiter than your staff,  
And when death's frost your blooming Honour nips  
And all your starlight suffers an eclipse,  
By an eternal night, and your great soul  
Having thrown off that dust which did control  
Her glorious flight, and purchased her release,  
Soars up to Heaven, borne on the wings of peace  
And innocence, as here a star you shone,  
May you shine there a Constellation,  
And make it by this brave retreat appear  
You changed your life, that you might change your spear,  
Which this assertion will with truth improve,  
That your decease was only a Remove,  
And if we'd know the tomb that's put in trust,  
To be the Treasurer of your precious dust,  
May it be found after a stock of cares  
Spent in its search, o'erwhelmed in good men's tears.   
FINIS.