AFFECTWM DECIDVA, Or DUE EXPRESSIONS In honour of the truly noble CHARLES CAPELL Esq.  
(Son to the right honourable ARTHUR Ld CAPELL Baron of Hadham) deceased on Christmas Day 1656.  

Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus  
Tam Chari Capitis?—   
OXFORD, Printed Anno Dom. 1656.   

To the Honourable HENRY CAPELL Esq: Son to the Lord CAPELL, Baron of Hadham: These ensuing ELEGIES are Most humbly Dedicated and Presented.  
Most Honoured Sr,  

WHen I had wept so long, till all their store  
Mine Eyes had spent, and so could weep no more;  
My Hands turned Publicans, t'recieveth ' Arrears,  
Such as were sent by other Volunteers.  
I know what hazard They, and I may run,  
Condemned perhaps for strange presumption;  
But, view Those Hearts, which through the mourning Dress  
Of reptile Elegies, are crept to th' Press,  
And You'll confess, as all the World beside,  
It was our Duties Product, not our Pride:  
Then think (for charity) that all was done  
Out of Respect, not Ostentation;  
And where the highest Auxesis You see,  
Call it ambitious Reality.   

Believe but This; let Hell▪ and Earth let lose  
Censures, which might Momus himself amuse:  
Go angry Billows, cease to Roar, or Hiss,  
Though Castor 's gone, Pollux my Patron is.   
Your Honour's most faithful, most humble, and most obliged Servant FRANC: TURNER. From New Coll. Oxon March. 2. 1656.   

To the Right Honourable The Lady CAPELL Baronesse, by occasion of the death of the highly accomplished her dear Son Mr CHARLES CAPELL.  
Madam,  

SHould I'curse Atropos for this,  
Or damn Allecto to Whip Lachesis;  
Should I make huge Apostrophe's to Fate,  
Or ban pale Death as too Importunate,  
I know you'd loathe each line: Your Nobler sense  
Honoured by us, Worships a Providence:  
You bow to th' Justice, Goodness, and the Care  
Of that Almighty Guardian whose you are  
And whom you serve▪ and could not choose but cry  
Out Heathenism! out Fledged Blasphemy!  
But since your Honour knows our hearts are cold,  
Pardon a sigh or two: We must be bold  
To beg it, and to conceive it a Venial Sin  
To let those go no Spirit can keep in.   

Th' are all for Him of whom you think and dream,  
For as small Brooks are Swallowed in the stream,  
And th' Plague devours Agues: so W' are grown  
To have ten thousand griefs, and yet but One.   

In Him Was (ah sad Was!) in Him was seen  
Our all; more than all Nestor at eighteen:  
In's Travails he indulged the World; He won  
Affections, gave the Copy of a Man:  
At home, I cry to think how Coveted  
Ith' Field, i'th' Schools, at Counsels, Board, and Bed.  
We cannot guess our loss: The Spaniard knows  
As well what ingot in Potosi grows;  
Neptune may count his Treasures up assoon;  
As we what Glory's buried here in one.   

His worth cracks Fancy, and Hyperbolyes:  
Fame would perform his Apotheosis,  
But Finds herself too weak i'th' Lungs to hold  
Till th' tithe off him tothth' listening world be told:  
Men called him Heaven on earth; but Now we see  
That Heaven on Heaven makes no False Heraldry.   

This was his Scene: he came to be desired  
And Blush, at's own deserts to be admired.  
Yours, Madam, is the Next: and 'tis that Field  
Must to your sex's Valour Trophies Yield,  
Whose tenderness hates steel: 'tis this must be  
Your Marston-moore, Edg-Hill, and Newbury:  
Never came Passion so empowered, so strong,  
Or Mad for Conquest: We here of the throng  
All look at th' Issue. Get the day: and then  
Great Xander waits among your serving men.   

You'd know how such a Battle might be won:  
Hear what your Chaplain says, and it is done.   
Your Ladyships with all Lowliness and Devotion to Serve you R. SHARROCK.   

On the Death of the honourable CHARLES CAPELL Esq;, deceased not long before His intended Marriage.  

ONe only Time (that happy Day,  
From which I keep my Epocha)  
I saw This Hero; such a sight  
Might rival Heaven, and Earth benight.  
Let those who knew Him better, praise  
His noble Soul; my humbler Bays.  
Aspire no further, then to show  
The strangeness of that Interview:  
Thus to behold the greatness of our loss,  
His face shall serve me for a Looking glass,  
Whose trickling Eyes did never see  
In nature's proudest Imagery,  
One of so rare a make as HERALD  
Methoughts His manly visage owned,  
That Love, and Honour there were throned,  
As if they Two should on that stage,  
Get warriors for the future Age:  
His Eyes they might be Venus' hopes,  
And yet Bellona's Telescopes:  
One Glance could look us Dead, and then  
Another call us back again.  
Who this should be, my guess had straggled fare;  
He seemed both Phoebus, and the God of War;  
But by instinct, at last I hit  
That 'twas Prince Arthur's son, and yet  
That HE himself was Charles the Great.  
Who e'er He was, the standers by  
Were all Bedwarft, as well as I;  
For what so ere He did, it all  
Became Him as a General:  
O had he been the Giants Chief,  
To range their Troops and bring relief,  
To fetch them off, and lead them on,  
(Though they cashiered Oromedon)  
Maugre▪ the shrinking Gods, and their allies,  
They might have supped that very night i'th' skies.  
And Jove the lesser, poor pedee,  
Pressing to serve Him on the Knee,  
Resigned His illgot Sovereignty.  
Say then, interpreter, whose Ey  
Unclouds the mystic Energy  
Of things abstruse; come tell us how  
Death overcame His courage now;  
Was He ta'en napping (as 'tis said)  
Upon His almost-Nuptiall bed?  
Or did His haughty Soul disdain,  
To fight the dastard Death again?  
Esteeming Him but as a vanquished foe,  
'Bove Sixteen Hundred Christmasses ago?  
No, no such stratagem would take,  
For all His valour would awake  
For His betrothed lady's sake.  
But the Triumphant Church on high,  
Wanted His presence in the Sky,  
And now forsaken we must want  
His presence in the Militant:  
Think than He was unmanned to be  
Made partner in That Hierarchy:  
And what we nicknamed Forward Fate,  
A Prologue to His nobler State;  
So like Aenaeas He made haste to Die  
The fit to accept a Deity.  
But, were not Heaven His Journey's End,  
In One so High, I durst contend  
'Twere Condescension to Ascend.   
THO: HUSEY Col: Trinit. Gent. Com:   

On the much lamented Death, of the honourable CHARLES CAPELL Esq;  

SO soon removed? can HE be winged Hence  
And all the Muses dumb? can He commence  
A Saint in Secret? Such a Sun as HE  
Be thus invelop'd in the Canopy  
Of profound Darkness, long, and dismal Night,  
And shall not we all mourn in Black and White?  
It cannot be! for even costive I,  
Whose Hidebound fancy dread's all poetry,  
Now strain to weep a Rythme, and needs must vent  
My grief in uncouth language, and lament  
The world's sad loss, and Towering Honour's Fall,  
In This, so Great a Person's, Funeral.   

General Catastrophe! the Nation  
Seems to be almost Levelled, now He's gone:  
And, if His Brother did not live to be  
All Age's Pattern, and Typographie  
Of wondering Europe; I'd believe henceforth  
That there might be a Party in worth;  
And none hereafter dare to plead pretence  
To any, 'bove the vulgar Excellence:  
But This prodigious HE, finding a Dearth  
Of Heroe's, made His Life equal His Birth;  
And, not content with native Greatness, HE  
Improved His richer Soil by Industry;  
And ever husbanded His time so well,  
He was become full Ripe before He Fell.  
But Blasted are our Hopes, let's fruitfully  
Water with Tears His Hearse; let every  
Pen speak Him truly Great, and Good, and cry  
Such are the Ruins of Nobility!   
GABRIEL THISTLETHWAYTE. Fellow of New Col. Civ.   

On The Truly Noble CHARLES CAPELL Esq; immaturely taken hence, being with in few weeks of Marriage  

When Common men decease, 'twill serve then turns,  
If with a sigh we wait upon their Urns;  
We ' l no such Mourning: who comes here, 'tis meant  
He bring the Bottles of some Penitent:  
His eyes and all, like clouds must pregnant be  
With Showers to lament This Destiny,  
That the Fair Lady, whom His Courtly charms,  
Prevailed, e'er long, t' impale within His Arms,  
Between Herself, and Her dead Lover (As  
'Twixt Hero and Leander once it was)  
May to bewail th' Division, see there does  
An Hellespont of Tears soon interpose.   

Nor can we give less Passion to condole  
The sudden Flight of so Divine a soul;  
As disaffected with the base ways,  
Trod by the Gallants of these lewder days,  
An higher Walk frequented 'bove the place  
Where th' Giant Planet trot's his lofty pace;  
Shooting His thoughts (those arrows of the mind)  
Up to the Palace of the Unconfined.   

But this Elogium only shows we scan  
His Christian Parts, Let's speak Him as a man:  
Since Madam Nature has Her Jewels too,  
Those Minion Graces that she does bestow.   

And breathing on This Theme, who'll not suppose  
I' me blowing open a most Fragrant Rose?  
For looking thus into Him, what do I  
But into a like Garden boldly pry  
As that where Poets say men may behold,  
A stately Tree laden with Fruit of gold?  
His youthful years could we exactly trace  
They ' d make a frosty Grandfire hid his Face,  
To know the Prudence that enchased His breast,  
More than by doting Rabbis is possessed.  
His Temper was so sweet, His wit acute,  
'Twould ha' made Fletcher, or Ben-Jonson, mute:  
His valour too may well be understood,  
When in such times as These, He durst be Good;  
Who as in age, so still in virtue risen,  
It is no wonder Heaven would Him engross.   

Thus the bright Queen, That Regent of the Night▪  
As she advance's gathers Greater Light,  
Yet must at length (if not dissolve) Away;  
The World's not made without a Fatal day.   
THO. HOWELL.   

On the Death of CHARLES CAPELL Esq; second Son to the Ld CAPELL of famous memory, happening on Christmas-Day.  

COuld sable Drops from Pen and Eyes distil,  
Or Briny Tears b' extracted from a Quill;  
Can Grief with Coloured Accents sighing groan,  
Or Words put on a sad Complexion;  
I ' l writing weep, and weeping writ; my Tears  
Should speak Thy Death, my words bedew Thine Hearse.   

My Genius ('tis confessed) veils to the Rest  
In writing Elegies: Mourne's with the best.  
Should Heedless Grief some faults in Lines incur,  
Tears should wash out the blot; Groans cleanse the blur.   

Presumptuous Death! t' insult and Triumph then  
On Men Renowned, and Nobler Spirits; when  
Thine own Captivity thou shouldst deplore  
Gained by our Captain's Birth, a Saviour.  
So storms a Calm deface: unhappy we  
To mourn, not joy on the Nativity.  
But stay; sure 'twas Thy Zeal, Divine desire  
To solemnize this Feast among the Choir  
Of Saints and Angels; where to Sing thy Part,  
And fill the Chorus, these shall give thee Art.   

Pardon, Dear Saint, since I've presumed to be  
Partner in Grief, grant an Indemnity  
TO a Twilight-fancy, whose bright sun being sat  
Shall cease to write, though not to imitate.   
WILL: MILES Batch: of Arts in New. Coll.   

On the Death of the truly Noble and no less virtuous CHARLES CAPELL Esq; who died of the Smallpox Upon ChrIstMas Day Last.  

TO write your Life were it my Task Great Sir,  
I fear I should subscribe your murderer:  
To do it to Halves were fair; But t' would be said  
I killed you, were it but drawn and quartered;  
Yet he 's Long-lived, dread Saint, who but procures  
Life to improve like You the Tithes of Yours.  
So that I dare not say, You Nonaged died:  
Though it be true, the world would swear I Lied:  
Nay, though by what You Lived, it might have known  
Had You Lived still, You ' the never been overgrown,  
Yet Underage it wo'nte allow, but hold  
Your Ripeness ne'er was Non-ageed, but borne Old.  
Were it not that Innocents' are Infants styleed  
Who saw You Youngest never knew You Child:  
Prose licence me! For Him verse is not meet  
Whose Life, though soon run▪ out, outruns those Feet.   

I would dare venture on't; but since I know  
To speak to th' Life is not to make Him so,  
Nothing but Death I'll breathe, I ne'er did fear  
The Smallpox could forerun a Plague but Here:  
'Twould Rack a Poet-parliament to sit  
And club Invention to speak well of it.  
Those spots His Body did bespangle, say  
That they were stars fixed in the milkie-way;  
Yet mourning His DECREASE, we must complain  
Stars in this milkie-way proveed CHARLES His WAIN.  
Smallpox! Thou nick-nameed Evil! I dare not call  
That Grapestone which but choked Anacreon, Small,  
And shalt Thou be? Thou shouldst have cast about  
To play small games; then Here thou hadst stood out.  
What? least that Noble Blood should still have gone  
Untainted, must Thou bring Infection?  
Can I spit venom to blemish thee, I'd try  
To make thy spots more and of deeper Die.   

And, Thou Black-day, scarce should I think it fit  
To name thee under Black and White with it:  
But that I find thee Checkcred, for I see  
His Death falls in with Christ's Nativity.  
And thus 'twas fit. His Life and Death accord,  
He lived, the Day speaks, to die in the Lord.  
Then quit the day: And till we think of worse  
We'll let the Pox that plagued us be a Curse.   
EDW: LOW fellow of New Col.   

On the Death of the Eminently Ennobled CHARLES CAPELL Esq; Who, after He had honoured Winton Coll. with His Education, and accomplished. Himself with a voyage into FRANCE, Dyed of the Smallpox, at LONDON Last Christmas 1656.  

Shower down your Ponderous Tears, who e'er you be  
Dare Writ, or Read a CAPELL'S Elegy;  
Spangle His Hearse with Pearls, such as are borne  
'Twixt the bleared Eyelids of an o'er cast Morn:  
And (but 'tis vain t' expostulate with Death,  
Or vilify the Fates with frustrate breath)  
Pose Destiny with Why's, Why Such a Sun  
Should set, before His Noonetide Stage were run?  
Why This Fair Volume should be Bound so fast  
In Wooden Covers, Clasp't-up in such haste?  
Was Nature fond of Its Large Character,  
And those Divine Impressions graven There?  
Did she, lest we should spoilt (to wave that Sin)  
'Cause 'twas the Best-Edition call-it-in?  
Or would our Vaunting Isle that Saints should see  
Th' utmost of all our Prodigality;  
Fearing some detriment by long delay,  
Send Heaven a New-Year's-Gift, Before the Day?  
No: th' Empyrean Philomel's could sing  
Without His voice; no carols to their King.   

England's Metropolis (for 'twas in Thee  
He died) We re-baptize Thee Calvarie,  
The Charnel-house of Gallantry; henceforth  
We brand Thy Front, with, Golgotha of Worth.   

Had He been Swallowed in that Courteous Deep  
He Travailed o'er, He had been lulled asleep  
In th' Amorous Sea-Nymphs stately Arms at ease,  
His Great Name would Imposthumate the Seas;  
That when the Waves should Swell, and Tempests rise,  
(Strong Waters challenging the Dastard Skies)  
Poor Shipwrecked Mariners, remembering Him  
Should court His Asterisme, and cease to swimm;  
Abjure the Fatall-Brothers glowworm- Fires,  
And dart at Him their languishing desires.   

Had France entombed Him (what Our Land forbids)  
Nature had reared Him Stately Pyramids  
The lofty Alps, where it had been most meet  
Their harmless Snow should be His Windingsheet,  
That Alablaster-Coverture might be  
An Emblem of His native-Puritie:  
Had He fallen There, it had been True perchance,  
WICCHAM's Third College might be found in FRANCE.   

But He returned from Thence, curbed Neptune's pride;  
And, to our Fame and Grief, came Home, and Died.  
Thus, when the Heaven has whee'ld its Daily Race  
About Our Earth; At Night it's glorious Face  
Is Poxed with Stars: Yet Heaven admits no Blot,  
And every Pimple There's a Beauty-spot.  
Shortlived Disease, that canst be cured and gone,  
By One sweet Morning's Resurrection!   

Adieu Great Sir, whose Totall He that will  
Describe in Folio need's a Cherub's Quill.  
Zealous Posterity Your Tomb shall stir,  
Hoard up Your Dust, Rifle Your Sepulchre;  
And (as the Turks did Scanderbeg's of old)  
Shall wear your Bones in Annulets of Gold.  
But my blasphemous Pen, prophane's His Glory;  
I'll say but This to all His Tragic Story:  
Were not the World well- nigh it's Funeral,  
I'd ne'er believe so Bright a Star could Fall.   
THO. FLATMAN. fellow of New Col.   

On the lamented death of CHARLES CAPELL Esq; deceased last Christmas. 1656.  

FIrst shall the Poles concur, and join in one,  
And vaulted Snails the light foot Hare outrun:  
First shall the Ocean sink into a Drop,  
And life, and Death t' oppose each other stop;  
 Pen, or Tongue, or Thought, can comprehend  
Our boundless losses by Great CAPEL's End.  
Were the sage Antiquaries Here combined  
In Him alone they'd a Non ultrà find.   

Can now my power my heart but countermain,  
I'd tread the Clouds to view Him in His Wain:  
Were't at my liberty to weep my fill,  
Mines Eyes should Bloody Deluges distil,  
That heaven, and Earth might both be died in Red,  
'Caus Black's too Light to moan a CAPEL dead.  
Thrice happy, Julius, may thy Year be termed,  
Whose Rise and Fall Two Heroes have confirmed:  
Thy January, and December, shall  
Be writ henceforth in Letters Capital.  
Royal approximation! These Two Themes  
Tell us, the Virtues may be in Extremes:  
What t' One Montrosse's learned Sword once gave  
Th' Other shall in our Hearts Engraven have   

Methinks we all circumferential seem,  
Till meeting we Concentricate in Him.  
Nature's Epitome, Our Blazing Star  
In whom like Rays the virtues gathered were;   

Thus much in Generals: for He's like Stars  
Too comprehensive for Particulars.  
His fame (like th' Eagle from a Roman's Hearse)  
By Psaphon's Birds, shall fill the Universe.   

Thrice happy Wicchamists! on Us were darted  
The Morning Beams of This bright Sun departed.  
Unhappy world under Death's fatal Law  
Thou 'rt Plundered of Thy Cornucopia,  
And spendthrifts we Our Stock being brought so Low,  
May quite despair and now a begging go.  
Thus our Penfeathered Lives may seem to be  
The Actors of our own Catastrophe.   

Rare, and Divine! too rich for Inhumation  
Fit by fare, for Enoch's high translation.  
Boast not Antipodes, though You alone  
May say you tread against Two Worlds for one,  
Despair of Parallels now he's in Heaven,  
Till the next great Platonic Fifty seven.   
THO: MUSPRAT fellow of New Col.   

〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉: Or An ELEGY On the Death of the Honourable CHARLES CAPELL Esq; Who, after He had graced Winton Coll. with His Society, made a Voyage into FRANCE, And returning, upon Christmas Day, not long before His intended Marriage, Died 1656.  

BUt it is true? Nay, then Entombed  
Wisdom must lie, and Honour Doomed,  
Those Royal Twins that might comprise  
The Angels in their Hierarchies:  
That Eagle-spread, those Lamps that die  
The Azure-spangled-Canopie.   

Lo! CHARLES is Dead, 'tis all in all,  
The loss is Epidemical:  
Let Orpheus come, or Heraclyte,  
Let England club Her Anchorite;  
All's inarticulate, as be  
The speechless signs of Heraldry.   

Had I the Prophet's head, that Flood  
Of Sacred Sorrow; could I Blood,  
As Jove did Gold, distil a Pond,  
And every drop a Diamond;  
Then would I write, and richly con  
The Deluge of Deucalion;  
Then would I blaze the glimm'ring Sun,  
And Gilled the Fate of Phaethon;  
From is Fall I'd Vigour take, as once  
The Corpse did from Elisha's Bones:  
So limbeck-like, I'd Rhet'rick drain,  
And drop it by retail again.   

Thus am I Tantalised, and act  
The Mute, within a Cataract:  
Fame's Trump is full; but who can size  
or Paramount Hyperboles?  
Yet (a) Atys— like I'll speak, and chide  
The Fate's disloyal Deicide; 
Croesus' his dumb Son.   
And He, as Christ in swaths, shall lie  
Gripped up in This Stenography.   

View then His Nonage, and the store  
Of WICCHAM's Minerals, The Ore  
So oft refined, You'll change the list,  
Our Pioneer prove's Alchemist:  
Nestor's survived; Here then descry  
Old Aesons Palingenesy.   

View Him again, You'll find i'th' draught  
A Planet, or an Argonaut:  
The Fleece He gained, without a Spell,  
Or Palisado'd Sentinel:  
His Hellespont was but a Creek,  
His Cholcos', learned Armorik.   

Correct your Maps; let Rome recall  
The British Colony: let Gaul  
In Him confess she did descry  
Re-romanized Britanny.   

Hence than ye Dorres o'th' Time, that prise  
Your drousy-Gods Idolatries;  
That Guard your Lar, and starve the name  
Of neverdying Vesta's Flame:  
Here's He that grace's both the Crow  
Of Pallas, and Diana's Bow;  
His Dish was Knowledge, all His Meat  
Carved Labour, and His Sauce was Sweat.   

Was not One famed who once out-shone  
The Blazing-starre of Macedon?  
Whose Oriental Virtues made  
Sol, Cancer-like, run Retrograde.  
This, This is He, that Royal Gage,  
Panaretus in is Minorage:  
He that heavens▪ Empress' could disthrone,  
And captivate Endymion.  
This, This is He, His Heaven He saw,  
His Hymen, and His Naamah.   

But o the Fates! the greet is dear,  
The Azure's turned a Sable Sphere,  
And all reciprocally quaff  
An Hymen, and an Epitaph.  
Is this, your promise, Fate? be gone,  
'Tis damned Prevarication:  
Thy Syren's Voice, and Hyena's Guile,  
Has vanquished Aegypt's Crocodile.  
Fell Tiger Earth! darest re-inthrall  
Thy Infant's? and turn Cannibal?  
Does not thy conscious Womb confess  
An un accustomed Holiness?   

How shall I rate my Grief? he's dead,  
How shall I be Inspirited?  
Oh Niobe were Thy Fate mine,  
I'd wring out Gore, and shower Brine,  
I'd weep to Marble, and abide  
His Tear▪ distilling Pyramid.   

But Stay, 'tis true; the Prophet's come,  
Heavned Herauld's borne: Delphos be dumb,  
Thus ganymed's arising Urn  
Portend's the Fall of Capricorn▪  
He Falls, Alcides▪ like, to be  
The Mirror of Astronomy.   

Can Leo's-Taile a Palace spare  
For wanton Berenice's Hair,  
And Leo Fail? No, scan the Bliss,  
'tis CAPELL'S Apotheosis:   

The Hero's lispt, but who can con  
His Threno-thriambeuticon?   
WILL. OLDYSS. fellow of New Col.   

On the Immature Death of the worthily Honoured, and truly noble, CHARLES CAPELL Esq; who died on Christmas day Anno Dom. 1656.  

CEase Rocky Mourners, you whose Flinty eyes  
Gush forth no Torrents at these obsequies  
If Moses spare his Rod: may none view this  
Rich Urn, who weep's without an Emphasis.   

A CAPELL'S Set, or He his lustre shrowds,  
Mounting to is Apogaeum through the Clouds,  
For who dares think He's mortal, whose great name  
Can Entheat Dull-wits, and nonplus Fame?  
No, no, that hand that murder's others, is  
To Him, but Enoch's Metamorphosis.  
Imagine how flaming Elias went,  
Coached like bright Phoebus through the firmament,  
Thus Soared our Seraphim: no period  
Stopped his Career till Centred in his God.   

When Heaven's Great Son unmasked his newborn face,  
And like a Giant, strong to run his race  
Flew from the Barriers of the womb, and hurled  
Down Python's of faint glory, which the world  
Adored, Augustus humbly ceased to be  
Styled Lord, eclipsed by Divinity:  
So Our Augustus Hot with active Zeal  
Plucked off His Body, than began to feel  
More vigorous Heat, which made him scorn to be  
Honoured on Earth at Christ's Nativity;  
Wherefore undauntedly He cuts His way  
Through th' Earth's Charybdis, Death's Bulimia:  
But (like the Ark) at last he haven's at  
The Top of that celestial Ararat;  
Where He resides, a Representative  
Able to make another world Alive.   

Ascended then He is and now His face  
Placed in a better Light, presents each grace  
Fairer and more perspicuous to our Eyes,  
Then nearness can, the Pencill's rarities;  
Thus we admire, thus we adore the shrine  
That comprehended nought but was Divine.   

Farewell Brave Soul; O that Earth had a Nest  
To lodge this Dove, where He a while might rest  
And then return! Had He the Phoenix doom  
We now might have another in His room:  
Heaven lent Him but four Lustres, to which four  
He added Myriad of Lustres more,  
And sure this well-improved Talent may  
Expect glad Euge's at th' great Audit day.  
Weep then sad World, and with rich Jove, each how'r  
Drop from Thy Treasury a Golden shower.  
He that lament's in usual tears, does try  
To make a peasant of a Deity.   

Once more Farewell High Spirit, we return  
And bow in adoration to Thine urn,  
Before Whose loud Memorials shall cease,  
The fast-barred Graves their Prisoners shall release.  
In brief we lastly thus inscribe His Hearse;  
Here lies no Microcosm, but an Universe.   
THO: KEN. Hart-Hall Com.   

On the untimely Death of the honourable CHARLES CAPELL Esq; (second Son to the Lady CAPELL) deceased on Christmas day last.  

BUt, shall I trust the Muses on a Theme  
Where, if not cautious, they must need's blaspheme?  
Will not those Pagans, when they tell His fate  
Loudly with God, and Man expostulate?  
Apt to pronounce in one licentious breath,  
O Tyrant Heaven, and O Traitor Earth!  
Or, if I ought to hope their daring pride  
By this sad accident is mortified,  
Yet are They not so pined with grief, that all  
Can scarce club Verses for His Funeral.   

Had I that Pen of Mars, His Father's Sword,  
Not steeped ' i'th' Muses Horspoole, but begored  
In vanquished Blood, then with the Point impressed  
On the Virgin Paper of my naked-Breast,  
I'd grave His Eulogy, but that I fear,  
I should assassinate His Image There:  
Cheap is the Eye's Hydrography, a Flood  
Too low, unless (with Jove) we could weep Blood.   

Mirror of Men! shuffled from Earth, and hurled  
To Heaven, to be the Riddle of the World;  
With whom rash Nature travailed in posthaste,  
Borne an Old man, just like the Protoplast:  
And, but for's Beauties, and refined parts,  
Plundering the Caskets of poor Lady's hearts,  
His charming graces, and what ever can  
Complete Nobility, and write Man, Man;  
One so Heroic, Pious, Just, and Good,  
We should distrust Him to be Flesh and Blood;  
But, here's the greatest wonder (strange, and true)  
He was a CAPELL, yet a Mortal too.   

Thus happy was His life, but nobler bliss  
Attended on His Apotheosis:  
Have you not seen the Starry Legions rouse  
Themselves, to keep their Nightly Rendezvous,  
And all those Heavenly Janissaries rise,  
To guard the Freckled Empress of the skies?  
Till One (impatient to stand still, and hear  
The charming Music of each warbling Sphere)  
Start's from His Ranks, and with dishevelled Hair  
Makes an Excursion through the yielding Air,  
Dancing to th' Harmony, as if he He meant  
To frisk Lavaltoes through the Firmament?  
So His unshackled Soul, shooting through th' Crowd,  
Of Lower thoughts, road trampling on a Cloud,  
Through Convoys of bright Stars, while He out-vy'd  
Their starveling glories, whose eclipsed pride  
Carried His Torches, but the lesser Seven  
His Linke-boyes were to light him up to Heaven:  
Atlas the Elephant preferred to bear  
On is brawny back, heavens Castle in the Air,  
Felt then new weight, groaned thrice, and by degrees  
Sinking in Reverence, bend his humble knees,  
Whilst lost Chronology, had nought to say  
Wondering that Christmas was Ascention Day.   

To my Lady.  

But, pardon (Madam) that our verses come  
When grief should strike us dead, or manners dumb;  
For though Your sighs perfume Him with a breath  
Able t' aromatize the Grave, and Death;  
Yet, only such Confectioners as we;  
Are able to preserve His memory;  
And Your Joint-regent Eyes, whose every Tear  
Can reinstate a Broken Jeweller,  
(Those Christall-Seas, where when You weep, 'tis said,  
We need not Dive for Pearls, for there they wade,)  
Do piously usurp Our share, when solely  
You would monopolise all Melancholy.  
But, if these frothy Torrents of Our Eyes,  
Drown with their Roaring, those Soliloquies,  
Snatched up to Heaven for matter to make Hymns  
By myriads of attendant Seraphims,  
Shed but one costly Tear, and You shall see  
'Twill instantly Dissolve the Company.   
FRANC. TURNER scholar of New Col.   
FINIS.