Funeral Elegies. OR THE Sad Muses in Sables, singing the Epicediums OF HIS Highness' Prince Maurice, Count Palatine of the Rhine, Duke of Bavaria, etc. James Duke of Lenox and Richmond. john Earl of Rivers. john Cleveland, the much-cryed up Poet. Written by S. H. depiction of a skeleton with a skull and crossbones London, Printed by Tho. Wilson at the Three Foxes in Long-lane. 1655 To the Reader. I Hope I shall not be pestered with those stubborn precise Puppies, that turn all useful and allowed contentments into scabs and scruples, they are very fairly set out indeed, and so are fore-horses, Aristotle's Problems and Powder'd-Beef, are rare diet; But I shall not care to tell the World, that I despise such painted Momes, such gaudy trifles, indeed these men when they speak, speak Oracles, for no man understands them, nor themselves neither such Gimcracks made of mops and motions, a true noble Gentleman is a brave thing, and to such generous Souls I only veil my Bonnet; the honest and ingenious Citizen shall also command me, but I have Armour of proof to protect me from the proud scorn of the first sort of shallow Pates; These Elegies have taken wing with a full gale, and will fly in the faces of those that shall obstruct their travel about the World. I hope there are some that will give free leave that the sense of these Elegies may sink into their considerations, to such I am A sincere Servitor. An Elegy on the report of the Death of the most renowned Prince (as well for Virtue as Magnanimity.) Prince Maurice, etc. PRompt me you Imps of Jove and Memory, I sing his Exit, whose Infinity Of virtue's merit an Angellike Muse, O be propitious, please for to infuse Tragic Melpomene (while I comprise His large sized Volume) thy best Rhapsodies; He that made Valour slave to Martial skill; He that knew how for to command his will More than his Myrmydons, and could with ease Teach Talbot, Scipio, and Themistocles; He the great Master of the Doric Choir, The Drum, the Trumpet, and the Phrygian Lyre; He that like Thunder still his passage wrought, Who led like Caesar, and like Sceva fought, Is stooped unto the Grave (be proud thou Earth) More splendid than that Queen that gave him birth; Forbear ye giddy gang, who Witchcraft prove, And rip up Tellus' womb for Treasure trove, No more of inhumed treasure will we babble, We know where lies a Gem inestimable; Glory of Princes, swept away to sat The insatiate avarice of greedy Fate: Let Eastern Princes offer unto thee, Their Crowns, their Sceptres, and their Sovereignty; And at thy Tomb (the glory of thy years) Pay a due tribute, blood commixed with tears: Doth not the Genius of the World comply With Jove himself, to howl thy Elegy? Saturnus, as when his Sarpedon fell, (That Lycian, who save thee wants parallel) Distilled salt tears, Homer no doubt complied With Prophecy, and thou wert typified In his mysterious Poem, Heaven's eye did weep, While thou wert hurried hence by death and sleep, Worthy Psymnaticus his Sepulchre, Thy body Mars, and Pallas did inter, Whose Virtues, Fame, alternately resounds, Even from Ganges to Alcides' bounds; Now near Jove's throne with an internal eye, Thou sittest and menacest Mortality, Having by the indulgent will of Fate, Immolumated the Palatinate: This he that weeps thy worth is proud to tell, And he that doubts it, is an Infidel. AN ELEGY On the death of the most illustrious Prince JAMES, Duke of Lenox and Richmond, etc. WHat baleful sounds are thes salute mine ear? What sadness is't that triumphs every where? Each loyal face is clouded o'er, each eye Rains tears, what may this sorrow signify? Speak thou that tak'st a pride to tell of deeds Dire and deformed; what mischief's this that leads A general ruin? crack thou mighty frame! LENOX is dead! LENOX whose honoured Name, Gave life to virtue, not so great as good, And more Allied to Kings in worth then Blood: Had not the Midwise wrapped his Infant Limbs In Purple studded with the choicest Gems, Nor Princes Gossipped at his birth; his mind (So near of kin to Heaven) had assigned Large Provinces unto his open hand, For Wise and good men only should command; But it was time to travel hence, when we Have reduced all unto a Parity: What Hero's heart but cracks, when he must give, Worship to Woodmongers, or cease to live? Or if he but sigh out his discontent, Have his bright Star torn from his Firmament? He that's the God of Honour takes a pride, To have some more than others dignifide; Nor can his lustre radiate the Earth, That is not raised by Virtue, or by Birth: But thou (illustrious Prince) wert born to all Those glories that illuminate thi● Ball, Wealth worthily imposed, a glittering pomp Befits a heart so blest as thine, whose stamp Was all Etherial; every act of thine Proclaimed a perpetration most divine: We were not worthy longer to detain Such Excellence on Earth, things that are vain And empty, best befit this sin-swoln Time, When to be virtuous is a mortal crime; Peruse the starry Gallery, and there Behold this semideity appear, A Constellation shining 'bove the Poles, More bright than Myriad of Sainted Souls. On the Death of the Right Honourable and excellently accomplished, John Earl of Rivers. TO speak our griefs over thy sacred Urn, (Unless the whole World were at once to mourn) Were trivial; could we pin upon thy Hearse The sense of Sallust, and the skull of Verse, We were but lame admirers at the best, And learnedly our Ignorance confessed; He that thy death unto the life would moan, Must claim that very Genius thou didst own; Hyperion, and the Daughters of high Jove, We may invoke in vain, for 'tis above The Epocha of Poesy to tell, Or find a sit and genuine parallel For thee, whose life and death shall give renown, To the great Monarch of the Triple Crown; A man (though born to fill bright Honour's Throne) Yet humble unto admiration: No Saffron-guilded Pomp, or gaudy Tire, Can lift thy constant soul one cubit higher, Then Piety admits such as might well, Make the Court-Standard subject to the Cell: Incomparable Hero! in thy fall, All Honour, Worth, and Wit finds funeral: Time that had sprained his feet, now wants his eyes, Foundered in thy funebrious Exequys: Nor since great CHARLES forsook the earth for Heaven, Has any Hero trod his path so even As thou hast done; this than our bliss shall be, We cannot err while we contemplate thee, Whose great and good example shall create Catholic Christians (who'll accumulate A Roman constancy) Champions that can, Rout Armies of the Solifidian, And (next to Heaven's glory) seek no fame, Save the protection of thy honoured Name. On the death of the High-prized Poet JOHN CLEAVELAND, Esq WHat, are all silent! are the Sons of Art, Afraid to mention this dead Ascapart? This Colbrand of Castalia, he whose strength, Takes up nine Acres at the least in length: Like Titius, every line of his might well, Serve Faustus, or Agrippa for a Spell; Nor durst the Romanist his Number's mind, Till with the Cross he had his forehead signed; Thou great Gargantuan, huge Colossian Bard, Who shall dare sing thy worth unless prepared With Sack and Sulphur, every word should pierce Like Thunder through the wondering Universe; Although thou art inhumed (to fancy Fate) Yet still to us thou dost tonitruate, Thy words want each an Atlas; we can Rant, 'Tis true, but not like thee (our Termagant) Whose every syllable a sentence is, Each word an Axiom, thou hast searched Abyss, (The Muses Hercules) and shown to us, That tripleheaded bandog Cerberus, So by the Magic of thy haughty Rhimes, The Powers celestial cringe to mortal crimes: No marvel thou couldst cramp so many Pens, Whose face and belly were as big as Bens: Giant of Wit as well as Bulk, thy Quill, (That Maule of minds) rests on the Muse's Hill A sacred Trophy; ye small Wits bow down, Give worship to this Bashaw of the Gown; Grand Vizier to Apollo, the Vice-King Of fair Castalia, when thy Soul took wing, Why didst thou not appoint who should succeed? Who now shall dare to wear thy Regal weed? To put the Laurel on, or to give Law In Verse that would keep Lucifer in awe; Like Alexander's Captains, wanting thee, We now shall quarrel for Supremacy; For thou hast left a world of wit behind, For those to share whom blessings cannot bind; Thus like some mighty Potentate that dies Without an Heir, those Laws and Liberties So oft confirmed by Phoebus' Parliament, Shall be made void, yet on thy Monument We will presume this Epitaph to grave, Here Cleveland lies, whose Wit went wondrous brave. FINIS.