ELEGIES Celebrating the Happy Memory OF Sr. Sr. HORATIO veer Baron of TILBURY, colonel general of the English, In the united Provinces, AND Mr. of the ORDNANCE in ENGLAND, &c.  
LONDON, Printed by T. Badger, for Christopher Meredith, at the Crane in Pauls Church-yard. 1642.   

To 
 The virtuous and most noble 
 lady, 
 The lady veer 
 late wife to the ever honoured 
 the Lord HORATIO veer, 
 TO 
 Whose happy Memory be these Elegies 
 ERECTED, 
 AND HERE 
 Most humbly Dedicated to her Ladyship 
 In due Reverence to His famed 
 and 
 glory.   

To the unfading Memory of the Lord HORATIO veer deceased.  

IF you would be resolved whose Dust lies here  
Know 'tis the remnant of that Noble veer  
Whose tall achievements fill so large a room,  
As Europe is too narrow for their tomb,  
And He can never perish in His Name  
Whilst there is such a thing a broad as famed.   

just Belgia had cause enough to boast,  
That He alone was her confiding host;  
Who singly when the Army was away  
supplied the place of the Militia.  
And had unto her Seventeen Provinces  
E're this, united the Antipodes;  
And future times will deem that Land to lye  
entrenched in tears that fell when He did die,  
And it will be Impiety to make  
It firm, but rather drown it for His sake,  
For the Low-Countries by His Deeds shall be  
preferred in Story to High-Germany.   

But Thou hast so out-fought thyself that time,  
Will think such Actions could be none of Thine,  
And whil'st Thou didst Thy virtue so advance,  
'twas not a Truth but a well fainde Romance,  
And I, preserving of Thy Honour, fear  
Thou wilt be thought no Lord having no peer.   
E. S.   

TO THE MEMORY OF THAT NOBLE, WORTHY HORATIO the Lord veer, &c.  

YEt least the Dutch should steal his famed, and so  
Hereafter call him Van HORATIO,  
I'll speak Him Englands Glory wee'd not loose  
His Name for the best Kingdom we could choose  
Here as in Sternehold's Verses, you shall meet  
Stout Piety on lame uneven feet.  
But hurts are Souldiers Graces, then' twill be  
No blemish if he take a wound from me,  
Though more perhaps in Old Coranto's se'd,  
Which for his sake are studied and still red  
Yet will I boldly write, though nothing say;  
He of racked fancy too doth win the day.   

First then be pleased to know( though Calo thought  
The stoutest Souldiers from the Plough were brought)  
That His descent was High, His blood did spring  
From the clear Fount where Arts have nourishing  
Oxsord, like Janus Temple, now shall be  
For War as Peace, for Mars as Mercury,  
'tis heresy to think brave Spirits bud  
From Vulgar veins sweld up with Whey and Mud  
Soft Beauties to bear Souldiers hence have power  
veer of a Lady's born, Mars of a Flower.   

But He high Births as things of chance did scorn  
He lived more Nobly far than He was born.  
He left the Wanton Chambers, where soft Beds  
bear Feathers and what's lighter Courtiers heads:  
And choose the Fields of Honor; they that have  
The Earth their Bed, claim Heaven for their Grave,  
Hard nights bread solid famed, thus Jacob did  
And's Pillow straite became His Pyramid,  
Thinking all City-businesse sloth, He went  
( His life being a true Warfare) to a Tent,  
Where He in sleeps and holidays, did more  
Service, than others tugging the oar.  
He did not travel forth as others, who  
steal their own Goods, yea their own Bodies too;  
And with their heels pay Debts in Germany  
Not taking arms, so much as Sanctuary  
Who go to Sea to shun the City-Fleet.  
And hoist sail only to avoid the Sheet;  
Thinking unlawfull births, and Murders here,  
May expiated be by killing there.  
Nor was he by that old State-Policy sent  
Thither, as to a noble Banishment,  
Because His Active soul so high did rise  
That Conquering was all His Exercise  
He went to practise there, for our defence,  
Here He would use, not learn Experience.  
Like Good Physitians, all at home being well  
He striven exotique poisons to expel  
His shedding blood no Malice was, but skill;  
'twas one Act of His Charity, to kill,   

No more Saint George for England, we now know  
A Name of greater force, HORATIO.  
Had you but seen Him all besmeared with blood  
As if His Bodies inside, outward stood  
How He did boldly walk with sure steps, when  
The Earth was butted with unburied Men:  
And had no more fear in His Face than One  
That rides in Triumph when the world is won.  
How he did march through Gore to th'Enemy  
As if He went through Baths of Luxury.  
To meet his toys, having no other light  
But what did sparkle from the sword in fight;  
And all this too for Strangers, what could he  
Have dared to set his Native country free;  
He that did thus for's Pleasure, would have done  
Wonders indeed, had but his King look't on.  
He that have fire to muskets there, for's own  
Realm, would have leaped through Cannons to a foreshown,  
Should He have led Army to a fight  
The Sun again had stopped to drew the sight  
More than Necessity, His Example had  
Made baseness fierce, and Lethargy turn mad.   

You that at Calis Sands will sooner fight  
For the word lie, or Whore than the Kings Right.  
Who when you go to Wars, take chiefest care  
That ye be stored with powder for your hair  
That dress yourselves like those that Tempt and Wooe,  
As if each Mars should be a Veuus too.  
And Ladies like black patches wear, no wound  
But what came from the Curling-Iron there found  
That compliment, and out of modesty  
superabundant dare to go to th' Front 'oth' Enemy;  
Wishing your Plumes made Wings, when you should fight  
Warring alone like Parthians by flight  
Who if ye can fright children in the street,  
And look away all Creditors ye meet  
stalk in the vapouring stride, wearing buff clothes,  
For which you pay nothing but new coynd-Oaths,  
pass for tried Captaines; know that Worthy veer  
Could embrase dangers that you dare not hear:  
Yet he nere fought for mistress; 'twas his care  
To rank his Souldiers rather than his hair,  
When he desired to red his wounded face  
That could check Tumults, his Sword was his glass  
His deeds, not words, did force the Peoples wonder  
Thus in the highest Region there's no thunder  
He did not like Dull Mercuries only show  
The way with's finger, but with His feet too,  
And would have the first below, scorning to be  
The chief in Place, and not in Drudgerie.   

Yet did he never swear enchantments, like  
Those that first put on Helmets, then bid strike.  
'twas He, and Truth, that could their Foes oppress,  
As Adam awe'd the Beasts with nakedness.  
He loathed security, as much as fear,  
To give Wounds is less Glorious, than to bear  
Lictors are valiant so, Lawrels become  
Their heads alone that suffer martyrdom.  
Though Age and Wounds had given him Writs of Ease,  
Yet would he Halt, and Crawle to th'Enemies,  
And with lame feet trample them down, His hand  
Made myriad fall, then when he could not stand.  
Thus Weapons hacked hurt more; and an old Wall  
Conquers th'Invader even by its fall.   

To speak him yet more Valiant, I must say  
He was a Coward, and would lose the Day,  
When' twas a sin to fight, Ill Victory  
Being at the best but brave Iniquity.  
'twas the good Fight he fought, His Conscience  
Not famed, alone was His Intelligence,  
He did not draw to raise, but sheathe up lars,  
As' twere the sword of Iustice, not of Wars.  
Nor was He rashly fierce at the Drums beat,  
Who like the Sun had light with all his heat,  
Though some mad Captaines think Religion,  
A thing belonging only to the Gown,  
Langhing Devotion out o'th' camp, and say  
He's a dull foolish Coward that does Pray,  
Yet was He nere ashamed of Piety  
Preferring that still before Victory.  
tears saved His blood, Faith did His Shield out last  
His way to shun a famine was to fast.  
Forts Altars were, Guns Censers, whence did rise  
Incense, nor did He Kill, but Sacrifice.  
His Sword like that I'th' door of paradise  
Stood not to keep out Men alone, but 'vice:  
Each under His Command appeared a Saint,  
As if His camp were the Church Militant,  
Angels His Trumpets blew, so 't might be thought  
The Spaniards giants like 'gainst Heaven fought,  
No drinking matches there: Their Temperance such  
They lived a sober life amongst the Dutch  
They knew't strong weaknesse only, to beat back  
The Spaniards Horse, and yield unto their Sack   

Others may boast their care in that they know  
Their Souldiers Names, He knew their Nature too:  
And in each Rank most busy did appear,  
He like the God of War was every where  
Compare some Routs, to his society,  
Their Men want his Horses humanity.  
While other Armies Thefts and Rapes profess,  
Not robbing clothes alone, but nakedness.  
Whose Pensions the High Way; and th' Neighbours be  
vexed with their Guard, as much as enemy.  
His was all Honesty; The countrymen  
Lost not their Cock( though Mars his bide) nor Hen,  
virtues alone were there begot, they'd be  
Fathers of Countries, not of Progeny.   

Thus Jonas like he lived i'th' Iawes of Death  
Oft drawing with his Own, a Cannons breath  
Yet nothing had or Will, or Power to cease  
On Him, but that Great Blessing length of dayes  
He, whom the Wars preferred in Peace did die  
Thus, thus to Fall, was a great Victory.  
alas 'tis no Wonder if our Cities Majors  
heap to their Treasury some silver hairs,  
They like lean Oxen scarce deserve the Knife,  
Who is't that envies Flies alonger Life!  
Tis nothing to scape drowning on the shore;  
But when that Man doth hive, whose body bore  
More Shafts than Sceva, or the Porcupine;  
Whose thing was the Earths urn, and's breast a mine  
Of led, we strait conclude that His Defence  
Was the sole Hot and Sweat of Providence,  
If maym'd and Aged oaks are sacred, well  
May we maintain, in Him a God did dwell.  
What but Divinity could so rule the Dart  
That it should strike each Member, but the Heart.  
His Foes( as Satan Job's) could's Body make  
One perfect Sore, His Life they could not take.   

But all these Praises are to scant and poor,  
The malice of His Foes must needs say more  
Armies of Statues build, for every ston  
Other Graves have, exect a stately foreshown  
Instead of Alabaster Boys, rank here  
A Troop of Horse, a band of Foot-men there.  
Then heap up Swords and Bucklers, till we see  
His Monument, our greatest Armorie  
After all this,' twill be too mean a room,  
He more deserves a Temple than a tomb.   
Richard West.   

On the death of the honourable HORATIO veer Baron, of Tylbury, &c.  

HOw have you, wronged our veer to let Him lie,  
So long interred without an elegy!  
For though the choicest Artists you may use,  
His tomb is but half cut that commandments a Muse.  
Belgia can witness, if she e're did bear,  
So stayed a Guide, so fierce a soldier;  
His fury like a God He did dispense,  
And every below turned to a pestilence.  
Yet with such skill His Conquests would foretell  
That He convinced and proved each miracle,  
Thus as th' old Chaldees waiting on the Sun  
From East to West, when first his course begun,  
And when it fell, knew how remote soe'er  
Strange Lands and Men, because the day was there:  
So where this mighty Planet cast his eye,  
The foreshown was then but a Discovery:  
And should a general fear the States benumb  
His influence had strength to overcome.  
Nor did He one yeares Prodigy appear,  
But grew a Star, and fil'd that Hemispeare;  
His life was a full History of War,  
And every Act a Worthie's Character.  
None could His dayes by Months, or Seasons frame,  
Dangers were all His Spring, His Harvest famed.  
Attend a greater Wonder! bring me one  
An Hero too in His Religion:  
One so devout, that when His just decree  
beats down the Foe, an angel strickes not he:  
One so precise and valiant, we may ware  
The Leader Priest, then will I call him veer.   
H. R.   

A Dialogue betwixt ALEXIS and DAMON, on the death of the Lord veer.  ALE. 
Farewell to all my Flocks, farewell to all,  
One sad farewell to my dear Cloes call,  
And then I've done. Da. Fie young Alexis, fie!  
'tis not they love, but fear thou hast to die  
That thus detains thee, see yo'nde troupe of Swaines  
Are mustered up from out the Neighbouring plains,  
Our great God Pan has said it, 'tis decreed  
Each jolly Lad shall break his Pipe and reed;  
There's in exchange a better music found  
The noise o'th' Drum, and the shirll Trumpets sound:  
Each one must quit his wonted Shephcadrs Gray,  
And clad in Iron now fetch in the May.  Al. 
I've done, But who is he that now must guide  
Our hands, to whom swords yet have been denied.  Da. 
Great Pan takes care of that: 'tis he that can,  
Give strength and Art to the unpractis'd Man.  Al. 
But Father, I have heard you lately tell,  
Of Wars that in your younger time befell,  
Had we but him that did in them Command,  
weed dare against the sturdiest Foe to stand.  Da. 
The great Lord veer thou meanest? Al. I, sure that's He  
Me thinks the Name itself doth testify.  Da. 
It does indeed my Son, It is a Name  
That needs no Verse to' advance or crown His famed,  
And only less than he himself it stands  
I'th'Campe with Mars, and equally Commands.  
This Man its worthy'st Master did inherit  
A soul beyond the greatest Roman spirit.  
O, I could tell you Wonders! This was He  
Whose very look commanded Victory:  
myself have seen Him midst the Foes to stand  
Cutting what threads he pleased with his own hand.  
Not unlike Fate itself, whiles every blow  
provoked, and overcame the stoutest Foe.  
But this He did a Youth; when He was grown  
To perfect man, He scarce could seem to own  
Such deeds as these: That which He did before,  
Was well, but then He doubled it, and more.  
That heat which warmed His arm before, and bread  
Such wonders there, was Active too in's head,  
Which made Him strong, and able to subdue  
Not Men alone, but their affections too.  
Thus a continual Conqueror He stood,  
Not only stout, but resolutely good,  
And to himself being fixed, and constant still,  
He was not moved, although besieged with Ill;  
But He alas is long since dead, and we  
Have nothing left us but His Memory  
To honour which, this short time I've to live  
In spite of my gray hairs, I'll freely give.  Al. 
And I, if that these broils I do survive  
In praise of Him, will yearly Feasts contrive:  
But if( denied by the Fates) I chance to fall,  
I'll order't so, that my dear Cloe shall.  
H. bennet.   

These consecrated to the perpetual Memory of Sir HORATIO veer, general of the English, Baron of Tilbury, &c.  

CAnnot the Drum toll, and ring out? The Bell  
Is a too peaceful sound to speak His Knell;  
To weep were a disparagement: This urn  
Expects that you should rage, rather than mourn  
Those Obsequies befit a soldier, That  
storm, not bewail, that rave, not pine at Fate:  
Yet had our Worthy hero perished in  
The Canons fury, I had patient been,  
And only tore my hair, or groaned; but thus  
To see Him drop away like one of us,  
Alderman like dissolved into His Dust,  
Whoever is not frantic, is not just.   

Is it this then our City Tribes call Peace  
That forbids Guns, and Slaughters with Disease?  
Whose sole Innocence is that it destroys  
unheard, and can massacre without noise?  
Thus whilst Syrenes glitter like Sun-shine, they  
Accept a lasting flash for a faire day:  
Away with this counterfeit calm, I see  
There is no peace but Immortality:  
The same hour feasts and kills, who can beware  
Of such as smile and murder us? Wel-fare  
Plaine-dealing fire, and sword, that when they stay  
Demand a life, and not thus steale't away;  
Yet War hath this Art too; thus the stout Wall  
That out-brav'd Cannons, by a Mine doth fall.   

Here lies a loyal soldier, who was' ere  
disloyal, or no soldier, was no veer.  
No veer yet ever durst think it a right  
And just plea to rebel, cause He durst fight:  
Would we all were this Family: there's few  
That dare so much, and dare so little too.   

Here lies a devout soldier, Yet ne'er one  
That mutined to prove's Religion:  
Nor was He of that Crew, whose Captaine-ships  
Conust in a big voice, and bristled lips.  
That thump the board, and roar out Oaths so large  
You'd think they did not discourse, but discharge?  
That damn, and rashly tilt at every breast  
They Ken, these are not valiant, but possessed.  
The best of His Artillery was prayer,  
Nor did He kill, but where' twas sin to spare.   

How oft we do divine? Thus Seers of old  
( They say) could seldom their own Sawes unfold:  
'tis no hard matter to prognosticate,  
We can fore-tell too, not understand Fate.  
They who this day desired VEERE'S Company  
Did not so much invite, as prophecy;  
The Cates were not a Feast, but Type, and will'd  
Not to be fed on, but to be fulfilled.  
Such plenty fitly shaddowed forth the store  
Of that blessed place, where He ne'er hungers more.   

But sure we do mistake, nor is He gone  
To His rest, but on an Expedition,  
Yo'n place of peace, Heaven also hath its Wars,  
And veer is chosen general of those Stars  
That must in order 'gainst some Sisera fight  
And put some belial multitude to flight,  
We much mistearm'd our late unhappiness  
The Plague; it was no pestilence but a press:  
Our people dyed not, but marched hence, and are  
The present forces of this Holy War,  
Legions that serve under our VEER: let none  
Miscall that then His funeral scutcheon  
Which is His Banner; nor y'on Momument  
His tomb( ominous syllable) 'tis His Tent:   
Richard Painter.   

On the ever honoured general, Sir HORATIO veer, Baron of Tylbury, &c.  

HORATIO veer, that was the name strock death  
Into a palsy, toiled Him out of breath!  
When but pronounced, balls with sulphureous fires  
winged and with music from His martiall quires  
Sent of, conveyed HORATIO veer  
Aloud, but stroke the hearer dead with fear;  
His was a pious Valour, He could pray  
And sight, not for His Life, but for the day.  
It was His glory that the Sun should fall  
With His opposers, and their funeral  
Be mourned by night alone, and when that lamp  
Did rise and shine again, that from His camp  
He might behold the recking of their Gore  
Exhale, and like thick clouds of blood hang o'er  
Their broken Regiments, portending nought  
But ruin as 'gainst Heaven they had fought.  
Live Newport in His famed, and may thy Towers  
Flourish the trophies of His sword and answers.  
They won thee hardly, for when almost spent,  
HORATIO hoped no other monument  
To raise His Memory ●nto the World,  
Then slaughtered Piles of His own forces, hurled  
By th'accidentall reel of War, rebounds  
Like lightning on His Foe, and deeper demigods.  
And now the day is VEERE's, for in the field  
Death durst not meet Him, cause 'a would not yield.  
But the grim traitor fees a poor disease,  
That itself shooke with fear t'approach, or cease  
So high a Spirit, to conspire with Age  
And wearied Nature, how to clear the Stage  
Of this Tragedian; He whose arm hath mow'd  
More than the pale mans sythe, is now bestow'd  
'Mongst the insulting wormes, with His flesh feed  
They'l justly sympathise, and 'gainst the tread  
Shall crush them, turn again, as they should say  
We are VEERE's worms, there's Valour in His day.   
Hen. Harris.   

Vpon the Death of the Honourable and most heroic Sir HORATIO veer, Baron of Tilhury, general of the English Regiments in the united Provinces, &c.  

THough at thy Name Great veer, even Poets fight,  
And Act those battles, they first meant to writ;  
Dare talk of Guns without an Agnes fit,  
Make swords the scope, and sharpness of their Wit;  
beleaguer all their Muses, and not tell  
But muster up thy whole Acts Chronicle;  
Do all in terms of War; So that we meet  
Towns sacked, and Cities taken in one sheet;  
All these are but griefs Policy, to show  
Thy Death can make their sorrows valiant too:  
And being th'are so, a part of Thee express,  
Who e're is like thee, seems to want Thee less:   

But who is left to be so! is there now  
A conquering Name that may succeed as Thou  
Didst thy famed Brother!( nay we'l give Him more)  
That may excel; as thou didst Him before:  
For where such spirits meet that All are best  
Tis equal Glory to be thought the least.   

Yet He must be a Man whose budding famed  
Can fright an Army, whose halfe-spoken Name  
Beats down whole Towns and Bulwarks: hath been heard  
Lowder than canonshot, and surer feared:  
One that's made up by Transmigration,  
Of more than the Nine-Worthies into One  
And bears a Troope of souls; that we may say,  
Himselfe's an Army, though His Men b'away;  
When more than this is added, bring That He  
Which hath more Yet, or else he's less than Thee:  
And why all These?' twill be enough to be  
less than the least to know he's short of Thee;  
Let him be first a veer; his Armies All;  
As well their Spirit, as their general:  
Infuse them with his own true Valour, and  
Teach't by Example; Act his own Command;  
Let his own Name the whole Corantoes fill,  
And make them be twice printed, let it still  
Come fresh into Paules walks, to them which do  
Digest each meal with news, be sums, meal too:  
Have such a soul from which we'd easily take  
Troops of Commanders; each stout look to make  
A captain; what brave word soever fell  
Out of his mouth create a colonel  
When all these heaps of Valour do agree,  
To form one Man again, That Man is Thee.   

But let him die like Thee too, Fate begun  
His envy long before; Thy Death alone.  
styled him full Victor:' twas some Craft to have  
Part of Thy body in a Living Grave;  
To make Thee feel th'increase of death; and be  
thyself a Part in Thine own Tragoedy:  
witness that Earth to Earth which in Thy Thigh  
forced by a Bullet butted there did lie;  
And Thou didst Live a Corpse, not to be killed  
At last by Thy loose Palscy, but Full-fill'd;  
Like some Great prophesy, whose End comes slow  
And sure, though 'twas begun the Age ago:   

We Challenge Thy first death: this was too low  
An Home disease for Thy Great Overthrow;  
Even feeble in itself, far from the Power  
Of being such a Victors conqueror,  
And might in some archbishopric Alderman have been  
A serious thought, the Nods good Iudgement seem:   

'tis flat against our Faith to think Thy bold  
And vigorous breast could ever suffer could,  
Or any shaking; no not even the fall  
Of a Town Vndermin'd, or Blown up Wall  
When th'earth and air affrighted in those parts  
Suffer one palsy with the Townsmens hearts.   

Yet since this is Thy Period, and in Thee  
Two Nations Valours at once shaken bee  
The States and Englands; Yet our Fates are cross  
Since we may Boast, when they shall feel Thy loss.   
Richard Godfrey.   

An Elegy on the Dead of Sir HORATIO veer, Lord Baron of Tilbury, Mr of the Ordnance in England, and general o'er the English forces in the united Provinces.  

HAd not the Triumphs that attended Thee  
When death proclaimed Thy Immortality,  
born witness of Thy Fate, I should ha' thought  
Thy Enemies in policy had wrought  
A fiction for Thy Death, for that alone  
( They knew) could work their Foes confusion:  
Who then must fall to ruin, when at once  
They lost in Thee the strength of every Sconce.  
Thou wert all Frontiers to the States, and we  
Did yield them Brill and Flushing sending Thee.  
So dread full was great veer, so loud His famed,  
That absent, they might conquer by His Name.   

He gave them rich Excise, his spoils brought in,  
Pay for the new design of the next Spring;  
Prevented all their Taxes, that their doubt  
And counsel wholly was where to lay out.  
Which foreshown, what City next should feel and bear  
The wealth o'th' last, and be its sepulchre.   

How could he choose but conquer, when that He  
mixed with His powder, Incense, Piety  
Gave fire; His host was clean, and whose're  
Did sound His trump, was first an angel there.  
'S Example purged the camp, His Troops that durst  
Subdue the cloisters, durst live purer first:  
You that succeed and would o'er come like Him,  
Religion Learn, this was VEERE's stratagem.   
John Borough:   

TO THE MEMORY OF the Right Honourable HORATIO veer, Baron of Tilbury.  

THis distance does become us, who can writ  
A line worthy great veer, although he might  
Have Ages granted? they on whose slighted hearse  
Some Poet hyr'd quickly howls out a verse  
die with their Elegies; An Age we see  
Is almost gon, more than the memory  
Of others Pasts, ere we dare venture forth  
To celebrate His full and perfect worth.  
So let's go on still: Let not our zeal out-scan  
Due Reverence, first Adoration done  
To His blessed Ashes; kissing the could earth thrice,  
And thrice three times the Marble, with advice  
Pronounce we great HORATIO, not as we do,  
Some petty Hero, with a sigh or two,  
But as we do the Thunderer: we now  
Sing not an Elegy, but pay a vow  
In a Commemorative Sacrifice  
To Him long since amongst the deities.  
Nor do we here our wits and fancies try,  
'tis a devout and holy Extafy.  
We offer hymns, such as in dayes of old  
Religious Matrons, and Chast Virgins  told  
In pious numbers of great Hectors famed,  
Of Jove, of Mars, and of Alcides name:  
So sing we His, but with a zeal as far  
Beyond those could ones, as he the God of War,  
Or greater Jove excelled, whose very look,  
vanquished his foes, as if by Thunder strook.  
they can best tell His Acts, had we but been  
amid their Troops, and felt as well as well as seen  
Those vigorous arms, that breast, those eyes of fire,  
And at each frown ourselves ready t'expire,  
fear would have made us Poets, and each fright  
In blood would His famed and our Dirges writ:  
We should have sworn Him an united band  
And all the Gods mustered up in His hand.  
Yet Conquest puffed Him not, nor did the flood  
Which His arm spilled, make Him delight in blood,  
He was all peace, the tender hearted maid,  
And Ages sire whom Wars name makes afraid,  
Are not more mild, had His devotion been  
crowned with a mitre, in a Surplice seen,  
He had been Sainted; He to th' Church would be  
Epitoniz'd Primitive Sanctity.  
If by an Hierogliphick 'twere expressed,  
Religion should be in His Picture dressed.  
No Hermit whom his zeal transformeth so  
That to the Altars Marble fixed He grow,  
Is holier, By Him a Regiment  
turns to a choir, a Church what was a Tent.  
Preachers in arms, and this He learns from thence  
To Heaven too, to offer violence.  
talk not of Him who just, Great, Holy writes  
To several men divided pethites,  
Hector was valiant, Ulisses wise,  
And Numa first Religion did devise.  
These all lacked some thing of Perfection,  
Something was still behind, who knows but one,  
And still learn is a Child; who all things can  
In full perfection only is a Man.   
Tho. Isham.   

On the death of Sir HORATIO veer, the right Valiant and brave Commander Lord Baron of Tylbury, &c.  

THy Name( great veer) can valour now inspire,  
Which once did fear infuse, and raise us higher;  
Incite our thoughts, not able to declare  
Thy Merits ample, as their Actions were.   

Religion was thy Banner, Faith thy Shield  
Thou taught'st courageous Piety to wield  
A Conquerors sword, thy Tents seemed all to be  
Made Sanctuaries with thy Purity.   

Thy lameness was the strength of weaker States,  
This thy Foes heard as Master of their Fates,  
Which thou rul'st at thy will, Joves great decree  
Thy sword, did act their truest Destiny.  
Lame veer forsook not War, but rather used  
Than His Commanders staff, and only chus'd  
His Muskets rest, arms VEERE'S weakness sought, He  
Only seemed lame, because he could not fly.   

The Romish bastard Eagles durst not eye,  
This glorious Sun spain seemed but to try  
His valarous soul that she to th'World might boast  
She veer withstood, and proud. because the lost  
Romans themselves wear titles from that place,  
Which they had spoyled, but veer hath greater grace  
Cities assume from Him a noble Name,  
And being sacked a greater glory claim.   

Fate durst not once assault This Hero armed,  
Her powerful hand, the fear of's strength had charmed  
Death, justly now looks pale, amazed to see  
herself o'er swayed by His Mortality.  
No strength against this Foe she knew prevailed,  
Therefore with policy she Him assailed,  
Whilst on His quiet Couch at rest He lay,  
At unawarres she forced His soul away.  
No Foc can boast VEERE'S death by fatal power  
Alone subdu'de, He dyed a Conqueror.   
Wil. Snow.   

On the Death of the Honourable Sir HORATIO veer, Baron of Tilbury.  

our eyes submit tears like thy Captives bow,  
Thy force o'recame before, Thy ruin now:  
Thus old expiring oaks crush and Create  
famed from their fall, and Triumphs from their Fate:  
The courage was not Choler here, the flamme  
Not from Complexion, but from virtue came.  
Valour's not born of Nature, but the will,  
They only conquer that with Iudgement kill.  
The fire subdues the air, yet his proud rays  
Still without Trophies win still without bays.  
The Mind, not the tough flesh was His defence,  
He lost the fear of wounds, but not the Sense,  
That were t'have been some Engine and a stroke  
Had proved Him a burst Iaveline, or sword broke;  
His scars had then been Cracks, and every blow  
Had hurt the Weapon, Statues conquer so.  
No such resistance here, the veins were known  
Noble, and clear as sapphires, yet not ston.  
The Wars were not His plot, He did not eat  
By the sword and wounds, and skirmish for His meat.  
He could be stout in peace, and the same Ray  
Threw lightning in the field, in the Court day.  
Eagles are Eagles though no Foe appear,  
Good perfumes, though unchaf'd sweet Incense rear.   

No Conquest made Him swell, an equal brow  
sustained the laurel, and the cypress bough:  
The same calm viewed retreats and Victories;  
One composed sense heard shouts, and Elegies.   

weak spirits count their going back a doom,  
And if they but retire, are strait o'ercome.  
Those jewels cast a faint and drowsy light,  
Which 'cause they are once sullied, are less bright:  
The current stopped grew greater here, and He,  
That did retire a stream, return'd a Sea.  
No rudeness made the public shares more thin,  
spoils were His purchase only, ne're His sin,  
Norich Foe made Him glad, no needy pause,  
He fought not 'gainst the booty, but the cause:  
He punished Cities, passed no Village by,  
The just heat scorched the Phoenix with the Fly.   

And having now subdued the Spamsh pride,  
He saw no Foe could kill Him, and so died.   
M. lewelin.   

On the Death of the right Valiant Sir HORATIO veer, Baron of Tilbury.  

AWay ye prouder Cowards that recite  
Your stem from Ancestors, but not your Right,  
And do as sure not merit th'Armes You bear,  
As if cowardice part of Gentry were;  
Here'● one that by His Valour shew'd His Crest,  
And with His sword blazoned His arms I'th' breast  
Of's Enemies; And whosoever came  
Opposer to Him, 's made Trophv to His Name.  
Spaines forces I dispraise not, 'twas no shane,  
That He your greater number over came:  
himself an Army was, in Ostends right  
They fought 'gainst odds, that against Him did fight  
What cruel Law of Nature is't? that thus  
condemns to perils the courageous?  
That fortitude we no where find, unless  
We find it be in danger and distress.  
We hazard still our nob lest minds, and all  
We can is t'adorn virtues funeral.  
He now lives short that's good: our virtues sure  
Are Blasing-stars or comets, that endure  
But their own ruin to foretell, and be  
To'us Wonder, to themselves a Prodigy:   

Nor must I here leave off it were a lie  
To name His Valour and not's Piety.  
They still conjoined were, there you might see  
virtue from any foul repulse was free.  
It is no solecism now to call  
A soldier Pious, nor is't now at all  
untrue, it may be credible to say  
'twas not the Souldiers liquour won the day;  
Even in the Wars He was a Magistrate.  
And did proportion to th' offence, the Fate;  
●th' field used such authority; They were  
VEERE's Subjects, All that did rebel 'gainst veer,  
Religion's Enemies, were His, and who  
Did 'gainst Him fight, did 'gainst Religion too.  
He drew against her Enemies, and then  
Did with His sword correct their vicious pen.  
Not Mars's now, Fame's Trumpet sounds our veer  
'twas He that made the Church triumphant here.   
Tho. Severne.   

On the Puissant and Gallant Commander the Lord HORATIO veer, general of the English in the united Provinces.  

look to thyself Renowned veer, for though  
'tis said th'art sick o'th'Palsey, I say, No:  
Safely collecting when I trembling see  
'tis not so much disease, as Enemy.  
Who in so soft and silent place did steal  
Vpon healths Fort, escaped all sentinel:  
He? That's a single one when our VEERE's Ghost  
Cannot be dispossessed but by an Host.  
mischiefs must band, and still despair of Him  
until they fly to secret Stratagem.  
So His heroic Spirit might be o'er seen,  
To prove Him Man; o'ercome had never been:  
veer? Even the Name such heat and prowess shows  
It ceases to be That and Title grows.  
And yet what e're the piercingst Iudgment can  
Find in the Name, was tripled in the Man.  
Sounds it Religion, God, or goodness? He  
Was then the Priest, and that the Mystery,  
Whose knee before that God and Heaven, sincere  
Devotion daily bent, but never fear,  
That servile sensual passion, His free soul  
Had clear dismils'd, but did it's Name enroule  
Amongst His virtues, as school Divines do  
With Hope, giving that a namesake virtue too.  
So far between himself and Heaven, but now  
Shall we inquire after His valour, how  
It sprung, grew up, spread through the World, I call  
The same to witness it, charging That All  
To bring true vidence in, then to review  
Her ancient Records, and observe where true,  
Nobly-descended, loyal, Puissant, dear  
To all that's Good, the substantive was veer;  
At the have mention of which Name you have  
Heard eve'n th' unlettered Peasant straight add brave,  
Whose minds being too base't be Perill-proofe,  
By reckoning Him, think the Land safe enough:  
To which I had inclined, had not I known  
He bore His Foe about Him, and did own  
That treacherous Flesh, which vowed He death should see  
Though himself maym'd, though himself wounded be.  
Oh! that That Vow was kept! Have I not seen  
The troubled fountain clear itself again,  
Weeping the filth out with a kind of shane,  
And blushing till her pristine silver came?  
So should thy purer blood rise up, boil on,  
And in disdain work out the Infection.  
Dicta●y can all Shaft, or spear expel,  
Why not thy soul( a nobler form) as well?  
Why not invulnerable, why not all,  
The privileges Truth or Fable call?  
deserved He not so much, who was these three  
Valour, Religion and Nobility.  
Not in the vulgar manner, this in the Court  
That in the Chamber, th'other in the Fort,  
But all in each, so we now mourn His loss  
Who 't once hath fought for the Colours and the cross.  
Who with His arm and sword, as not content  
With th' bare Nobility of His descent,  
Would purchase new,( when as our Monsieurs gilded  
First are the Gentlemen, then wear the Hilt.)  
Therefore Let's weep, if not till we are drowned,  
Yet let our pious Deluge wash His wound.  
So laid I'th' Grave, weep still, for since VEERE's dead,  
He's more than valiant can be comforted.   
J. Goad.   

An Elegy to the Memory of Sir HORATIO veer, Baron of Tilbury.  

AFter this long amazement, This half death  
The much astonished World recovers breath  
To utter her just plaints, which that great cross  
depressed in silence; Now she feels her loss  
As rifing from a trance; Besotting grief  
Somewhat remitted, grant's us this relief  
To manifest our sorrows, sighs burst forth  
Now in articulate Nambers: whilst VEERE's worth  
Inspires and Creates Poets, we dare try  
grief dictating, to sob an Elegy.  
He is an ample subject: His defects  
Deserve to be admired: Who but reflects  
Vpon His daring lameness, may behold  
Perfection imitable, He well could  
Limpe into Honors bosom, when ith' field  
He wore His Conquering sword, untaught to yield,  
He seemed a Mars incarnate, with each look  
He wounded His majestic presence strook  
Awe and amazement: As the timorous Deere  
flies the pursuer, borrowing overflowings of fear,  
So did the Spaniard his assaults: VEERE's Name  
epitomized Artillery, His famed  
Was engine, Cannon, and what e're doth win  
Submission, and obedience. Yet in  
The Court He could depose His frownes, and raise  
Such sweet yet sound discourse, merit such praise  
For solid judgement and advice as' fH' had  
Courted no Pallas, but of Arts. He made  
Valour grow courteous: No antipathy  
Was found' twixt soldier and Civility:  
In Him both were united. He well knew  
To vanquish in the schools, the practised Crew,  
And gain Apollo's laurel. No less charm  
Was in His Tongue, then in His powerfull arm:  
All War to Him was Conquest, with that Art  
He used His subtle Arguments to Dart,  
With which He threw His Iavelins, for no skill  
His opposition could out vie, or quell:  
This Living Science, only Ignorant,  
What sin, what a Tormented Conscience meant.   

No wonder if His soul mounted on high,  
Who could enthrone the humble dust i'th' sky?  
VEERE's Center was the Pole: None ere denied  
A Pure Intelligence a Heaven to Guide.   
Rich. Geale.   

Vpon the death of Sir HORATIO veer, Late general of the English in the Low Countries, Baron of Tylbury.  

GIve me a sword dipped i'th' last Armies blood,  
That He o'er came himself, though scarce with stood.  
quills are too childish: rhymers of our Age  
Will allow ink to Chamber-maid and page..  
horror becomes thee best, I would feign writ  
In the same Colour veer, as Thou didst fight  
Thou shouldst have Poems, like thy Obsequy,  
Such as doth valour show even to see:  
The Poet that can fully sing Thy praise,  
Deserves a Captaines place, instead of bays.  
Thou that couldst sack a Town with looks, whose eyes  
Like to two flames consumed Thy Enemies;  
Thy Souldiers were but witnesses, for fear  
None should believe Thy Acts, if none were there.  
Death Time did measure; when there gasping lay  
half a great Army, then 'twas thought mid-day.  
Thy Troops mistrusted always Thou wouldst die  
By Conquering, drowned in Thy Victory.  
When thou couldst grasp a sword first, this was done  
When nothing but by force and arms was won.  
But when 'twas proved to all that Thou couldst do  
More than five kingdoms durst to undergo,  
Wounds then were envied, 'twas felicity,  
And Triumph judged to owe their death to thee.  
Thy laurels were with so much ease obtained,  
Thou blushed as at the Garlands in Masks gained.  
They spoyled thy Recreation, quickly all  
ne'er yielding sport enough, would fly, or fall;  
'twas but to take the air for thee to win,  
As if in thy own Lordship Thou hadst been  
A Hawking, it was but to beate and then,  
There rose, and strait way fled Coneys of men.  
arms were at last supersluous, as in peace:  
Men in the fields did go for choice of ease.  
Thy Souldiers did but train, as we see Those  
That go to Finsbu●y in their best clothes.  
N●… was Thy conquest only in the Field  
before Thy Foes, Thou mad'st thyself to yield.  
For though so great in Birth, yet Thou couldst say,  
Thou hadst seen Tragedies, and yet no Play:  
Th●u didst not look upon Thy curious bilt,  
And doubt'st to draw Thy sword to spoil the guilt;  
even out of Hide-Parke, Thou durst fight, couldst make  
Men fly, not only for thy Ladies sake.  
Durst to appear in arms, not moved with Love,  
Where th' Eusigne was, nor Ribbond nor a Glove.  
Nor wast Thou sent beyond sea with intent  
〈◇〉, like Wine, Thy Lees to purge and vent:  
Not was't a younger Brothers angry fire  
Hating thy Country, raised Thy valour higher  
Or fear of being asked blessing in the street:  
Or living a dull Captive in the Fleet.  
No, no, Thy virtues counterpoys'd Thy blood,  
As Thou wert great and Noble, Thou wert good:  
Thou were't so al complete, Thy purer vein  
Of goodness, not the very camp could steyne.  
witness Thy zeal return'd: Men doubt so far  
Whether Thou Leader wert in Church or War.  
Not like those Cut-throats, who profess to kill,  
That do come home from Sea, alike to spill  
Blood here; who practise all the Might  
On Drawers heads least They forget to fight;  
That go in debt like hangmen, promise pay,  
The next sedition, or next happy fray:  
Who do lay siege to Widdows, not to Towns,  
Encounter with black-bags, and silken gowns:   

Rest then brave spirit Thy great Name shall be,  
Now our Commanding Leader stead of Thee.  
Our hilts no more shall boast our mistress face  
We'l have thy picture cut into that place.  
Thy tomb shall be our Altar, we will trust  
less to our Castles powder, than Thy Dust.   
Francis Palmer.   

An Elegy on the right honourable Sir HORATIO veer, Baron of Tilbury, late general of the English in the united Provinces.  

SHould we the Spaniards ruined Forces ask,  
They'l tell us veer is dead, joyful to mask  
Thy worth i'th winding sheet, and now first dare  
To prie into Thy greatness, drew and square,  
Thy Actions, when they are sure Th'art dead,  
On th' Name which once was Thunder boldly tread,   

Sure He was Warlike that alive could boast  
More Terror, than His ghastly Corpes or Ghost.  
Others strong bodies, Poets dare to call  
The Armies Rampire, or a living Wall.  
His eye was more like Wild-fire't could Command  
Death surer than another's Pike or hand:   

And yet how pious was He, you might say  
He fought still for the Altars, and did sway  
Iustice's own sword, His ardency in War  
Was zealous heat, not fury, every Scar  
Put him in mind o'th' Passion; Drum and Flute  
Were never heard to make the Organs mute.   

lameness suppressed Thee not, when thou with Grace  
wentest on unequal legs a wav'ring place:  
Thou seemd'st above thyself, and yet beneath  
Thy virtues, which could tyre fames longest breath:  
Wound's set Thee upright, He that dares be Lame  
Or halt by th'sword, saws how to lean on famed.   
John Godfrey.   

To the happy memory of Sir HORATIO veer, Baron of Tilbury, &c.  

YOu that have powerfull skill to cheat the Eye  
With cunning shadows, and faire Imagerye  
That can infuse into your rare designs  
A seeming Life, by well proportioned Lines;  
And give such Motion too, that we admire  
Your pencil equal with Prometheus fire,  
join fancies, and conspire in every Part,  
To make a general Master-piece of Art.   

Paint me a Mars, his falchion in his Hand,  
In his Brow Valou, in his Eye Command;  
Throughout his Face a stern strong Beauty such  
As can endure the Sun beams scorching touch,  
Or Winters keener Breath, than choose the Strength  
Of close compacted Limbs, rather than Length:  
Let Him be mounted on a Fiery stead  
Of fiercest Courage, and the choicest Breed,  
Proud of his Riders managing, from whence  
He seems inspired with Mind, as well as Sense.   

For your By-Drought pitch me a Battle fought,  
And all-most to a certain Issure brought  
Where to retreat were Valour, and to be  
The conquered was a kind of Victory   

Draw some pursuing, others flying: here  
Let Divers stand hurt not' wth Shot, but fear,  
There Youngsters proud of easy Wounds, whose Skars  
More than their Service show they've been' nth' Wars,  
And there an upstart Lord, who came to th' field  
To make that scutcheon, which was meant a Shield:   

Then paint the Victors by the Generals skill  
Leading their Foes as Captives to their Will:  
describe the famous Newport, where Alone  
He excelled other Armies and His own;  
Here, when the Souldiers Stars like fell away,  
He solely like the Sun, ordered the Day  
Make Him the governor too of Brill, where He  
Single did show whole Councles Policy,  
Although some thought( and 
The P. of orange& others that persuaded him not adventure on the service, as being impregnable.  such too who had far  
searched into th' subtle Stratagems of War)  
The sluice invincible; yet here at length  
It must be yielded to His Persons strength,   

And then describe what Trust, what famed and State  
His own arm purchased in th' Palatinate.  
How if Mart-Grave of Ansburgh had obeyed  
The subtle and sure Rules His Providence laid  
The present Austrean Forces then alone  
Had not been vanquished, but the Region  
And the Palatinate had safely stood  
Flowing in Milk and Hony, not in blood.   

Then make 
From Opulum to Manbaim:  Two Armies each in th' others sight  
And show how His Retreat though in the night  
Was not a blind design, but proved to be  
The light which saved them from their Eenemy;  
Though He was here of all supplies bereft,  
Yet to return He still had spirit left,  
And as an oak, made bare by Winters could,  
Hath still its strength so when forlorn He's bold.   

Then tell us how the States humbly' obey  
His councils, and by Them did others sway:  
How the 
Maurlet the last that died.  Great Prince of Orange did esteem  
His Head beyond the Richest diadem   

These done to the Life, the Figure will appear  
Presenting None but honourable veer.  
In whose brave Frame( for which' twas chiefly built)  
The noble genius of All Souldiers dwelt,  
His shade thus drawn would conquer, we should see  
His Image sent against the Enemy.   

And yet how poor will these Perfections prove?  
Here we might drew his Power, but nor his Love,  
His virtues still lie hide, here no One sees  
His forwardnesse to teach War-Mysteries,  
How He by Precept and Example too,  
Would show the meanest soldier where to go,  
He not on's Foes alone, but on's Sins trod,  
His Prayers with Holy Violence conquered God  
Though He with Rabels of Religious meet,  
Yet always He escaped the Tempters Net,  
Keeping His soul untainted, and so came  
Home like the God He worship'd, STILL THE SAME  
I'one hand His Prayer-Book, th'other held His Sword,  
O how in Him all virtues did accord!  
Truth, Valour, Piety!—  
But Painters cease, here draw your largest veil,  
busy your Thoughts, for now your hand must fail,  
VEERE's more heroic Parts do far out-vy  
The rare effects of Arts bold Industry.   
Edm. Borlasse.   

To the memory of that most Noble warrior Sir HORATIO veer, Baron of Tylbury, &c.  

GReat Conqueror of thyself, and Men, we dare  
In Gownes be valiant too, relating veer:  
And take that privilege to begging Thy might  
By praising it in Verse, yet think 'tis right  
Though thus t' abuse the dead' twill prove no 'vice,  
Or bear the Name of pious Cowardise,  
We sentence not Thy Worth to th'narrow Grave,  
Or Story forth Thy name i'th' Epitaph.  
The ston may Book thee captain of a Shire  
That never mustered Troops, but in's own sphere:  
Whose warlike looks put on with rich Array  
His scarlet Hose, not worne since th' Wedding day,  
Did gravely led the train, revived to hear  
Defensive arms and Company so near:  
Whose martiall terms well con'd your Rank and File  
For good Artillery passed and warr'd a while;  
Who nere marched pale but in a Count fight,  
And made no use o'th' day, yet look't for night:  
thine were Outlandish fights, although even there  
Thy Native passions most oth' Captives were,  
Grave reason sway'd the body, and the field,  
'twas but the judgements task to make both yield  
The Towns Thou though●'st to wyn, were now e'recome,  
And in Thy Name, not arms, they felt their doom:  
Eoes were as Strangers, only till the Field  
Whose chiefest slavery was to grant, they yield,  
No Corps composed thy bridge, or marching ground,  
'twas not to Conquer this, but tread 'em down.  
Thy Wars were equal Games, the Law and right,  
Claym'd greatest part of spoils I'th' Lord VEERE's sight;  
When hottest fields were pitched, and most Men slain  
'twas not to pirate Towns, but winn again.  
Devotion still was partner with the below,  
Thou didst at once preach Iustice and o'rethrow.  
Thou went'st not o'er to spoil some foreign State,  
o'er stead of getting Wit, to propagate.  
No vices learnt with' Tongues, no sin of Note  
Inducted was with this or that buff coat.  
'twas not Thy aim' Outlandish realms to see,  
And once return'd, fail in Geography:  
To con the Map at whom, and point the foreshown  
Where you in th' hottest fight lay under ground,  
Thy Voyage was to fight, not pass the Seas,  
Thy country not displeased Thee, but its Peace,  
Thou went's to lend Thy demigods, and purchase Stars  
In foreign Causes, and in borrowed Wars:  
Thou like the Shields from Heaven fallen, no end,  
No country knew, but only to defend.   
Samuel Everara.   

On the death of the right honourable the Lord veer, Baron of Tilbury. &c.  

WHen veer deceases, Let none dare to call  
His public urn one single funeral.  
When so much Valour under Marble lies,  
'tis not one Man, but a whole Troope that dyes:  
W'have lost an Army here; the crowded ston,  
At such a fall shuts up a Nation.  
This lazy Epitaph some tomb may swear,  
That the dull Ashes of one Lord lies here:  
Whilst some perhaps thus brand the mild decease,  
The quiet Man went full of Yeares and Peace:  
Yet Thou e're strook with Thy own overthrow,  
Who measured'st out a ruin to the Foe:  
Thou who in War wert thought Death's Magistrate,  
As if alone Thou mightst dispense all Fate,  
Who cut those threads off, which were Clotho's strife  
To draw into a larger web of Life  
Who Atropos not ready, nor her shears,  
didst with Thy sword unravell future Yeares;  
Be this the honor of Thy Epitaph,  
To have Thy Victoreis writ o'er Thy Grave,  
And would Thy Conquests sound! which to rehearse  
Would act an other Conquest on All Verse;  
No Poetry would ever rise so far,  
As the plain Comments of Thy fatal War,  
Let others strive for doubtful Mastery,  
And after trial dearer Victors be,  
Thou still into the openest field didst come;  
Not to encounter, but fulfil a doom,  
Thus Thy approach still judged the Enemy  
Who was not vanquished, but condemned to die:  
Thy presence startled danger; Then all were,  
All but the Enemies self, secured from fear.  
Now this exalts our thoughts, we feel a flamme  
Spring in our veins, as lighted from thy Name  
Thus raised we do even wish an Enemy,  
He's almost soldier that but writes of Thee.   

Now I behold Thy forward spirit fly  
With half a wing to dare the Enemy,  
Thou scornd'st an equal figure, nor dist ere,  
esteem of Number as Presage in War.  
Yet conquered'st so, as if Thy Men still lay  
In ambush closed and unseen, got the day  
Or as like Cadmus race from out the ground  
Grew into armor, born t'inflict a wound  
But that a foreign Blood, They only  shed  
And fought not till they left themselves all dead;  
So that the greatfull Enemy would sware,  
This lessened all His troops to look on veer  
When He summed o'er His men, it did appear,  
He reckoned heads, and thou the soldier.   

Now I behold Thee led an Army, tired  
In a long March, only by Thee inspired  
Still to renew the War, and grapple so,  
As if they should refresh them on the Fo,  
How they their load of armor all unbrace,  
And with a nakedness defend the Place:  
stisted with sprite and sweat, how they lay by  
Their aids, and do themselves get Victory.  
Thus with thy spirit armed they nothing fear,  
unless a Truce, the sad delay of war.   

So were Thou verst in Horrors and through All  
At length arriv'dst to a slow funeral  
Thou even in dangers didst grow old, as if  
ruin and slaughter did preserve Thy Life.  
Thus Salamanders live in flames, whilst you  
Lay on more Pile, Y'increase their vigour too;  
Whilst thus to others You prepare an urn,  
You give a life here if You let them burn.  
Whose Actions all seemed above Nature Thou  
At Thy decrease, art grown a wonder too;  
For if an ancient mariner we style,  
Only a long lived aged Miracle,  
May not a Reverend Hoary Leader pass  
For a gray wonder, such as our veer was,  
Since in more desperate stubborn believes even He  
Swam oft through blood, worse than the mariner Sea,  
Thus free 'mongst dangers spite of Enemies Fate,  
To All but our desires. Thou didst die late,  
hadst Thou survived a while, we All should ware  
Poets mistook their other God of W●….  
But wearied now of life since Thou didst know  
It was a prise too great for any Foe;  
Such as no dart could ravish from Thee, till  
Thou didst thyself Command the Dart to kill,  
Then Thou retyrd'st from War, Thy other Home  
And left'st the camp only to gain a tomb:  
To act whose Ease would prove our Victory  
Courage nere own'd a Genius but Thee:   
W. Towers.  
FINIS.   

There hath been( of late) such crowding to the press, that in the sweat its now in: some letters( happily) have made a faint Impression: But for other faults they are generally Accents, and you may help them in the sound: the real mistakes are these.  
page. 10. line 1●. red gave. l. 15, r. our Army. p. 28, l. 5 r. reeking. p. 36. l. 7. r. lasts. p. 58. l. 6. r. conveys. p. 63. l. 4. r. proportioned. p. 72. l. 7. r. How for And.   

Imprimatur  
John. Hansley. July 16. 
 1642.