AN elegy On the Death of Sir Charles LUCAS and Sir GEORGE LISLE.  

INspire me some prodigious Fury: all  
The Muses are not enough tragical.  
Hither you Leaguer Fiends from your black Tents;  
Hell has but Three, Fairfax whole Regiments.   

A Pompy's death Caesar would chose t' enjoy,  
His Butchers were an Eunuch and a Boy.  
Cannibals thus War not to reduce, but chew,  
As Mastiffs fight to worry, not subdue.  
Lightning (Heaven's sword) blasts not, if not withstood,  
Colchester's Bull deals tamely in cold Blood.   

What plenteous harvests storming brought the town!  
Each shaver Tarquin lopped his poppy down.  
All your shot, fire, steel, scarce murdered one,  
Your Mercy only was destruction.  
Poison took in our certain ruin is,  
Serpents ne'er sting, but when th' embrace, and kiss.  
Scabbards stabbed most; no harm i'th' cannon's note,  
The only murdering piece was Fairfax throat.  
Quarter from Rebels, will dispatch or end;  
The Devil's most pernicious, when our friend.  
When you should Cure, you bleed us to our grave,  
The book does ne'er condemn, but when 't should save.  
If the King scape by Rolfe, 'tis to be hurled  
With pass, and pistol, to another world.   

Must ye be fleshed? so soon faces about,  
The Town's not starved, the famine is without:  
They're guiltless sure must bid so soon adieu;  
Or like the devil, must you damn 'em too?  
Horseflesh is sober meat: Fairfax digests  
Tigers and Wolves, and is himself turned Beast:  
He keeps a Sessions, when he takes a town,  
Counsels of War are Juries, Buff Coats Gownds.  
His Standards Gibbets are; he needs must fright,  
His Physnomy's a funeral black and white.  
Th' head quarters always are at Tyburn; all  
His power makes him but Hangman general.  
countermarch quickly all this blood: home, home  
Lest we mistake the devil for Black Tom.   

This League murders more, than Marten could  
Spawn (in a Holland's Leaguer) Bastard brood.  
Must the Saints Feastivals be writ in Red?  
Or are ye Gods with blood and victims fed?  
Thus, and scarce thus, Turks Conquer, and imbrue;  
Turks are no Saints, yet Conquer more than you.  
If Executioners 'fore Reformers go,  
Be Derrick henceforth Generalissimo.   

Fairfax and Essex spell their Christian brands,  
You'll find the same T. R. in all burnt hands.  
Strange parleys, which no Articles dispense,  
But such as dispatched Laud and Strafford hence.  
If to Capitulate be such a thing,  
And Treaties must end thus, God bless the King.   

Whilst Nol, and Tom dividedly do awe,  
The Land's bestrid with th' devil's cloven paw.  
In Lilly's dreams the King is still undone,  
If so, these are his Lancasheire Mocksuns.  
For they will both be Kings; Fairfax i'th' dress  
Of the Rlack Prince, and Cromwell of Q. Bess.  
Rossiter, Lambert, Ireton too must reign,  
England will suffer Heptarchy again.   

Come hallowed quill, dropped from an angel's wing,  
Ink from that Font: (we now of Christians sing)  
An ostrich plume with aquafortis dressed,  
He that writes Lucas praise must steel digest:  
His Epitaph, i'th' crippled Savoy stands,  
armless trunks there shows you his fatal hands:  
All Hospitals his Monument conspire,  
Every maimed piece presents you him entire.  
Thus his eternal fame shall last as long  
As Rebels halt; or Royalists have tongue:  
Search Marston-moore, and in York's Records seek,  
You'll find him writ in stigmatised Tom's cheek.   

Such were his fierce Sallies, as some did doubt  
Whether he rod, or had been discharged out:  
Then at each sweep he made whole ranks to fall,  
As if th' had ducked before a Cannon ball.  
Some he o'ertakes and joints at knees; you'd swear  
Their legs had fled, and left the bodies there.  
Now they must to't the Superstitious way,  
Down (Says his Morglay) villains kneel and pray.  
He was the towns best Wall; and O! to glut  
Revenge, this royal Fort is made a Butt.   

On cutthroats, on, perfect your gamesome rites,  
Forward and backward shoot, set up two whites;  
Proceed, let not your lucky mischiefs slack;  
Royalists mourn, but your souls were the black.   

Lisle defies Quarter: now his friends blood's spilled,  
Your Charity's sin, your mercy will be guilt.  
Great spirit, death's a Mistress in his eye  
Or Nuptials; 'tis the same to kiss and die.  
His Grave's as welcome as his Quilt or down,  
Would but his Ghost walk, 'twould nigh clear the town.  
Holland's to him a coat of mail; what crowds  
Did his thin Newberry shirt send to their shrowds?  
They had not brains to judge, nor hearts to fight,  
But ran and thought the devil was turned white.  
He vengeance hurled like a pale dismal star,  
Or th' milky Genius of an innocent War.  
No need of swords to have the Rebels sped;  
H''ve soul enough to lisp whole squadrons dead.   

Farewell brave Twins of valour; may no spurn  
Of rebel's foot light heavy on your urn:  
We all shall wait upon your fate; this year  
Starved Colchester will soon be everywhere.  
Plenty and Lucas fled at once, this Isle  
Together wants a Summer and a Lisle.   

Your Graves are meritorious, Wharton lies  
Still in his saw-pit, and will never rise.  
Your loyal hunger, and your lean alarms,  
Was better than to feed Pym's loathsome swarms.  
Your glorious souls are free, whilst others have  
A conqueror who to his Gout's a slave.  
Old Fairfax Corn's ill cut, there goes to wrack  
Weather-wise Booker and an almanac.   

Their wounds are still i'th' legs, you know the spell  
O'th' Greek, they were dipped too in Styx and Hell.  
Rossiter's half dead; 'tis well he's so much man;  
But geldings serve for th' work Essex began.   

Their Church is militant; and doth appear  
Triumphant too; for why? their heaven is here.  
Th' Army's the holy League; all for Saints go  
Because their Murders make all others so.  
May they be Angels too; and when they fall  
Like Jacob's Angels upon ladders all.   
FINIS.