AN elegy On the Death of that most Noble and heroic KNIGHT, SIR CHARLES Lucas, governor of Colchester, and general of the Essexian Forces, who was murdered by the Excellent rebel Fairfax, the day on which Colchester was Surrendered, August 27. 1648.  
I Cannot weep, their ponniards' that do fall  
My eyes, refuse to drop: but were my gall  
Transparent, all might see, a bitter flood  
Wafting my soul away, with Lucas blood;  
Though but a Rivelet, more strong than Nile  
The loyal Blood, that flowed from him and Lile,  
Like a huge torrent, bears Rebellion down  
To Carisbrooke, conveying Charles his crown.  
Have all the Gods, signed Edicts unto Mars,  
And covenanted, for perpetual wars,  
That we must wade in Blood, and dive in Gore,  
And all for less, then for a Spartan Whore?  
Menelaus fought 'gainst Ilium, for a face  
We bore each other, but to win disgrace,  
A square Cap, pair of linen Sleeves and Hood  
Draws Swords, swells battles, and destroys all Good.  
Say ye sly Sophisters, whose Votes are Acts,  
Who plow up Pluto's mansion with your Facts:  
Who Flaunt in gaudy triumph, feeding high,  
Lucullus-like to heighten luxury,  
Whom tumble on your ivory Beds, whose will  
For to Act mischief, doth surpass your skill;  
Whose madness make you antic, such as they  
Who taste the bite of the Tarantula.  
Must britain's Caesar, be a Monk for ever,  
An Anchorite, Manumited never?  
Whiles Hammond's worship feeds Him with a bit,  
Sometimes a knock, if he remember it,  
While you his gracious Masters think it meet  
To toss to air, three kingdoms with your feet.  
Damn Nero like, minding your Sports and Games,  
While Ireland swallowed by devouring Flames.  
And England, though by Mulciber not burned,  
Yet by your Jarring, to a Chaos turned:  
The fiery Anabaptist is in Fight  
Perpetually with the cold Adamite.  
The hardy Independent doth make War  
Against the easy natured Presbyter:  
And both of them fight jointly with the Arian,  
Against [the truly good] Episcoparian,  
Whiles that Religion, with Astraea's gone  
For to seek out some safer mansion.  
'Tis so; you have agreed still Kings to be,  
Although you crack the Kingdom's axletree:  
'Twill break if you sit long, mean time all those  
That love their sovereign, are the kingdom's foes:  
Strange Paradoxes these, that those must die  
As traitors, who grasp steel for sovereignty:  
And those who drench their Swords in loyal Blood,  
Are the sole seekers of the kingdom's good:  
Some Sphinx salve this Aenigma unto me,  
And by the Gods, I will a rebel be.  
But all my Faith, although conjoined in one,  
Cannot persuade me 'tis Religion  
To murder pious Kings; to Plunder lie,  
And to grow Great, by Blood and treachery;  
To fat myself, augmenting others woes,  
Selling the needy, for a pair of shoes.  
Pim's spectacles with a Geneva Print,  
Although fresh coined in learned Calvin's Mint,  
Must not so tame my sense, but that I'll swear  
There's no true Subject, save the cavalier.  
But you most mighty Monsters, who outvie  
The strange man-eating Anthropophagi,  
With Catiline, have sworn to level all  
To your distinction diabolical.  
Was't not enough, ye Vipers, that ye flew  
Tomkins and Challoner in open view?  
Sucked Bourchers blood, and took great Burleighs breath,  
By Wild, Steel, Steel and Wild betrayed to Death  
Against the course and current of the laws,  
Which dooms to Death, your cursed Rebellious Cause,  
That you this seven years, whilst none controls,  
Have quaffed our purple Blood in mazor Bowles.  
But to conclude, your cruelties immense,  
In butchering true spotless Innocence,  
Wounding fair Truth, and dooming zeal to die,  
By murdering Lucas for his loyalty;  
Whose worthy farewell challengeth applause,  
Though dead be, yet survives (Fame pleads the Cause)  
fall'n in his middle Age; but what of that?  
He fell full ripe, snatched by the hand of Fate.  
Goodness doth measure Age. I'll cease to moan:  
He lived long, although he died so soon.  
When Fates impartial hand shall summon me,  
It will increase my joy to visit Thee.  
Blame not the THREE for this sad fate; They do  
Consume themselves in tears as well as you.  
They had resolved, upon the common Stage,  
He should have Acted out old Nestor's age:  
But Jove would have him near him, and decreed  
He by the hands of perjured slaves should bleed:  
No other way there was, for him to come,  
With happy speed, to blessed Elysium:  
Where next Jehovah's Throne, he now doth sit,  
Beholds the rebel's Acts, and smiles at it;  
Knowing, at last they shall receive their Hire  
With Catiline, in never dying Fire.  
FINIS.