AN ELEGY ON THE Most Reverend Father in God WILLIAM LORD ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY; Attatched the 18. of Decemb. 1640. Beheaded the 10. of january 1644. Printed, 1644. AN ELEGY ON THE MOST REVEREND Father in God WILLIAM, Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, Attatched the 18. of Decemb. 1640. Beheaded the 10. of Jan. 1644. Most Reverend. Martyr. THou, since thy thick Afflictions first begun, Makest Dioclesian's days all Calm, and Sun, And when thy Tragic Annals are compiled, Old Persecutions shall be Pity styled, The Stake and Faggot, shall be Temperate names, And Mercy wear the Character of Flames: Men knew not then Thrift in the Martyr's breath, Nor woven their lives into a four years' Death, Few ancient Tyrants do our stories Tax, That slew first by Delays, then by the Axe, But these (Tiberius like) alone do cry, 'Tis to be Reconciled to let Thee Die. Observe we then a while, into what Maze, Compass, and Circle, they contrive Delays, What Turns, and wild Perplexities they chose, Ere they can forge their slander, and Accuse: The Sun hath now brought his warm Chariot back, And road his Progress round the Zodiac, When yet no Crime appears, when none can tell, Where thy guilt sleeps, nor when 'twill break the shell, Why is His shame deferred? what is't that bring's Your justice back, spoils Vengeance of her Wings? Hath mercy seized you? will you rage's no more? Are Winds grown tame? have seas forgot to Roar? No, a Wild fierceness hath your minds possessed, Which time and sins must cherish and digest: You durst not now let His clear Blood be spilt, You were not yet grown up to such a guilt, You try if Age if seaventy years can Kill; Then your Ends, and you are Harmless still, But when this failed, you do your Paths enlarge, But would not yet whole Innocence discharge; You'll not be Devil All, you fain would prove Good at fair distance, within some Remove, " Virtue hath sweets which are good men's due gain, " Which Vice would not Deserve, yet would Retain. This was the Cause, why once it was your Care, That Storms and Tempests in your sin might share, You did engage the Waves, and strongly stood To make the Water Guilty of His Blood, Boats are dispatched in Hast. and 'tis His doom, Not to His charge, but to His shipwreck come; Fond men, your cruel Project cannot do, Tempests and storms must learn to Kill from you, When this came short; He must Walk Pilgrimage, No Coach not mule, that may Sustain His Age; Must trace the City (now a Desert rude) And combat savage Beasts the multitude. But when his Guardian Innocence, can fling A we round about and save Him by that Ring. When the Just cause can fright the Beast away, And make the Tiger tremble at her Prey. When neither Waves dare seize Him, nor the Rout, The storm with Reason, nor the storm without: Lost in these straits, when Plots have Vanquished been, And sin perplexed hath no Relief, but sin. Agents and Instruments now on you fall, You must be judges, People, Waves and All, Yet 'cause the Rout will have't performed by you, And long to see done what they dare not Do. You put the Crime to use, it swells your Heap, Your sin's your Wealth, nor are you Guilty cheap, You Husband All; there's no Appearance lost, Nor comes He once to th' Bar but at their cost; A Constant Rate well Taxed, and Levied right, And a Just value set upon each sight. At last they find the Days by their own purse, Less known from Him then what they do disburse: But when it now strikes High for Him t' appear, And Chapmen see the Bargain is grown dear; They Muster hands, and their hot suits enlarge, Not to pursue the Man, but save the Charge. Then lest you lose their Custom, (a just fear) Selling your sins and others Blood too dear. You grant their suits, the Manner, and the Time. And He must Die for what no Law calls crime. Th' Afflicted Martyrs, when their pains began, Their Trajan had, or Dioclesian. Their Tortures wear some Colour, and Proceed, Though from no guilt, yet 'cause they disagreed; What League, what Friendship there? They could not join, And fix the Ark and Dagon, in one Shrine. Faith, combats Faith, and how agree can they, That still go on, but still a several way? Zeal, Martyr's Zeal, & Heat ' 'gainst Heat Conspires, As Theban Brothers fight, though in their fires. Yet as two different Stars unite their Beams, And Rivers mingle Waves, and mix their Streams, And though they challenge each a several Name, Conspire, because their moisture is the same. So Parties knit, though they be divers known, The men are many, but the Christians, one. Trajan, no Trajan was to his own Herd, And Tigers are not by the Tigers feared, What strange excess then? what's that menstruous Power, When flames do flames, and streams do streams devour? Where the same faith, ' 'gainst the same faith doth knock, And sheep, are wolves to sheep of the same flock? Where Protestant the Protestant defies, Where both Assent, yet one for Dissent dies? Let those that doubt this, through his Actions Wade, Where some must needs Convince, All may per suade; Was He Apostate, who your Champion stood, Bathed in His Ink before, as now in Blood. He that unwindes the subtle jesuit, That Feels the Serpent's Teeth, and is not Bit? Vnties the snake, finds each Mysterious knot, And turns the Poison into Antidott. Doth Nicety, with Nicety undo? And makes the Labyrinth the Labyrinth's clew? That sleight by sleight subdues, and clearly proves, Truth hath her Serpents too, as well as Doves? Now, you that blast His Innocence, Survey, And view the Triumphs of this Glorious day; Can you (if that might be) if you should come, To seal God's cause with your own Martyrdom, Can all the Blood whose tides move in your veins, (Which then perhaps were Blood, but now is stains,) Yield it that Force and strength, which it hath took (Should we except His Blood) from this His Book, Your Flame or Axe would less evince to Men, Your Block and Stake would prop less than his Pen; Is He Apostate, whom the Baits of Rome Cannot seduce, though all her Glories come? Whom all her specious Honours cannot hold, Who Hates the snare although the Hook be Gold? Who Prostituted Titles can despise, And from despised Titles, greater Rise? Whom Names cannot Amuse, but feats withal, The Protestant above the Cardinalâ–ª Who sure to His own soul, doth scorn to find A Crimson cap the Purchase of His mind? " Who is not Great, may blame his Fates Offence, " Who would not be, is Great in's Conscience. Next these His Sweat and Care how to advance, The Church but to Her Just inheritance, How to gain back her Own yet none Beguile, And make her Wealth her purchase, nor her spoil: Then, shape God's worship to a joint consent; Till when the seamlesse Coat must still be Rend: Then, to Repair the shrines, as Breaches sprung, Which we should hear, could we lend Paul's a Tongue. Speak, speak! Great Monument! while thou yet art such, And Rear Him 'bove their Scandals, and their Touch; Had He survived, thou mightst in Time Declare, Vast things may comely be, and Greatest Fair. And though thy Limbs spread high, and Bulk exceed, Thou'dst proved that Giants are no monstrous breed: Then 'bove Extent, thy Lustre would prevail, And 'gainst Dimensions Feature turn the Scale; But now, like Pyrrha's half adopted Birth, Where th'issue Part was Woman, Part was Earth, Where Female some, and some to stone was Bend, And the one half, was tother's Monument, Thou must imperfect lie, and learn to Groan, Now for His Ruin, strait way for thine own: But this and Thousand such Abortives, are, By Bloody Rebels Ravished from His care, But yet though some miscarried in the Womb, And Deeds Stillborn have hastened to their Tomb, God (that Reward's him now) forbade his store, Should all lie hid, and He but give i'th' Ore; Many are Stamped, and shaped, and do still shine, Approved at Mint, a firm, and Perfect Coin. Witness that Mart of Books that yonder stands, Bestowed by Him, though by another's Hands: Those Attic Manuscripts, so rare a Peice, They tell the Turk, he hath not Conquered Greece. Next these, a second Beauteous Heap is thrown, Of Eastern Authors, which were all his own. Who in so Various Languages appear, Babel, could scarce be their Interpreter. To These, we may that Fair built College bring, Which proves that Learning's no such Rustic thing; Whose structure well contrived doth not Relate, To Antic fineness, but strong, lasting state: Beauty well mixed with strength, that it complies, Most with the Gazer's Use, much with his Eyes, On Marble Columns thus the Arts have stood, As wife Seths' Pillars sav'd'em in the Flood. But did He leave here Walls, and only Own, A glorious Heap, and make us Rich in Stone? Then had our Chanc'lour seemed to fail, and here Much Honour due to the Artificer: But this Our Prudent Patron long foresaw, When he Refined rude Statutes into Law; Our Arts, and Manners to his Building falls, And He erects the Men, as well as Walls: " Thus Solon's Laws his Athens did Renown, " And turned that throng of Buildings to a Town. Yet neither Law nor Statute, can be known So strict, as to Himself, He made His Own, Which in His Actions Inventory Lies, Which Hell or Prinne can never Scandalise: Where every Act His Rigid eye surveys, And Night is Bar, and judge to all His Days; Where all His secret Thoughts He doth comprise, And every Dream is summoned to ' an Assizeâ–ª Where He Arraigns' each Circumstance of Care, Which never Parts dismissed without a Prayer, See! how He sift's and searches every part, And Ransacks All the closters of His heart; He puts the bowers upon the Rack and Wheel, And all His minutes must confess or Feel: If they reveal One Act which forth did come. When Humane Frailty crept into the Leome, If one Thread stain, or fully, break or saint, So that the Man does interrupt the Saint, He hunts it to its Death nor quits his fears, Till't be Embalmed in Prayers; or drowned in Tears. The Sun in all his journeys ne'er did see, One more devout, not one more strict than He. Since His Religion than's Unmixed, and Fine; And Works do warrant Faith, as o'er the Mine: What can His Crime be now? Now you must say, The Kingdom's Laws subverted in His way; See! no such crime doth o'er His Conscience grow, (Without which Witness ne'er can make it so) A clear Transparent White, bedecks His Mind, Where nought but Innocence; can shelter find, Witness that Breath which did your stain and Blot Wipe freely out, (though Heaven I fear will not) Witness that Calm and Quiet, in His Breast, Prologue and Preface to His Place of Rest; When with the World He could undaunted Part, And see in Death nor Meagre Looks, nor Dart: When to the Fatal Block His Grey Age goes, With the same Ease, as when He took Repose. " He like old Enoch to His Bliss is Gone, " 'Tis not His Death, but His Translation. FINIS.