Elegy On the untimely Death of the incomparably Valiant and Noble, FRANCIS, Lord VILLIERS, Brother to the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.  
Slain by the rebels near Kingston upon Thames, July the 7. 1648.  
REader! who here lies dead, may give  
Thee cause to weep for all that live.  
Since in him, Courage, Beauty, Blood,  
All that is Great, and Sweet, and Good,  
All youth's contracted Glories, have—  
(Weep, pitying Reader! Weep.)— their (Grave.  
That so it may be justly said,  
(These gone) the Living are the Dead.  
But when the sadder voice of Fame  
Shall to all this, add Villiers Name,  
And my unwilling Pen shall tell  
That by a rebel hand he fell;  
What soul, will not his Fate engage  
At once with pity, and with Rage:  
So in his height of youthful Pride  
Fore Troy the beauteous Memnon died.  
Nor with such tears bewailed was he,  
Though wept for by a deity.  
But you, brave souls! whom the same sense  
Of Honour moves, the same Pretence,  
Shrink not to see his sadder fall.  
But (whilst to mind others recall  
His hopeful virtues, and his years  
Cropped in their bud, lament with tears,  
Whilst some perhaps, whose form might move  
His noble Heart, sigh for his Love.  
Others his early valour sing,  
And loyalty unto his King)  
Let the example of his Fame  
Your Bloods to great Attempts inflame.  
And a Resolve to every Heart  
As high as your high Cause impart.  
Hark! from his Grave his martial spirit  
Your loyal Valours doth excite.  
On! Till a Death like that I found,  
Each of your conquering Swords hath crowned,  
And my glad Ashes then shall rise,  
And triumph in your Victories.  
There is no salve can cure again  
Your honour's wounds: think not you then  
Gain Life, when you by flying, yield;  
But when you dying, win the field.  

This unto future Times make good,  
Or bear the guilt of his lost blood.   
FINIS.