AN elegy UPON The much lamented Death of the Right Honourable, THE LORD BROOKE.  
WEep not unthristy Mourners: Why so fast  
These weak devotions due unto his last?  
Hoard up such poor expressions of the eye,  
Till either Wife, or Child do chance to die,  
Or till thy aged mother's knell thee call,  
To solemnize her petty funeral.  
Tears are wrongs here, for where such sorrows come,  
The Land itself should groan, the men be dumb:  
The heart should summon down the spirits all,  
Till sense benumed, and apprehension fall,  
Congealed into a Trance, and each man be  
A mournful Statue unto memory:  
Or if you needs will weep, as fits the loss  
Of such a Friend, so serious a cross,  
Breathe all the air to sighs, the drops o'th' year,  
At once be all contracted to a Tear.  
Then let each Mourner, that hath a desire,  
Weep out a part, and weeping so expire.  
Pardon's great Lord, and thy diviner Ghost,  
If by remembering what in thee we lost,  
Out of that honour and love we owe to thee,  
We lose ourselves in an Hyperbole.  
Thus much is just and fit, that all may know  
What they unto the name of BROOKE do owe:  
The Commonwealth's a debtor to thy fate,  
Which destined thee a sacrifice to th' State:  
But this is the least part, that thou didst die  
For us; we wrong thy sacred memory  
If we confess no more; thy high-born Soul  
Sought by death deaths Cou'nanters to control,  
And to disarm those Engineers of hell,  
Whose villainies must write their Chronicle.  
It was the Gospels late eclipsed light  
For which thou liest thus low in death and night,  
And strovest to shame and quell each hinderer  
In peace by example, by thy sword in war:  
For this thy resolution stirred thee up  
To give truths enemies and thine the cup  
Of God's great wrath, and with th'avenging sword  
To fright all superstition from the Word.  
This made Rome's base abettors toil and quake  
When e'er they heard what thou didst undertake;  
This filled their mouths with slanders, and their hearts  
Sworn to revenge with poisoned envious darts  
To wound thy pure Profession with the name  
Of schism, and a new-found Brownistick frame:  
This made that base inhuman particide  
With unexampled treachery divide  
Thy soul from body (and them both from us)  
To heaven with a strange desperate Mittimus.  
Thus thou didst fall, thus diedst thou, but to live  
In heaven, and here with us, whilst we can give  
Or tears, or marble; the portraiture of fame  
Upon two pillars reared to thy Name  
Shall stand, where shall be read and understood  
Thy death's cause, God's glory, & the Kingdoms good.   

Printed by Robert Austin, and Andrew Coe. 1643.