Capellus Virbius, SIVE REDIVIVUS: OR, A MONUMENT Erected in Several ELEGIES To the Memory of the Right Honourable and Noble Arthur Lord Capell, Baron of Hadham.  
And His Excellent Lady, the Lady Elizabeth Capell Dowager.  
LONDON Printed by Roger Vaughan, dwelling in St. martin's le Grand, 1662.   

To the Right Honourable Arthur Earl of Essex, Baron of Hadham; AND Sir Henry Capell Knight of the Bath, Sons to the ever-honoured Arthur Lord Capell.  
Most Excellent Brothers,  
THough it be Unlawful to offer up Sacrifices to the Dead, yet licence me to sacrifice these Elegies to the Remembrance of your ever-Honoured, and never-to-be forgotten Parents, and permit me to make the Name of CAPELL an Altar, though not the Tomb. I must confess, had not the Importunity of Friends, concentered in a numerous Address, and the particular Obligations by which my Service is entitled to your Family, engaged me to devote these narrow Testimonies of my Zeal to the Scrutiny and Inspection of the Public, they had been for ever folded up in their own Oblivion.  
Lest therefore I might seem Ungrateful, or at least Unfruitful, I have adventured to drop this Earnest of my Affection on these Noble Relics, not hoping by this to add any perpetuity to those, which will in future Ages, stand both Brass to the Tomb, and Marble to the Stone, but only as a Symbol of that Acknowledgement I owe to two Names of such an Eternal Duration.  
Indeed I never did believe that these Poems could contract an estimate from any intrinsique Value resident in themselves, but only as they were offered up at the Tombs of those Worthy Persons, to whose Memory they were Originally Consecrated.  
Suffer then these Monuments of a Zealous Gratitude to give themselves up to your view, since you may be ascertained, that they issue from one whose Study it is, that his Practice may be how he may declare himself  
The Humblest of your Servants, Thomas Philipot.   

Capellus Virbius, SIVE REDIVIVUS: OR, A Monument erected in several ELEGIES To the Memory of the Right Honourable and Noble Arthur Lord Capell, Baron of Hadham.  

AN ELEGY.  
AS when the 〈◊〉 ygilt with its borrowed Fires,  
And tinselled o'er with the Sun's light expires,  
dials then only when the Day is done  
Declare their use, and show there was a Sun:  
So now that Flame which did in Capell burn  
Is, like some Meteor, shrunk into his Urn.  
This cheap and narrow Tribute of my Verse,  
Which I have dared to fasten on his Hearse,  
May like some Dyal, now his Light is set,  
Stand to his Name a fixed Alphabet.  
And since his Thread which was so firmly spun;  
Is by rude Hands unravelled, and undone;  
In me if any Vigour seem to dawn,  
'Tis but by him a Faint Resemblance drawn;  
And if in Me the Pulse of Fancy beat,  
With any Masculine or active Heat,  
'Tis but a Beam shot from that nobler Fire,  
Which did his Breast at once warm and inspire.  
Unrip the Quarries then, and reconcile  
Marble, Jet, Brass, and Jasper in one Pile,  
And fix the Gaudy and Magnific Stone,  
Upon the Dust and Rottenness of one,  
Whose Name perchance will moulder and consume  
Amidst his Nard, Balm, Spicery and Perfume.  
Brave chapels Tombe's beyond the Reach of Art,  
His Monument's Established in each Heart,  
When he shall stand from Time's Impression safe  
Unto himself Both Urn and Epitaph.  
Let Scholars here and Soldiers both combine,  
And mix in a full Choir about his Shrine,  
Since both in him did vigorously unite,  
The Scholar, did advise, the Soldier fight:  
So that of Him it might be truly said,  
He had an Heart, yet did not want an Head,  
For both in Him appeared so close Compact,  
His Head consulted, ere his Heart did act;  
His Epitaph first by his Sword was made,  
Enrolled in Characters that hardly fade;  
Ensculpt in every Hospital it stands,  
Writ in disbanded Legs, or banished Hands,  
Then 'twas rescribed and copied out again,  
And written something fairer by 〈◊〉 Pen;  
For in his Monuments of 
* His printed Meditations.  Brain we see  
H'as reared to himself both Tomb and Elegy,  
Which to such comely shape and frame are brought,  
And yet with such a Marble Fancy wrought,  
That in these Trophies he shall live as long,  
As Time shall wield a scythe, or Fame a Tongue.   

Obsequies offered up to the Memory of the ever Renowned, and never to be Forgotten, ARTHUR Lord CAPELL. Written 1649.  
DO; paddle still in Blood, for 'tis not strange  
Now if your thirsty dropsied Blades do range  
O'er the whole stock of Man; or that they spread  
To Trunk and Boughs, since they've lopped off the Head:  
For since the KING, who like one general Soul,  
Did through each nerv and agile muscle roll;  
And like some public Conduit did dispense  
To every Vein, both Sap and Influence;  
Shine's in His Crown of Martyrdom above,  
Gilt and enamelled with the Beams of Love;  
The Cement thus unfixed and slacked, we must  
Needs languish into shuffled heaps of Dust:  
And as in Bodies, where the Head is lopped  
From off the weeping Stem, some Spirits dropped  
From that great Magazine, into each part,  
And left as Legacies unto the Heart;  
Contract the Joints and Hands, then make them spread  
As if they catched at the dislodging Head;  
So after this vast Ruin, though the Frame  
Of Nature were both discomposed and lame;  
Yet in this crippled Structure, there might be  
Some starts and leaps, which flowed (brave Lord!) from Thee;  
On whom, as some not yet discovered Sours,  
Which doth to th'suppled Earth fresh Sap disburse,  
And through her veins melts in a purling rill,  
Th' expiring KING His Vigour did distil.  
And as some sullen Vapour which was spun  
From th' Earth's course Wardrobe, by the glaring Sun,  
To some wild Meteor, hover's in the Air,  
And on each Cloud shed's its unravelled hair;  
But wanting Active Heat to waft it higher,  
Doth in dull Slime and sluggish Mists exspire:  
So before CAPELL was (like th' early Flower  
Which Ruder Hands tore from the Mangled Bower)  
Rend from His Bleeding stalk, we might perchance,  
Like vapours winged with His brave heat, advance  
Above the Common-level, yet but now  
His Flames shot-up no new supply t▪ allow.  
We crumble shall to Ruin straight, and run  
Into a wild Precipitation.  
And as when Morning from the Azure Towers,  
Powers out the day, and pluck's out th' unfledged hours;  
The Earth unlock's its womb, each flower unweav's  
Its Odorous tresses, and unties its leavs,  
That so they may be spangled by that blaze  
That from the blooming Sun's gilt lustre stray's;  
So now that He like a new-budded Star  
That stud's the Orb's above, doth from a far  
Point out his Beams to us, let their clear Light  
Steer us through the perplexed maze of Night;  
And our benumbed and frozen Souls so thaw,  
He may both our Example be and Law;  
For though that Man's a world within himself;  
In Him no Passion swelled into a Shelf  
To split His even thoughts, no Rock of Pride  
Did intercept or justle the free Tide  
Of well-poized Actions, and no Mountain there  
Was by Ambition made, or Gulf by Fear.  
His beauteous Actions too without did meet,  
Still in such comely and well-balanced feet,  
And were so fairly knit, you'd think they'd been  
Each one the Transcript of His Soul within;  
No Bias His Religion warped awry  
Into a crooked Excentricity,  
'Twas sullied with no Ends; He could not tell  
How to vamp Calvin with dark Machiavelli.  
No Widows cooler sighs did fan His Cup,  
He drank in's Wine no Tears of Orphans up;  
His Pregnant Fields were moistened by the Skies,  
Not wet with showers reigned from His Tenants eyes;  
And having thus with Virtue paved the Track  
Which to His Urn did guide His Footsteps back;  
He, when His full-fledged Soul cast off her Clay,  
To bathe in Tides of never-ebbing day,  
Did in so soft a Calm dismiss His Breath,  
As if't were His Espousals, not His Death;  
And that in His cold shroud He were to meet  
The Portrait only of His Genial sheet,   

AN ELEGY ON The Great Exemplar of all Virtue, the Lady Elizabeth Capell.  
WE can for every cheap and trivial Loss  
Condole so much, we even seem t' Engross  
The Public Stock of Grief, and at our Eyes  
Embezel our exhausted Faculties,  
Whilst our dull Passions pant with eager Throes,  
As if they teemed with Mountains of vast Woes,  
Each Maim by Fire, each Shripwrack can induce  
Our Eyes to such Intemperate and profuse  
Resentment, that those Cataracts of Rain  
Our Eyes unsluce, might quench the Flame again;  
Or in the● brin● Deluges once more,  
Ingulph the Ruined Bark upon the Shore;  
But when such precious Earth as this, we see  
To crumble into early Ashes, we  
Should from th' officious Limbecks of our Eyes  
Distil, as Rights paid to her Obsequies,  
Such Floods of Pious Tears, that if dull Art  
Should by some Lame Neglect forget t' impart  
Her Nard, and unctuous Balsam, to exempt  
These Noble Relics from Time's rude contempt,  
They might embalm her fading Mass of Clay,  
And fortify it so from all Decay,  
No saucy or intruding worm should dare  
To be an Inmate to her Sepulchre.  
Then let the Sluices of our Eyes un-lave  
Streams of unsummoned Tears out on her Grave,  
Which by that Cold our chiller Sighs shall vent  
Shall stiffen to a Crystal Monument,  
And stand a fixed Index to her Dust,  
To tell the World this Tomb is put in Trust,  
Virtue itself in its cold Cell to hide,  
Which in this Lady lived, and with her died;  
But when the World, and its gay Pomp expire,  
And both lie gasping in the general Fire,  
When all the Throng of petty Stars like Tears,  
Shall drop in flaming Jelly from their Spheres,  
And Sol itself, Light's great Exchequer, shall  
From its dark Orb like a blind Cindar fall,  
When th' Impenitent Earth so long shall burn  
Till it into Repentant Ashes turn,  
And each conspicuous Ornament it wears  
Shrinks into Dust, this shall resolve to Tears.   

Her EPITAPH.  
HAve you beheld the Sun un-shroud,  
Th' enamelled Fringes of a Cloud,  
Then wrap up in the Folds of Night  
All that embroidery of Light,  
As if by that Recess he meant  
The ancient Chaos to prevent?  
So from this Lady's twins of Sight  
Such Beams did down, that with their Light  
They did each sullen Mist dispel,  
Which did in our Horizon dwell,  
But now those radiant Suns are set,  
And in the gloomy Cabinet  
Of her dark Urn locked up, the World,  
Into one Common Cloud is hurled.  
The Phoenix in her Pile of Spice,  
Perhaps may vie with Paradise,  
And Roses tortured in a Still,  
In that warm Agony a Rill  
So sweet disburse, it does o'ercome  
Nard in its bruised Martyrdom;  
This Lady's virtues do disperse  
Such choice Perfumes about her Hearse,  
That should we those by these esteem,  
They'd cheap, and sickly Odours seem;  
They that all cunning Pomp do scan  
By th' Lovure, or the Vatican,  
Let them unlock her Marble shrine,  
And they'll trace out a various Mine,  
There lodge the Diamonds of her Eyes,  
Which Rays so pointed did comprise:  

* Gulcundah and Socodania in the East-Indies are the places whence the choicest Diamonds are extracted.  Gulcundah's Quarries can display  
No beams that scatter such a Day,  
There lie wrapped up in an Eclipse  
Of Dust, the Rubies of her Lips,  
Nay this Exchequer too contains  
The melting Saphires of her veins,  
So that we now may justly call  
Her urn the best Escurial;  
Since then she's dead whose fragrant breath,  
Did to the Fields new Flowers bequeath,  
Let's cull them all that they may meet  
On her, that she may make them sweet;  
However on her Dust we'll strew  
Those Flowers which seemed on her to grow,  
As on their Stem; First, there shall be  
The Rose of Blushing Modesty,  
Which did so long her Check adorn,  
Offered up unto her urn:  
The Marigold shall then become  
The Second tribute to her Tomb,  
Within which flower we may descry  
The Image of her Piety;  
For this locks up its leaves when Night,  
In its black Mantle, folds up Light,  
And still unclasps them when the Sun  
Bespangles all our Horizon:  
So she, when first th'Infant Day,  
The Eastern Portals did Array  
With the Attire of Light, did run  
To open her Devotion;  
And when Darkness clothed the Air,  
Clasped it up in Holy Prayer:  
Then the Violet we'll shed  
Upon her Hearse, which bows its Head,  
And, like her, appears to be  
Th' Emblem of Humility;  
Next, we will to her Dust dispense  
The Lily white with Innocence,  
Where we, as in a Glass, may see  
The transcript of her Purity,  
Whose Odours will perfume her Name,  
And so embalm her quickened Fame,  
Her Marble, like the hallowed Shrine  
That does dead Virtue's self confine  
Within its hollow Womb, shall be  
Adored by all Posterity.   
FINIS.