An Elegy upon the Death of the thrice Noble General, RICHARD DEAN, Who departed this life the 2 d. of june, 1653.  
 

MOURN drooping eyes with pearly trickling tears,  
Flow streams of sadness to the Hemispheres:  
Flow like the tumbling waves of th' River Nile,  
Make the World hear thy Plaint, let not a smile  
Appear, let not an eye be seen to sleep  
Nor slumber, only let them serve to weep,  
For Noble Deane, who lives above the Pole,  
Where Angels sing sweet Requiems to his soul.  
And now if angry storms and waves be rough,  
Thy Haven and thy Harbour's safe enough.  
Sleep, sleep awhile until the flowing Tide  
Of blessed Eliziums' streams that sweetly glide,  
Shall palliate thy wounded side; O fate to see!  
That last sad stroke of thy hard Destiny.  
When winds shall serve thee, then hoist up top sail,  
And bravely pass before a prosperous gale,  
That all the Coasters may to thee resort,  
And bid thee welcome to thy desired Port;  
Thee to attend, from Sea to Shore, to be  
Interred, deserving thy magnanimity.  
Oh, could we to thy Name erect a Stone,  
Should equal the Philosophers; each groan,  
Should breathe thy praise, brave Deane, and every Verse  
Draw doleful sighs over thy fatal Hearse.  
No fit subject, where strong lines should meet,  
Then such a noble centre; could the feet  
Of able Verse but trace the Victories,  
They need not fear to fly unto the Skies,  
To ask Great Deane who taught him so to die,  
Death yielding him the day and Victory.  
Therefore farewell, let Truth this Story say,  
He lived and died the glory of that day.  
And now thou sleepest, blessed Soul, freed from all cares,  
Whilst we do read thy Elegy with tears;  
And stand amazed, to see thou didst not cease,  
By Land nor Sea to purchase to us Peace:  
Wherein thy boldness still did interpose  
Betwixt us and the raging of our Foes,  
In England, Scotland, and likewise at Sea,  
Where thou didst Hogen Mogens, Haunsmen pay  
Home to the full for their ingratefulness,  
In fight us, who helped them in distress:  
'tis not unknown, they gave this Epithet,  
Of Poor distressed States, but now forget  
Those favours erst received, which must them style,  
Unworthy actors 'gainst our English Isle.  
But whither run I? O see, observe the Spheres,  
How they bewail our Valiant Dean in tears.  
But he is dead, from which it is observed,  
Honour and Valour from Death is not preserved:  
Nor is it seen that greatest Princes lives,  
Can saved be by their Prerogatives.  
Then need I not the World thus to acquaint,  
He died a Soldier, Martyr, and a Saint:  
But Mars of late hath struck this Cedar tall,  
And Neptune mourns for our great Hero's fall;  
At which his Billows drive from shore to shore,  
To tell proud Mars this loss will cost him more  
Of his Amboyna Sons, which now do quake,  
When they do hear of the most Valiant Blake.   

we'll now return to mind Deans fatal fall,  
And sound sad summons to his Funeral;  
Caused by a bloody hand, that could not get  
The Gem, therefore would spoil the Caskanet:  
So fair without, so free from spot within,  
That Earth seems here to be exempt from sin:  
Where we thy virtues see, and they become  
So many Statues sleeping on thy Tomb.  
But is it so, that Virtue draws faint breath,  
And subject to the dire effects of death;  
Then rest thee where thou art, I'll seek no glory,  
By the relation of so sad a story.  
But tell the World that thou hast paid the debt  
That's due to sin, and ne'er a Libel yet,  
Bespattering thy chaste Urn, whose sacrifice  
Hath stopped the mouths of thy great'st Enemies:  
They stand amazed to read and hear of thee,  
Whose Name is shrined in this Elegy.  
Who mightst have lived, had not the life that gave  
Life to thy life, sent thee now to thy Grave.  
Therefore 'tis sad to write thy Pedigree,  
Death discomposing all, displacing thee:  
Whose Greatness did consist in being Good,  
His Goodness adding Titles to his Blood.  
Only unhappy in thy life's last doom,  
Who lived too early, for to die so soon:  
Alas! whereto shall men oppressed trust,  
When Piety cannot protect the Just?  
Yet to add some Memento's to thy life,  
Thou hast behind thee left a loving Wife:  
Who hath (since that sad time thou didst departed)  
O reflow'd her cheeks with tears from a sad heart;  
And like a chaste and virtuous Widow, She  
Hath set apart herself to mourn for thee;  
For thee, most Noble Deane, she doth lament,  
And sad sighs, for thee, to Heaven hath sent;  
Her sorrows are augmented on this score,  
Weeping because that she can weep no more,  
For him, whose worth doth unto mourning call  
CROMWELL, the Great and Noble General:  
The glory of our Age, whose Valiant hand  
Hath wrought deliverance for this sinful Land:  
I say, Great, Valiant, Noble, excelling far  
Caesar, Pompey, or great Alexander,  
Whose splendid Virtues radiantly display  
Themselves to all, more clearer than the day.  
Thy humble Selfdenying doth express  
Thee far above the height of any Verse,  
That can be writ of thee, in Love or Fear:  
Go on therefore blessed Soul, and persevere  
T' expel from place of profit, and of trust,  
Such Vermin, who with Coin their Bags do thrust.   

The next in order to Deans Obsequies,  
We do invite to breathe sad Elegies:  
Whose Lines may far surpass the height of mine,  
Whom I must fitly style the Worthies nine.  
And first the Valiant Fleetwood I do take,  
With Noble Lambert, and Victorious Blake,  
And prudent Harrison I'll not omit,  
Nor the most Pious Desborough; or yet  
The sixth renowned Worthy, Whaley, and  
The brave Hero Rich may most justly stand;  
With Gallant Monk, who may be ranked with you,  
Heroic Lilborne may well be added too:  
With many more, whose worth I'll now not name,  
But wish them pattern take by Deans Great Fame:  
Who had he lived the curled Waves t'have teared,  
Rome had ere long this Noble Hero heard  
At her proud Gates, them to account to call,  
For the Saints blood they spilt, and Martyrs all;  
That they did drink full deep in that sad Cup,  
Of which brave Blake will give them for to sup.  
When Dean the truly Noble, and the brave  
Heroic Soul shall be laid in the Grave,  
Where he may rest, and be interred hard by  
The worthy Ireton, and old Essex; lie  
Near unto Popham: and make room,  
For Pious Sparrow in your  Tomb:  
And thence let your own Echoes multiply  
Blest Hymas, and Muses writ continually;  
Whilst you do rest in your black Obsequies,  
With greater Glory set, than others rise.   

R Remorseless Death! What hast thou done? Excelled  
I In conquering him, who valiantly had erst  
C Curbed the proud curled Waves, and often quelled  
H High hogen's ins'lence, their Ships and men dispersed.  
A All the brave acts thou didst on Sea or Shore,  
R Report thee famous, and declare thee more  
D Direly lamented, with tears running over.   

D Dean's dead, why do I say he's dead? He lives  
E Eternally; and hath received that Crown  
A Attended his great Conquests, where ' he receives  
N New joys in Heaven, repleated with renown.   By I: R: Merchant.  

LONDON, Printed by Tho: Rycroft, and are to be sold by Tho: jenner, at the Royal Exchange, 1653▪