AN elegy upon the Honourable Colonel Thomas Rainsbrough, butchered at Doncaster Sunday the 29. Octob. 1648.  

'Twas like yourselves brave royalists, such a blow,  
As ne'er a subject of that Prince below  
Great Pluto's sacred majesty durst own.  
But you are bolder devils; and have shown  
By this one barbarous act worse Furies dwell  
Within your breast then in the talked of Hell,  
The powers of darkness, in your heads, strange fires  
Of Lust within your veins; thirsting desires  
For blood of Innocents; rapines, butcheries,  
Wrath, malice, thousand oaths, ten thousand lies:  
These are flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone▪  
And if these be not devils there are none.   

When the bold Cymbrian was sent to kill  
Great Caius Marius; he went less in ill:  
Durst not his hands in innocence imbrue:  
Cymbrians are Saints (Dear Cabs) compared with you.   

But can the dragon's tail prevail so far  
As to sweep down to th'dust of death a star  
Of such a magnitude? such rays? whose sphaeare  
was in the heart of God, and only there?  
Will not bold Atheists question providence  
And conclude 'gainst a Deity from hence?  
Is there a righteous God? and could he see,  
A naked, single valour, charged by three  
Armed furies, and not draw his own, nor lend  
A sword into the hand of such a friend?  
Forsaken valour! whether wilt thou fly  
For succour, when both heaven and earth deny  
To be thy second? But stop stop my soul:  
Heavens ways are just: earth may not heaven control  
What if Heaven purposed Rainsbroughs fall to be  
A prop for England's dying liberty?  
And did in Love thus suffer one to fall  
That Charles by Treaty might not ruin all?  
For who'll expect that Treaty should do good  
whose longer date commenced in Rainsbroughs' blood?  
See noble Fairfax, and bold Cromwell see  
What honours are prepared for thee, and thee.  
Conclude a peace with Charles; thus you shall ride  
Triumphant, with your robes of Scarlet died  
In your own dearest blood: thus your Arrears  
You noble souls are paid; the tyrant's fears  
Thus cured: thus (if you be not wise) you'll feel  
In stead of Gold he'll pay you all with steel.  
Then let's adore that providence whose ways,  
And works, do all proclaim aloud his praise.  
And thou great Victim who wast set apart  
For us, shalt find a tomb in every heart  
That is not prostituted to the Lust  
Of a right Reverend or royal dust:  
And on that tomb which doth such valour hold  
This Epitaph shall stand in lines of Gold.   

Epitaphium.  
Here lies as much true valour, as could die:  
A sacrifice for England's Liberty.  
Great, and Good Rainsborough, (enough is said)  
Through Chomleys' pride and Cowardice betrayed.   
J. T.