On the sad Loss of the truly Honourable ROBERT Lord BROOK:  
An Elegy, To his Virtuous and Noble Lady.  

SWEET LADY,  

Can your weeping Eye behold  
A paper, sadly offered, where 'tis told,  
Your Lord is Dead? And so Untimely too?  
Triple to You, to Us a double Woe.  
'Tis Sad to Say; Sadder to you to Hear:  
Unhappy he, must be the Messenger.   

Yet since you Know so True, so Sad a Woe,  
Give leave to let you know, We know it too.  
we first your Loss, and then your Grief bemoan;  
(Some Ease, in Sadness, not to weep Alone:)  
Our Tears (ambitious) make their sad address;  
(we'd bear a part, that You might weep the less.)  
Give leave, we pray, to join in Tears with You,  
(Yet weep we shall, whether with leave, or no:)  
And make this paper blest to kiss your hand,  
From him who's pressed,   
MADAM, At Your Command, JOHN WALLIS.    

AN ELEGY On the much Lamented Death of the Right Honourable ROBERT Lord BROOK.  

MIght I have seen what was desired by all:  
How glad would I, or not compose at all,  
Or in another stile; and not rehearse  
Heroïck Worth in Elegeïck Verse.  
Or else, might I, and they to whom as dear,  
Weep him Alive that's Dead, though every tear  
Were tears of Blood, how willing would we pour  
A fare more precious, then love's Golden, Shower  
On this Sad Object, on this Bloody sight,  
And with our tears or Guild, or wash him White.  
But Now (unhappy) cannot but complain,  
With sad bemoaning tears, (though tears in vain)  
What's past recall, and we, though no redress  
Can be expected, must not hold our peace.   

But how (alas!) should I begin to speak,  
(Where all Hyperboles will seem too weak  
To equalise) in Measures to express  
What knows no other measure but Excess?  
Or who can Bound over-abounding Tears,  
Within the straightness of an even Verse?   

If then perhaps I hardly weep in Rhyme;  
If not in Consort; (Tears can keep no Time)  
If no melodious Harmony be shown;  
Think but, 'Tis Hard, to put a Tear in Tune.  
(Yet harder, not to Weep.—) Imperfect Tones  
Serve well enough to signify our Groans.  
A Long, a Large, are all the Notes we know;  
(Minim and Sembrief Rests are long enough)  
Our Accents tuned to the Highest Key;  
(And yet our Sighs deeper than Gam-ut be:)  
Nor curious are to make the Consort sweet,  
That all keep equal Time, that Closes meet;  
None tunes his Voice unto another's String;  
(This Verse was made to Weep, and not to Sing)  
All weep a Part, but no Accord can keep,  
(Save only thus, That all agree to weep;)  
Oft weep a Sharp, when our sad Thoughts be Flat;  
If Discords oft appear, yet wonder not;  
Some Harmony may Disproportion give,  
Discordant Accents show Consent in Grief.   

Then weep we must. That Heart is too too hard,  
That in a public Sadness would be spared.  
Public, I say, yet more than Common, Grief;  
(Else might a Common Cordial yield relief,)  
'Tis not a Lady mourns, not I, alone,  
I am but Speaker of a Kingdom's moan:  
A Kingdoms public loss it is; all those  
Have lost in Him, that had but aught to lose.  
Yea those (as yet) that count his Loss a Gain,  
Will (after) say, 'Twas pity Brook was slain.   

Such Meekness lodged in a so Noble Breast;  
Such Candour mixed with such Heroicknesse;  
His Thoughts so Low joined with Deserts so High;  
Practise of Truth as well as Theory;  
Not quick (as some) to Bid and slow to Act,  
Praising to others what themselves detract;  
His thoughts the same with what he did pretend;  
A Course direct as well as upright End;  
An Active Vigour with Integrity,  
Straight Aims pursued not with an Obliqne Eye:  
Should I or this or more dilate, yet less  
Is said in Words, than what our Tears express.   

How gladly would my pen persist to tell,  
How willing would my pleased Fancy dwell  
On this so sweet a subject, as to say  
How Good he was, how well deserving He;  
His Learning, Wisdom, Worth, and Piety,  
Worthy how long to live, how late to die;  
To speak his Praise, of his Deserts to boast:  
But that 'tis sad to think, All this is lost.  
Counting His Worth, we count our Losses too;  
That we Admire, This doth increase our Woe.  
All this, and more than this, is lost in One,  
All this is lost when Noble Brook is gone.   

Might sad entreating Tears at any hand  
Avail with Death, or who doth Death command,  
To spare his Life; what floods of these had been,  
To purchase it, long since bestowed on him▪  
For those which now lament him caught away,  
With more advantage might obtain his stay.  
Or might some Others death have Him excused,  
There were, no doubt, who would not have refused  
To rescue him, and purchase by their Death,  
That He (more worthy) might have longer breath.  
But no entreaties can (though ne'er so just)  
Either Reprieve or Ransom him: But must  
Himself, arrested, (None by Proxy Dies)  
Appear in Person: Death accepts no price.  
If naked Death alone, who can withstand?  
Much more appearing with an Armed hand.   

But is there left us no return from death?  
Doth not each breath we breathe breathe out our breath,  
Which yet the next recalls? Not so in all:  
This last exspiring breath is past recall.   

Which if a Single Loss, the loss were less;  
(Though Great) but when it forwards the success  
Of our contrived woe; What shall we say?  
May He be more bewailed that's caught away,  
Or we that stay behind, reserved to see  
The sadder sequel of that Tragedy?  
He shall not see (whatever we may do)  
A Glorious Kingdoms sad approaching Woe.  
He shall not see, not seeing shall bemoan  
An (once renowned) Land soon overthrown.  
This shall not now perplex his resting Eye,  
Blest with a better sight than Misery.   

But what remaineth Us we cannot see;  
The safer he, the nearer danger we:  
And what approaching danger might descry,  
In losing his, the Kingdom lost an Eye.  
An Eye so dear, had we but known its price,  
It had been ransomed, though with both our Eyes.  
How glad might we (a happy change it had been)  
Weep out our own, could we but weep his in.  
But weep we may; yet Tears will nought avail:  
Who grants no Quarter, will accept no Bail.  
Nor can distinguish by our different tears,  
'Twixt Poor and Noble; all in death are peers.   

Then why complain? could we or less expect,  
Or think for Him Death would decline his tract?  
Is't not determined, all must here agree?  
Then sure He must, as well as others, die.   

'Tis true, he must: But must he die so soon?  
Before his Strength, before his Work be done?  
If so; must one so mean effect his end?  
Shall Hector die not by Achilles' hand?  
If die he must; if so untimely too;  
Is Noble Blood spilt by we know not who?   

Then weep we may; not that we think't unfit,  
(Not envy Heaven to Him, or Him to it)  
That he, of whom the Earth unworthy was,  
Should be advanced to a more Happy place:  
But that we want his help, or to compose  
Our sad distracted times, or quell our foes.  
When those pull down that aught to underprop;  
When Foreign starvelings come to eat Us. up.  
When Popish Armies (more than one) in sight,  
Do for the Protestant Religion fight,  
(To take it from us;) when (a viperous brood)  
Who sometimes sucked our Breasts, now suck our Blood,  
(Be it a poisoned draught;) and thus requite,  
For what they have, and what expect they might.  
Like her that once (be their success as bad)  
A precious Hen (though undeserved) had,  
That laid a Golden Egg each day but once,  
Willing (so greedy) to have all at once  
By a compendious way, she killed her Hen,  
Thinking to find those precious Eggs within:  
As was her Gain, let their Success be such;  
So disappointed; not, prevail so much.   

The readiest way, they thought, by which they might  
Effect their Plot, was to put out our Sight:  
A tender Eye must be the mark designed:  
'Twas (sure) they meant to make Religion Blind.  
No marvel then: They thought (as well they might)  
The way to Darkness was to quench the Light.  
A Moat, perhaps, they might pretend to see,  
Which only to remove, their care should be;  
And, first concluding, he might see amiss,  
They only meant to work a cure by this.  
But if a Beam they could as soon descry,  
They might have seen, theirs was the Evil Eye:  
(Which if't offend they may pluck out) not His,  
Which saw aright, though saw what was amiss.  
Truth is, indeed, they thought it saw too much,  
And therefore plucked it out, their rage was such:  
Loath to be seen they were, and could not brook,  
Their deeds of darkness he should overlook:  
But take his Eye from Him, and Him from Us,  
Their ends the better to accomplish thus.   

But must we Die? And Unrevenged too?  
By Such a Hand? Such miscreants work our Woe?  
Let me die first, and not survive to see,  
Before I die, sad England's obsequy.  
'Tis Death to Think; 'tis Worse than death to See;  
To bear a Part, is the least death of Three.   

This to prevent, who saw too much before,  
He closed his Eyes, willing to see no more.  
Yet first bewailed our woe with Tears of Blood,  
(A sad prefage) 'twas the last thing he did.   

Anagram.  

GREVILIUS.  
VERGILIUS.   
And if 
* Sic scribendum cont●ndit Politianus, cum aliis.  VERGILIUS, why not MARO too?  
Our AMOR sure he was, we Loved him so.    
FINIS.