AN elegy  
In memory, and at the Interring of the Body of the most famous and truly Noble Knight, Sir Henry MERVYN.  
Pattern of all true Valour; Worth, and Arts, who departed this life the 30. of May, and lies Interred at Westminster, Anno doo: 1646.  

With wondering raptures, darting at the air  
Much grief and anguish, sadness and despair,  
With mournings, ●usings, madness, and a mind  
Cast down so low, disconsolate, combined,   

With cruel thoughts, to tear the Stars, and strive  
To pluck the Planets; who by power deprive  
Those admired Spirits, so inspired with worth.  
And rob those rare Excellencies of earth;   

What fatal planet; placed in the sky  
Durst thus triumph? What cruel destiny  
Durst dare to meddle, or molest thy Spirit,  
Which did all virtues to the full inherit?   

The rarest model of admired Parts,  
Pure quintessence, of exquisite deserts,  
So Singular, no Second could admit,  
The very essence of all acute wit.   

The Emphasis of every praise we read,  
And Source from whence all knowledge did proceed,  
The life of learning and a light to all  
That lived, or had their being on this Ball.   

Nature is nothing, if it hath not Art;  
But it in thee, perfection did impart  
In such abundance, that I do believe  
Art, here, by nature, was superlative,   

Thy thoughts were such: they soared on sacred wing●  
unlimited, to Sublunary things,  
Were all subleame, or at the least too high,  
for usual Spirits, men's Capacity;   

Throughout all Nations, Notable for Fame,  
Whose worth, all after ages shall procleame,  
Who scorned the honours of this present age,  
Nor found it fit, thy virtues to, engage   

With such as strove, in State to be extolled,  
Or wrapped by favour, in a new framed Mould,  
Let all the Muses, mourn in sable Coats,  
Heavens' choristers, sing Melancholyk notes;   

Let all the Arts, both moral, and Divine,  
All Curious Poets, add one mournful line  
To show their love, our loss, and let them pen  
The highest praise, appropriate to men,   

And yield them all; as attributes most due,  
To do him honour, and again renew  
Their Verse once more; and write upon his Chest.  
The quickest Wit, the rarest mind, the best.   

Dame nature's darling, singular in skill,  
Of all the arts, and sciences, no quill  
Can Comprehend, Contrive, or Calculate,  
His true demerits; nor can Elevate.   

His Worth; nor yet Apelles Coloured art,  
Nor Zeuxes pencil, if alive, impart  
His prudence, and his pregn●nt Eloquence,  
His practice, rare performance, Eminence,   

Nor yet his outwards, objects of our Eye,  
None could at all, draw to the life; but lie  
And let them be, but as they are the aim,  
To figure forth, things signified by them;  
Nor hath he left, behind, one so expert,  
Upon the Stage; equal to play his part,  
Yet all these could not, add one hours' increase  
Unto his time, you see all flesh is graft.  
No usual quill could draw so rare a shape,  
The best Experience, could not well escape,  
But it must err, nor none can draw his mind  
No more than they, Can fathom up wind.   

Wherefore in silence, I must cease, and wonder,  
So thou mayst stay, swift passenger, and ponder:  
What piece of Earth, lies here intembed, and then  
Go tell that Mervin, was the praise of Men.   

SIR Henry MERVIN; Anagram. My hit's e'er in heaven, Anagram. Here in my urn:  

My hit's ever in heaven, then do not mourn.  
There rests my soul; my earth; Here in my urn. Anagram.  
Here in my urn, in secret where i lie,  
Confined by fate, or human destiny.  
Fame passing hence; struck in a Maze, stood dumb,  
And writ these words, upon my painted Tomb  
With sighs, and tears, and sacrificed groans,  
And left them all, as witnesses at once  
For to be viewed who having tribute paid,  
Straight vanished quite; these were the words were said,   

Epitaph.  

Mervyn the model moral and divine,  
Of all that nature's knowledge could combine,  
Lies here, but yet for all of this Conceive  
His boundless worth, Could not come to the Grave  
But lives; and still, so long as time doth last,  
His fame (shall far, exceed the worthiest.  
Who in a word, proves truly such a theme  
That you may read Minerva in his Name.     

To the Island of England, and the universal Ocean.  

O English Island, hence forbear to boast:  
You boundless Oceans, which surround its Coast,  
Disclose your secrets: neither swell with pride,  
Since Mervyn now, the Marinors best guide,  
Is gone; for if, thy stormy Waves arise,  
No Art, nor Skill, can Christendom devise  
To compass safely; he, was only he,  
Who could triumph, and in thy deep did see  
Those hidden dangers, which devoured a world,  
For want of knowledge, and were headlong hurled,  
Beyond their bounds; but O! What trophies can  
Be then Created: for so rare a Man?  
No; none at all; but such as may seem Odd,  
And must be made: by Neptun who's a God.  
And that is this; the skies shall change their kind  
Into a curtain; and constrain the Wind  
To stay; and henceforth never more shall blow,  
But be a substance, and no airy show  
Shall thence proceed; but shall as Emblem's fly  
Gaized on, and wondered at, with mortals eye:  
As signs of honour; and shall so remain,  
Till Mervyn be, raised from the dust again.    


Henry MERVYN. Anag. renew my hire.  
Henry MERVYN. Anag. Merry in heaven.  
Dystichon renew my hire; and make me one of them  
That's Merry in heaven, 'tis all whereat I aim.    

Eccrostick.  

Here, learning's Compend, Miracolous in Arts  
estranged doth lie; (endowed with Divine Parts)  
No more to more, Removed from our sphere,  
remains above, unstained, in spotless air,  
just and ingenuous Yet he must Submit,  
Even unto death, Nothing can Conquer it  
But his perfection, who made him perfect,  
Where Mervyn lives, with Angels, in Delight.   By W: MERCER.   

London, Printed by Jane Coe, 1646.