Sunne or Moone wee nothing at all wonder or grieve because wee know either Starre will reassume its former splendour So wee who are conscious of the divine promise of Immortality should undismay'd believe the death of this our honour'd friend no other then a passage to a better eternal life I wil conclude with this double consolation to all his Honourers First that hee died with that matchlesse comfort The love of all men and heard yet living the judgement men would passe on him dead and was as it were present with Posterity Secondly that whereas here hee ranne a perpetuall hazard in that hee carried a heavenly Treasure in an Earthy Vessell hee now lives in an unmoved Securitie and that Treasure is enclosed in a Magazine to which the Heavens are Walls and the Angels Warders It is now high time to cover this sweet beautifull issue who with the Rose and Violet is lay'd downe to sleepe in the Bosome of his first Mother the Earth and shal enjoy though it may be not so suddaine yet as certaine a Spring as they and which is more an everlasting FINIS ELEGIES VPON THE DEATH OF THE LAST LORD STAFFORD AS over-rich-men find it harder farre T' employ what they possess then poore men are Such is the state of those who write of thee Whilst in that larger field displaid they see All objects which may helpe invention in They know not where to end where to begin And as into this Labyrinth they fall Loth to omit the least praise lose them all Then whilst some stile thee with the glorious name Of lineall heire to Mighty Buckingham And tels the greatnesse of thy line that springs From such as could raise up and throw downe Kings I le not looke backe but with the Indians runne To meete and court thee as my rising Sunne My offrings to thy mem'ry shall be seene In telling what thou wert or wouldst have beene Why say I wouldst when the most jealous eye Could find no want though in thine infancy Which some say promist much this I disdaine For where the gifts are promises are vaine Since in this noble youth who did not see The old mans wisdome young mans industrie An humble Majesty that could tell how To scorne a league with pride yet make it bow Whose courage was not in extreames like ours With ebs and flowes causd by the passions powers But was a constant ever grafted love To blessed goodnesse and the powers above Who though he joyed in this fraile mortall life As one whose soule had felt no ingor'd strife Nor labour'd with impatient hast like some To breake their prison ere the freedome come Yet when the ever seeing power had found So faire a flowre planted in barren ground Whose glorious beauties which that frame inspir'd Were envyed more then followed or admir'd Resolv'd to take what he had onely lent As giving him reward us punishment Then death was welcome and he so resign'd Not feeling griefe to leave nor feare to find That such his parting was as might be said Whilst he staid here he liv'd not but obey'd That happy call which all cleare soules expect Whose doubtfull states are chang'd to be elect Let then such friends as mourne the sad decay Of his great house in him the onely stay Lift up their wondring eyes and for him looke In Angels Quires not in a Heralds Booke Yet though the roote be taken hence to plant Where heavenly moisture it can never want There yet remaines a branch shall ever shine Engrafted in the noble Howards line Iohn Beaumount Vpon the Death of the most hopefull the Lord STAFFORD MVst then our Loves be short still Must we choose Not to enjoy onely admire and loose Must Axioms hence grow sadly understood And we thus see 'T is dangerous to be good So Bookes begunne are broken off and we Receive a fragment for an History And as 't were present wealth what was but debt Lose that of which we were not Owners yet But as in bookes that want the closing line We onely can conjecture and repine So must we heere too onely grieve and guesse And by our fancy make what 's wanting lesse Thus when rich webs are left unfinished The Spider doth supply them with her thred For tell me what addition can be wrought To him whose Youth was even the bound of thought Whose buddings did deserve the Robe whiles we In smoothnesse did the deeds of wrinckles see When his state-nonage might have beene thought fit To breake the custome and allow'd to sit His actions veil'd his age and could not stay For that which we call ripenesse and just day Others may waite the staffe and the gray-haire And call that Wisedome which is onely Feare Christen a coldnesse temp'rance and then boast Full and Ripe Vertue when all action 's lost This is not to be noble but be slacke A Stafford ne're was good by th' Almanacke He who thus stayes the season and expects Doth not gaine habits but disguise defects Heere Nature outstrips Culture He came try'd Strait of himselfe at first not rectifi'd Manners so pleasing and so handsome cast That still that overcame that was shewne last All mindes were captiv'd thence as if 't had beene The same to him to have beene lov'd and seene Had he not bin snatchd thus what drive hearts now Into his nets would have driven Cities too For these his Essaies which began to win Were but bright sparkes which shew'd the Mine within Rude draughts unto the picture things we may Stile the first beames of the encreasing day Which did but onely great discoveries bring As outward coolenesse shewes the inward spring Nor were his actions to content the sight Like Artists Pieces plac'd in a good light That they might take at distance and obtrude Something unto the eye that might delude His deeds did all most perfect then appeare When you observ'd view'd close and did stand neere For could there ought else spring from him whose line From which he sprung was rule discipline Whose Vertues were as Bookes before him set So that they did instruct who did beget Taught thence not to be powerfull but know Shewing he was their blood by living so For whereas some are by their bigge lippe knowne Others b' imprinted burning swords were showne So they by great deeds are from which bright fame Engraves free reputation on their name These are their Native markes and it hath bin The Staffords lot to have their signes within And though this firme Hereditary good Might boasted be as flowing with the blood Yet he nere graspt this stay But as those who Carry perfumes about them still scarce doe Themselves perceive them though anothers sense Sucke in th' exhaling odours so he thence Ne'r did perceive he carry'd this good smell But made new still by doing himselfe well T' embalme him then is vaine where spreading fame Supplies the want of spices where the Name It selfe preserving may for Ointments passe And he still
seene lye coffind as in glasse Whiles thus his bud dims full flowres and his sole Beginning doth reproach anothers whole Comming so perfect up that there must needes Have beene found out new Titles for new deeds Though youth and lawes forbid which will not let Statues be rais'd or him stand Brasen yet Our mindes retaine this Royalty of Kings Not to be bound to time but judge of things And worship as they merit there we doe Place him at height and he stands golden too A comfort but not equall to the crosse A faire remainder but not like the losse For he that last pledge being gone we doe Not onely lose the Heire but th' honour too Set we up then this boast against our wrong He left no other signe that he was young And spight of fate his living vertues will Though he be dead keepe up the Barony still Will. Cartwright On the much lamented Death of the Lord Stafford T Is not t' enbalme his name or crowne his herse That our sad thoughts flow in our eyes verse Or t' adde a lustre to his dimmed name Which onely now must shine in Heaven and Fame This were to hold a Taper out by night And cry thus shone the glorious Suns faire light To view his rising splendor at our noone Were in a shadow to set out the Sun Nor doe we Cypresse bring in hope of Bayes As death makes many Poets now a dayes Our teares flow by instinct and a cold frost Seazing our Palsie-joynts told what was lost Before the fat all knell not a dirge sung Nere a sad peale of Elegies was rung No bearded wonder or propheticke flame Vsher'd the ruine of his house and name Yet then we melted in a chilling sweat And every fainting brest did something threat Not each dayes wonder some strange newes come Creeping upon us like the generall doome And this was Staffords death in his owne fall A world of people felt their funerall And lost a being they nere had for he Writ not a man but House or Familie Thus have I seene a little silken clew Of compleated twists at the first view Comprised in a palme but ravel'd out And drawne to lines the thread will winde about Countries or townes Great shade the fate was thine Who by the issue of thy Noble line Might soone have peopled Kingdomes but thy all Is now wound up in a small urne or ball And all thy vertues in sad weedes doe lye Onely spun out into thy memory Thus have we lost what goodnesse knew to dwell In flesh and clay more worth then we dare tell As for an Epitaph upon his stone Write this Here lie a thousand Lords in one Geo. Zouch A. M. N. C. OX On the Death of the Noble Lord STAFFORD OThers to Staffords Herse Encomiums give Not that his worth but that their wit may live My Muse hath no such aime it is lesse praise To beare Apollo's then his fun'rall Bayes Nor is 't the Lord I mourne what is 't to me Who am no Herald if a Baron die I doe not hope for fees I 'me none of those That pay downe teares for legacies or clothes My solemne griefe flowes in a Nobler tide Soone as I heard one so well qualifi'd Had put off clay the fright not newes strucke deepe And made my eye of Vnderstanding weepe He was no Pagiant Courtier such as can Onely make legs like a fine Gentleman Though 's outside shew'd all that the nicer eye Of critique Madams could desire to see Yet was his soule more gay his ample brest Was in a silken disposition drest And with Heroicke habits richly lin'd The Vertues had no Wardrob but his mind As th' Honours and the Lands so he alone The worth of all his Ancestours did owne And yet that He is dead so dead that here Is nought preserves his name but 's tombe sheire That Noble Stocke is spent injurious Fate To make a House so ancient desolate Felton kild Englands George and with his knife Onely not cut the thred of others life We had some comfort left in that his blood Was not quite spilt after his fall he stood Transcrib'd in pretty Emblems which we all Read as true Copies of th' Originall But none survives this Phaenix 't is our woe To have this Sunne not set but put out too The Gard'ner weepes not when his Lillies die If they their seed leave as a Legacie But should an onely Flower the Gardens gem Wither in her full pride and of her stem Bequeath no slip the poore mans eyes each plot Of ground would wet without his water-pot No wonder 't is that reverend Arundell And other Lords doe grone out Staffords knell Since at his fall a Race of Heroes dyed Which can't but by Creation be supply'd Ri. West On the Death of the Lord STAFFORD WHat trust to titles shame t' our hopes ther 's gone One who was none can say how many a one Muses you are too few to waite on 's Ghost Wandring in sorry sheetes to tell what 's lost His Peerelesse Body earth'd some eyes may weepe As if they had never seene him but asleepe But those who view'd with somewhat more then eye The finer beauties of thy mind put by The griefe of teares and call their Consistory Of inward Powers to lament thy story Perfection which might tempt the Scribes of Fate To voluntary pennance force their hate Recoyle upon themselves to Nature sweare Rebatement of such rigour Was 't not severe To cast the blackenesse of dead night so soone On Noble lustre entring into noone How is deluding Heav'n thus pleas'd to whet Our hopes for Harvest and then blight the Wheate This was not all great Ghost we connot free Thee from contempt of sad Mortalitie Thou thought'st enough thy star should guide the wise To honour which thy selfe meant to despise Thy high-borne Spirit ripening into Man Deem'd that so scant a measure must needs span Short of thy merit so sliding out o' th' roule Of earthy Titles thou wouldst shift thy soule But yet me thinkes though Heav'n envy our soyle Such vertuous Simples Mercy should not spoile A Garden of it's onely verdant pride Vntill some hopefull plants were set beside The plucks-up Olive that the same sweete veine Might spring and flourish in high bloud againe Our stocke of Honour's is rooted up yet greene Whose draught 's uncoppyed must no more be seene An ancient house in this new rubbish lyes Here urn'd the ashes of whole Families As if the Church in need of Ornaments Should hence her number have of monuments Proud exercise of Sextons who dare live By fatall dust and looke that piety give To see this shrine and know that in this One There liv'd and dy'd a Generation No member of a Tribe who fils this Tombe He 's Sepulchre of Staffords name in whom A Race and Field is lost a Pedegree And Catalogue of Heroes Could not presaging feares which oft divine i th' fall of one the
sinking of a Line Move one yeares haste to sow in Hymen's bed Some seed which when thou ere mer't gathered In living buds might fresh and growing save The Grand-sire trunke from rotting in a grave But since the closing of thine eyes alone Wink's many glorious Tapers into none We waile thy death more thy Virginity We lose in that in this posterity Thy soule might still have liv'd in others breath Whose single life is now a numerous death Io. Castillion On the most immature Death of the late young Lord Stafford the last Baron of that Family WHat Nemesis what envious fate Still waites on those who antedate Their yeares by vertue and behind Cast slow pac't age with swiftest mind So 't is wise nature shortest day Allowes to things which post away The long liv'd Olive tree of peace And Lawrell slowly doe increase But the early pledge of Spring The Primrose soone is withering So Ceres oft with too much haste Her yellow dangling lockes doth waste And having rose too soone from bed Before night hangs her drowsie head O see what hopes which raisd were high To aggravate our misery Now blasted as a starre which shone New shot from Heaven are flit and gone Have you seene a Pine tree proud Her head invested in a cloud Which the fatall axe hath throwne Or the giddy whirlewind blowne Whilst th' Hamadryades with floods Of teares doe drowne their mournfull woods And Sylvan his espoused Queene Laments faire hopefull fresh and greene Have you seene a vessell trim Vpon the smiling Sea to swim Whose sayles doe gently swell with aire Of many a Merchants zealous prayer O never ship with greater pride Did on a watry mountaine ride But strait a blustring storme doth rise And dasheth her against the skies Then on a rocke her glory teares No shrikes nor cryes nor clamours heares Or have you seene but newly borne The rosy-finger'd fairest morne Whilest the sprightfull Satyres play And leape to see the golden ray But then a sullen cloud this light Turn's to a darke and dismall night These were Emblems of thy fall Noblest Stafford so I 'de call Vertue by this name she 's knowne And t is more proper then her owne But which deeper wounds with thee Dy'd thy stem and Baronie As that Nymph which by the Pine Liv'd and with the same doth life resigne When the Deluge did deface The booke of nature humane race Reprinted was and found supply From the floating Library But of Stafford w' have lost all Both transcript and originall Onely some margent notes are left To tel's of what we are bereft Here multa desunt which to fill Passeth the learned Criticks skill But as in ruin'd abbyes we Admire their faire deformity And doe build up thoughts from thence To reach the first magnificence So yet of Staffords house doe stand Some sacred reliques which command Our rev'rence and by these we see What was his noble Pedigree Whose earthly armes inter'd doe ly But soule plac't in th' aetheriall skie Shines with star-blaz'd nobility Charles Mason On the Death of the Right Honorable Lord the Lord STAFFORD being the last of that Noble Family VNseasonable Fate vexe not our sence With Balefull sorrowes due forty yeares hence Must Stafford needs expire at twenty foure Because in goodnesse onely he 's three score So have we seene the morning Sun to lay His glory downe and make a rainie day Trust me ye Destinies it was unjust So soone to lay his honour in the dust But we doe fixe our sorrowes as upon A private fate when 't is a publicke one And weepe alas as yet but with one eye If but for one we weepe why here doth lie Not my Lord onely but a Family No no! he 's but the Center-point from whence Our grones and sighes fetch their Circumference Here we must teach our eye to drop a teare Even for the losse of those who never were Griefes mysterie we must for those be sad Who lose a being which they never had Must ye your selves O Parcae women prove In that the greenest of our fruites ye loue Fruites which not cropt had thriv'd into a Tree Of a large branching Geneologie Ye might have seaz'd some puling witlesse Heire And made a younger Brother 't had beene faire And we had Praise and kist those bloody palmes Which in the killing this gave to'ther Almes But you will no such spotted sacrifice Such please not yet for such are in your eyes Are neither good for earth nor yet for Heaven Stafford must onely make your weeke-Bill even He 's good and therefore ripe thus still we finde That good wares first goe off bad stay behinde Will. Wallen Coll. Joan. Soc. Vpon the Death of the young Lord STAFFORD VNequall nature that dost load not paire Bodies with soules too great for them to beare As some put extracts that for soules may passe Still quickning where they are in frailer glasse Whose active gen'rous spirits scorne to live By such weake meanes and slight preservative So high-borne mindes whose dawning 's like the day In torrid climes cast forth a full noone-ray Whose vigorous brests inherit throng'd in one A race of soules by long succession And rise in their descents in whom we see Entirely summ'd a new borne Ancestry These soules of fire whose eager thoughts alone Create a feaver or consumption Orecharge their bodyes lab'ring in the strife To serve so quicke and more then mortall life Where every contemplation doth oppresse Like fits o' th Calenture and kils no lesse Goodnesse hath its extreames as well as sin And brings as vice death and diseases in This was thy fate great Staffords thy feirce speed T' outlive thy yeares to throng in every deed A masse of vertues hence thy minutes swell Not to a long life but long Chronicle Great name for that alone is left to be Call'd great and 't is no small Nobility To leave a name when we deplore the fall Of thy brave stem and in thee of them all Who dost this glory to thy race dispence Now knowne to Honour t' end with Innocence Me thinkes I see a sparke from thy dead eye Cast beames on thy deceast Nobility Witnesse those marble heads whom Westminster Adores perhaps without a nose or eare Are now twice raised from the dust and seeme New sculp't againe when thou art plac't by them When thou the last of that brave house deceast Hadst none to cry our Brother but the Priest And this true riddle is to ages sent Stafford is his Fore-father's Monument Richard Godfrey On the untimely Death of the Lord STAFFORD NOt to adorne his herse or give Him another age to live Need we to pretend at wit His worth hath intercepted it Whose every vertue doth require A Muse that onely can admire Death though he strove his utmost fear'd He could not take him unprepar'd H' had ripenesse in his Infancy And liv'd well in Epitomie Of what we hop'd in others he At th' same age had maturity
But he is dead we may outdare Death now as having nought to feare The world hath lost her chiefest blisse Heaven the onely gainer is One blow hath kil'd more then the plague and we In losing one have lost plurality A sense might have beene better spar'd your price We would have thought too but a sacrifice Such as was I saacks Ram that sav'd in one Iust Patriarch a generation One star we may see shoot without a grone But should we lose a constellation 'T would puzzle Astrologie nay almost By losing one your science would be lost Fate 's wisdome see that he might leave our tast In rellish he cut off your choycest last H. B. Vpon the Death of my Lord STAFFORD the last Baron of that Ancient Stocke GRieve not ye Sacred Ancestours of Fame As if this were the carcasse of your Name The Barke now flourishes we may presume He 's planted and not buryed in the Tombe Your famous branches by his fall are blowne His fate becomes your Resurrection Good deeds were all his Progeny whilst he Leaves them no other state but memory The Titles and Revenues let them hoord That doe delight to heare these words My Lord In Stafford I confesse they bore some weight Cause they spoke him as well as this estate It was his Name not Title and that tone Made him not famous onely better knowne Deserts well plac'd shine more It is a tie And reverence to Vertue to be high Should the Sunne falling to the earth fixe here Hee 'd suffer an eclipse from his owne sphere Sure to prevent that old and glorious itch He dy'd before the age of being Rich No Lands was ever he possess'd of save That small unhappy portion of a grave Death did deliver him we may be bold To stile it his redemption from Gold Wealth is a sinne though us'd and to be free Yet never want is but kind usury He was so witty yet sincere that we Dare say he meant ev'n an Hyperbole He could not flatter what he spake was knowne No complement but an expression Postures in him were Vertues for when he Did bend it was not pride but charitie His hat went off so honestly we may Affirme he onely did himselfe betray Not like to those that study the Court stride And learne the decent stitch on the left side He nothing to the streame o' th' Time did owe The Staffords manners from themselves still flow We must despaire thy equall unlesse he Could with thy Titles too inherit thee H. R. On the Death of the Right Honorable Edward Lord Stafford WHen brave Heroick spirits flie from hence That govern'd others by their influence Each Muse with Cypresse crownd instead of Bayes Makes them the subject of their teares and prayes Who were examples living being dead With living Monuments are honoured When other's course earth doth neglected lye That liv'd as if they onely liv'd to die But with what Marble or what Brasse shall we Honour the Noble Staffords memory Whose very Name inscrib'd would lustre give Enough to make those dead materials live The glorious minde dwelt in his Noble brest Did entertaine each Vertue for its guest And what soe're was opposite and foule For ever banisht from his Christan soule He was as good as great and taught the Time By what safe steps men might to Honour climbe Yet ventrous death with his impartiall Darts Hath disunited those his different parts Whilst th' earth doth his more richer earth containe What came from Heaven is thither flowne againe E. B. Medii Templi On the deplored Death of Edward Lord Stafford the last Baron of his Name STay Death and heare a short plea we would crave Onely the mercy of a single grave And that at one stroke thou wouldst kill but one In him thou slayst a generation Then ere thou strikst Death know thy sin for this Not a plaine Murder but Massacre is Compendious slaughter of a Family What yet unknowne Plague shall we title thee What Power art thou what strange Influence That thus usurpst the spleene of Pestilence Can the Grave propagate that there should be As yet a new kinde of mortality Sure I mistake our misery this was not That which we call disease but a Chaine-shot Death hath foregone his Archery and Dart And practises the Canon that dire Art Of murdering by the hundreds Thus alone We lose not Stafford but a Legion Take a friends counsell yet grim fate and stay Doe not bereave thy selfe of future prey Let him survive to a large Progenie Which will be but a number that must dye Visit some Friery there thy wrath expresse There where Religion is barrennesse That were a thrifty cruelty and to save This Youth were mercy would enrich thy grave Cheate not our hopes thus riddling Destiny When we did pray Stafford might multiply As numberlesse as are the sands there 's none Meant such a fatall propagation His owne dust for an Off spring our best prayers Forbid such sad increase Atomes for Heires Howere be not so speedy gods but give Him breath till he has taught us how to live Must we thus wholly lose him and such worth Ere in Example he can bring it forth And must this be his period cannot we Expresse a man beyond his Elegie And Epitaph can we pen History What if long-liv'd this little one would be Where is your Art Genethliakes who dare From the Brachygraphy of some Prophet starre Transcribe the life of every birth if Fate And your great skill be such Death comes too late To prejudice your knowledge and you can When he has seiz'd the Corps reprieve the Man And pen him a long-liv'd Example though He had beene borne a livelesse Embryo I pray goe calculate and tell us then What Stafford in his ripe yeares would have been Describe him at some Canon guarded Hill Leading his daunted Generall and we will Lessen our present despaire into feare And tremble lest our Stafford should fall there Then prosecute your story till his yeares List him among the graver headed Peeres And in the bustle of some fcard-state-rent Let 's heare him tutoring a Parliament Alas such thoughts but aggravate our crosse Instead of comfort summing up our losse Cease then all prattle with the Grave and Herse Silence suites better then the saddest Verse Ri. Paynter Ioan. Ox. To the Memory of the Right Honorable the Lord STAFFORD the last Baron of his Family Great soule of Stafford T Was not for want of Merit that thy Herse So long hath lack'd it's tributary Verse Things whose fraile mem'ry scarce outlives the time Their Elegies a reading may have a Rime In halfe an houre flung on them Earthen plate 'S fram'd at a turne when the rich Porcelane's date Is a full Age Raptures that doe befit Objects of wonder are the fruites of Wit And choice not Fury This kept Phaebus Quire Silent so long that nought but hallow'd fire And purest gums might crowne thine Vrne yet still They find thy
lesse infinite And man no more looke up since stars shine dim To vertues light and heaven was nigh in him Thy vertues growth hath our endeavours chid Wee le raise no Pile to thee great Pyramid B. Ollivier On the death of the Lord STAFFORD IF from thy Sacred Ashes did arise Another Phoenix breathing spiceries Such as thy blossomes did since funerall fire Refined in full age thine Honoured Sire In whom you both might seeme againe t' returne Our griefes had all beene buried in thy Vrne Nor vexe the quiet Muses for a Verse To be thy Off-spring or adorne thy Herse Who leav'st Succession unto none of thine And but in such liv'st in no other Line But now her selfe Nature begins to feare And startles to behold now here now there A family extinct which though she strive With all her Art and strength to keepe alive It vanisheth Great Stafford thou shalt be To Nature a sad instance and to me Lest by Inductions she her selfe might be Concluded in short time Vacuitie When the whole Fabricks into nothing hurld And the great fadeth as the lesser world Pillars of flesh not stones and Imagrie Preserve the dead in Living Memory The blossome cropt before 'ts growne to a Peare Is no more worth than if 't had ne're beene there Which grown might from its kernels have begun In other grounds a new Plantation The poore mans Only lamb should have bin spar'd It was his Onely One 's there no regard Of One and Onely One This One may grow In time into a number Whence may flow Succeeding Millions This One being lost The hopes of all futurity are crost Happy who first by his Victorious hand Won honour to his house whose Name did stand In the first front and after liv'd to see His sonnes continue his Nobilitie But he who ends his Honour and his Name In his sweete youth and early hopes when fame Is scarce upon the wing to tell the Earth His Ancestors his Honours and his birth Dies leaving teares his onely Legacie Which must be wept and payd from every eye This gives our teares new birth nor doth contract Our sad Laments onely into one Act Such as was thy appearance form'd of clay Array'd with and bereft of Honour in a day But will when ere we turne the booke of Fame Create new griefe when we shal read thy Name With this unhappie mention He dy'd Young And without issue Here doth end the Line Of th' Ancient Staffords Family Thus Time Becomes their Period also and the End Which should each action crowne to thee doth lend A double lesse in whose one death doe dye More than thy selfe Thy Auncient Family Tell me old Time Chiefe Register of Things Who writ'st the fates of Commons and of Kings Was not a Tribe once precious in the Eye Of the Almighty though once doom'd to dye And perish all yet some were left to be Preserv'd and raise up a new Progenie So lest no branch of David should be left To bud till Shiloh came Ioash by theft Escapes the bloody stroke onely this One Continues Kingdome and succession For one out of a numerous race to die We know is common when the race doth lie In One and that One leaves no one behind Besides a fruitlesse name Nature's unkind My owne Creation 's but a blisse begun Which is made perfect in succession E. Marow On the Death of the most Noble Lord STAFFORD IMpartiall Nature sham'st thou not that we Should ever brand thee thus with cruelty Must all feele the like death Must vertuous then Be subject to corruption like bad men Thus thou wouldst have it be but he whose breath Thou enviously hast stopt shall not know death He who by Children thou deni'dst should give A life to 's Name makes it himselfe to live He was borne Noble and his life did so Answer his birth that it was hard to know Which way he was most Noble which most good By his owne vertues or his Parents blood In him liv'd all his Ancestors his fall Proves not his onely but their funerall He was not his Stocks bare Epitomy Nor was he like but one o' th' Family He did resemble All What dyed in him Was seene againe reviv'd and live in him Life to the dead he gave And though a Son His Fathers Fathers Father was become And now he that was like his friends in all things tried To be more like 'hem and as they did dyed With him fals th' house of th' Staffords and t is well It might have longer stood not better fell R. Pul. Sacred to the Memory of the most Vertuous Edward Lord Stafford the last Baron of his Illustrious Family SO is the ancient Rocke that still sent forth Iewels of clearer light and constant worth By ruder hands still pillag'd of it's store Safe onely when they thought 't would yeild no more The Sun discov'ring a fresh drop of light That might contest with him and prove as bright Doth bid his beames that exudation steale Before the moisture into stone congeale So in the aged Rose tree whose buds were Such that we might affirme th'were stars grew there After it long had yeelded growing Fires Still snatch'd to seede the ravishers desires The cold doth kill that bud that last shoots forth And robs us of all hopes of afterworth Thus here the heat and there the frost doth more Spoile then the Robbers Fingers did before But we can pardon fate when that the crosse Extends it selfe unto no greater losse Then of a Gem or Flowre But when that hand Shall snatch such living Iewels let me stand Senselesse and stupid as that Rocke and be Wretched and fruitlesse as that wither'd tree Fancy a morne that promis'd all delight Day ere afforded yet unto the sight Clouded by suddaine darkenesse whiles the houres Were busie yet to dresse it with fresh flowres And you have fanci'd expectation Crost But not like that of him we now have lost Fancy a sparke that Time would soone have blowne Into a throng of flames that would have growne Vnto the pitch of lustre as it bore The Pyramid higher and fill'd more and more Dasht by a suddaine violent showre and then Know you are short of this as sparkes of men Witnesse thou Deity of my pensive Muse His Sacred soule that I no Art doe use To raise a noted griefe from fancy'd losse Making the teares when I have made the crosse Alas the causes are too just For where Hath Knowledge any glories that his cleare Mind did not reach at Where hath Action ought Of Fame and worth that he would not have sought No Flowre in all that Garden or in this That would not have been proud to be stil'd his Bays most retir'd from Light and Sun had beene By his search found and by his shewing seene For whereas others thinke high birth and blood Vertues entaild and all that 's well borne good Though he might boast in this an ample share As the world knowes Vertue and this Lord were As undivided still as Light and Heate That the Inherent Dowry he the seate Yet he nere would his Birth to Vertue swell But thought it onely might set Vertue well Made it the Ouch not Iewell and from thence Did raise new Titles of preheminence Thus each day added to him and we may Say if we view his mind he did die gray Nor let me suffer misbeliefe because You knew him yet not man by Time and Lawes Soules such as his sore and produce high things When others have as yet scarce hope of wings His Genius did rich glories then beget And shew when lower could not Bud as yet Thus Regions neare the Sun doe Fields afford Throng'd with the choysest Flowres and richly stor'd When the remoter places sleepe and show Onely a garment of benumming Snow When I consider all this snatcht I must Wish that my teares could animate his dust But being we cann't call backe lost good nor blesse Our selves with him reviv'd I here professe My brest his Marble and doe thence become Both the bewailer of him and the Tombe Anthony Stafford FINIS Where a worthy man of a faire Line is born and bred is necessary to be knowne it is here proved against all clownish Infidels that there is such a thing as a Gentleman Amongst all Nations the Dane is the greatest Adorer of Nobilitie A never fading Honour is not the gift of Fortune but of Vertue It is here proved by reason that Nobility depends not on the will of Fortune Nothing is more remote from the nature of true Nobility than an ancient stocke void of vertue It is here by example confirmed that Descent is no sound Argument of true Nobility Honour and Vertue conjoyned out-shine solitary Merit Arts Arms should be the study of the more Noble The Dukes of Buckingham have beene so great that Earles have bin Stewards of their Houses His pious Education Religion is to be suckt in with the milke His learned Education Though learning be not the Adaequate cause of Vertue it is the adjuvant Great men have declared themselves fautors of Learning Humillity extolled in it selfe and him Obedience commended in it selfe and him His obedience to his parents Two rare examples of filiall duty and pietie His obedience to his Tutors Charitie praised in it selfe and him His love to his Friends His curiositie in the choice of his friends A herd of Friends hee lov'd not His love to the poore His ready forgiving of injuries Valour magnified in it selfe and him All men admire few understand what valour is Two admirable signes of Cato's future valour discover'd in him yet a childe Temperancie extolled in it selfe and him Drunkennesse dispraised Gluttony reprehended Justice exalted in it selfe and him Two stupendious presidents of Justice Prudencie commended in it selfe and him His Death His Patience Two things to bee lamented in his Death His infortunity in dying so immaturely in the Reigne of so gracious a Prince The immaturity of his Death Brevity of life to be preferred before Longevity * Xerxes God hath set down a period beyond which Nature her selfe shall not passe This World compared to a Theatre Death to a Christian not a punishment but a tribute
they would have also the same passions They would after our womanish custome lament their untimely death who die before noon esteeme them happy that live till the evening and yet bewaile them too who depart at night Our fond whining were seasonable and to purpose if it could prevent the death of our friends or call them from the dead but it savours of a vain foolish arrogant ambition to desire they should be privileged and exempted from the fatall common condition of Mankinde since wee cannot be ignorant that God hath set down a period beyond which Nature her self shal not passe Nothing representeth better to us this world then a theater wheron one acts a King another a Lord a third a Magistrate others again play the base servil parts of fools messengers mutes Some of them stay stare strut look big a long time on the Stage others only shew themselvs without speaking one word as soon as they come on go off againe to conclude all have their Exits So we poore Mortals who are sent by our provident omnipotent Creator into this world to undergo several charges some wherof are honorable some ignominious have al an egresse out of this life aswel as an ingresse allotted us Some a long time be at this earthly Stage with the Majestie of a Tragedian others are fools sneak up down to the laughter of all men others again lie manacled bed-rid or which is the worst of Fates distracted Some no sooner enter but they go out again as did that child in the besieged depopulated desolate town of Saguntum who by an instinct of Nature no sooner put his head out of his Mothers wombe but he pull'd it in again as divining the approching destruction of his Citie and himself To continue the similitude As hee who acted an Emperor the Play once done is no better then he who represented a slave so the Grave as Horace saith equals all the King the Beggar Pertinently to this S. Ambrose We are born naked saith he and die naked there is no difference between the carcasses of the rich and the poore save that the former stinke worse through a repletion with excrements which surfets of delicious fare have left behinde This world is Deaths region about it as a triumpher over all flesh he rides his circuit Since then his cōming is so necessary so inevitable whether he comes in the dawne the noon or twilight of life let us bid him welcome What should hinder us to doe so I cannot tell since as there is no ship but in one Voyage or other dasheth not against some hidden rock or shelf so the most happy life is not free from infinite crosses and disasters Yet though every man knows the inconveniences perils of this life saith S. Austin and that he must once die yet all men seeke to shun and defer the houre of death not onely the heathen but they to who believe the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting To our reproch the holy Father spake this for though it be no shame for a Gentile to fear death whose onely scope of life is to see and be seen to know be known yet to a Christian it is whose aime and desire should be not onely to serve God faithfully here but also to raigne gloriously with him hereafter What is necessarily to be done a wiseman does voluntarily let us not therefore with the foolish Tyrant in Lucian either with tears prayers or bribes vainly think to perswade inexorable Death but wisely consider that wee are neither the first nor the last All have gone before and must follow us Nay not a man dies that hath not at the same time many to accompany him who arrive at the house of Death by severall waies Life is a due debt to God and Nature as long as we have it we enjoy a benefit when wee are deprived of it wee have no wrong Let us then daily render it backe to him that gave it since hee is a bad debtour who unwillingly payes As a Souldier the signe once given readily obeyes the command of his Generall and armed at all poynts followes him through all Dangers and faceth Death himselfe so must we chearefully observe the very Beck of our Heavenly Commander and through all miseries and destruction it selfe make our way to him Death should be no longer formidable to us since our Redeemer hath taken out his sting and hee is now no other then an old toothlesse Dragon It is a foolish thing to delight in sleep and abhorre Death sleepe being onely a continuall imitation of it Hee that seriously contemplates the priviledges and advantages that accompany a Christian Death will be in love with it It is the Refuge of the afflicted and the end of all earthly evils It takes not life from us but presents it to the custodie of Eternity It is not an end but an intermittance of life nor no longer a punishment but a Tribute and we are gainers by it As he who hath a long time layne in a darke dungeon is beyond imagination joyfull when he comes to the light so the soule when shee is freed from the vapours and clouds in which the flesh involv'd her is ravish'd with delight While shee is yet in the body though her ambition reach at Heaven yet is shee still clogg'd with that heavy masse of earth and cannot so nimbly and nobly operate as she would She may fitly be call'd the Guest and the Body the Host that makes her pay dearly for her clayie lodging For if a Magistrate be vexed and busied to subdue and pacifie the Rebels of a seditious Citie needs must the soule be troubled and afflicted who hath a harder office assign'd her which is to bridle and restrain the vitious inordinate dissolute affections which are inseparable adjuncts to her while shee hath a conjunction with the body The prerogatives of Death being so many and so certaine let us no longer condole the decease of this our compleatly noble Friend but congratulate his happy departure hence and his safe arrivall in the Imperiall Heaven When Proculus Iulius had reported to the Romans that hee had seene Romulus and that assuredly hee was a God a Wonder it was saith Livie how much they gave credit to this Tale and how greatly the misse of Romulus both amongst the Commons and Souldiers was by this beliefe of his Immortalitie digested Much more should our sorrow be mittigated by the confidence we have that this our blessed Friends soule is ascended to him from whom it descended When Brasse or Gold is melted to make the Statue of some great deserving Man wee say not that the Mettall is lost but dignified In like case when a Body is turn'd into its first Principles Dust and Ashes wee who have an eye to the glorious Resurrection of it thinke not it is utterly ruin'd but dissolv'd to be refin'd As in the Eclipse of the
give their winking o're You doe no hurt there 's more to shine Which else perhaps had not beene seene Or if we take them All away We shall be blam'd no more than day But if we put out the Sunnes light We may bid the whole World Good-Night Not meerely 'cause it is the Sunne But chiefely 'cause it was but One For had we Two who could repine Though One did Set so One did shine Thus stands it with thee death and us That hast affronted the state thus Could not one House suffice nay Towne But must you pull our None-such downe Could your transcendent Envie ayme Not at the Person but the Name Must Stafford dye True States-men say That even Kingdomes have their day Nor dare Iavouch they erre A Kingdome 's a Particular A Name 's Eternall and a Race Is bound to neither Time nor Place Now therefore thinke what thou hast done And burst thou foolish Sceleton Sithence we shall beleeve your spite Not your Power infinite For though here lyes the Corps of Stafford dead His Name and Epitaph can't be Buried Io. Goad Ioan. Ox. On the much lamented death of the Lord STAFFORD A Name too great for numbers fit for those Let loose their eyes and weepe as 't were in prose And yet a theame too vast for eyes here The greatest thing lamented is the Teare And when we have sate up to hang the Herse We can't be thought to weep our Lord but verse So great that we but tole his flame and chime His gloryes growing Sextons but in Ryme Who when he is deliver'd best will beare A fame like moderne faces blotted faire Whom we conceale in phrase so vast a Taske We write him to a beauty in a maske Though he might blow a quil to vers whil'st men Envie to see the Poet in the Pen For who can thinke in Prose a man so cleere His thoughts did suffer sight and soule appeare That he that searcht his hearty words might find That breath was th' exhalation of his mind Such faith his tongue did weare you might have vow'd He spoke his brest only thought alowd You might his meaning through his blood have spyde Too pure deform'd dissembling to hide As to his Virgin soule Nature had drawne In so refined flesh a Vayle of Lawne So was he borne cut up that now we cou'd Learne vertues from the Doctrine of his bloud Which we might see preach Valtur and espye His veine to make an Auditor of the Eye And runne conclusions for from hence we try'd Which was a flood of valour which just Tyde Learning from his wise heat that in an Ill A spirit might couragiously sit still That one might dare be quiet and afford To thinke all mettall lyes not in the sword And Cutlers make no mindes Armour no doubt Does well but none can be inspir'd without So did her chide the Flame o th' wilder youth That fights for Ladyes hayre or lesse their truth His blood discreetly boyl'd did make it cleere It is the minde makes old and not the yeere That we may prompt his stone to say lyes here Stafford the Aged at his foure-teenth yeere Io. Howe Sacred to the Memory of the Right Honourable the Lord STAFFORD being the last Baron of his Name T' Is high Presumption in us that are The feete so almost excrement to dare Turne eyes and weeape a puddle rivulet Over thy herse which Nobles have beset We teem'd too fast and too much issue had That let us blood as rules of Physick bad But this gnawes our land's heart Nobilitie And is more cruell in Epitomie By making us in this one Staffords fall To celebrate the exequies of all Why wouldst thou yeeld so soone to death alas Thou hast too speedily finisht thy race Thou ought'st not pretty flowre have hung thy head Till thou wast ripe and blown hadst scattered Some seedes about thy bed where in a shade Thou mightst have slept by thy sonne-flowers made When with strong bulwork of posterity T' hadst fortify'd thy decay'd Ancestry Built up thy ruin'd house allay'd our feares And wert foure-score as wel in sons as yeares O then and not til then thou shouldst have tri'd Whether our tender love would let thee'ave di'd Tho. Snelling of S. Iohns Oxf. On the memory of the late Lord STAFFORD HAdst thou stood firme our eyes had yet bin dry Not in their Vrnes but in thy brest did lye All thy stockes honour Memphis never knew Amongst her wonders Pyramid like you Stately how ere great families they shroud And scepter'd lines yet farre beneath a cloud With pearly drops that all may cleerely see Thou wast the jewell of Nobility We cannot hope that our distracted cryes Will please amongst their well-tun'd harmonies Our Elegies not weepe but are to be Wept at and want themselves an Elegie Yet frowne not on our verse and teares of jet Ah never any sorrow truer let Who can but sluce his heart throughout his eyes When Youth Nobility Hope Stafford dyes I summe not up thy beauty comelinesse Nor thousand graces which thy soule did blesse For like to gamesters whom their lucks have crost We feare to know the utmost we have lost Thou didst not by Example States false glasse Dresse thy behaviour and thy life's face Nor wast sufficient ground that thou shouldst do This vice because Lord such a one did so Thy eyes when once had but a point let in Of lust the other spying the little sinne Would send a visive ray as messenger To tell that if it would not drop a teare And quench that sparke he would not his mate dwell Then wept the sinfull eye and all was well Thus each part just as in Philosophie Would Rule and Maxime to the other be O what disease then shall we wish may meete With that disease which took away this sweete That envious disease and which out-vies Even the Pestilence in cruelties For that mongst hundreds true its poyson thril'd But they were troope and so ill humour spil'd Thou in few yeares couldst such a height attaine Orelook'd the hills and peer'd above the raine Our teares are too too low and watry eyes Doe leese themselves in search of such a rise The losse was ours thy Pyramid did grow Still broad nigh heaven decreas'd to us below The Vertues built thee and the graces came And with all sweetnesse polished thy frame Honour thy Mistresse there with glorious hand Full often made her splendid impresse stand For she lov'd Stafford each adoring eye In thee insculpt read all nobility So wert thou to the world hy heaven lent The life of new old vertues monument Thy soule was large and able to containe More than the worthes of many ages gaine The Vertues of thy Ancestors all knit Could not it fill were proud to enter it And thou encreasd'st that happie stock so well As who will reckon all the starres may tell Of heaven which hath it and us rob'd in spite Or feare that they should be
and whither his beames cannot reach thither his warmth extends Though all cannot enjoy the honour of his presence all are sharers in the comfort of his benefits We are not more happy in living than this brave deceased Lord was unfortunate in immaturely dying under so gratious a King diligent in the search after desert and magnificent in rewarding it who in all probability upon a proofe made of his faith and merit might in him have raised his whilome great House to that Height from which Tyranny unmercifully threw it downe I say to the same Height not the same Titles As concerning the immaturity of his Death I willingly acknowledge the suddaine unexpectted deprivation of one so deare and so hopefull must needs be bitter and grievous to all those whom blood friendship or acquaintance had link'd to him Yet ought they not to grieve immoderately the sorrow of a Christian being by Christ himselfe bounded and confin'd Wee may deplore the absence of our departed friends but we must not too much bewayle their deaths because they are with God As not to feele sorrow in sad chances is to want sence so not to beare it with moderation is to lack understanding since it is fit that griefe should rather bewray a tender then a dejected minde The effects of our sorrow must not too long out-live the cause We moysten not the earth with pretious Waters they were distill'd for nobler ends either by their Odour to delight us or by their operation to preserve our health Our Teares are Waters of too high a price to be prodigally powred into the dust of any Graves But we unwisely court sorrow and as a Lover alwaies espyes something in his Mistris that in his opinion exalts her above her Sexe so wee labour to finde out causes for our excessive griefe and to prove our present losse unequall'd though indeed it have many paralells As the light handling of a Nettle makes it sting us but the hard griping of it prevents that harme so wee should not stroke and cherish our griefes but out of Divinity and Humanity compose a probe that may search them to the quicke Hee who heateth an Iron takes it not out by that part which the fire hath enflamed but by that end which remained without Nor should wee take our afflictions by the wrong end but if wee can finde any comfort to arise from them wee should discreetly lay hold on that Hee who comes into a Rosary findes every Rose guarded with innumerable Thorns yet he warily gathers the one without being pricked by the other The most bitter accident hath a graine of sweetnesse and Consolation in it which a wise man extracts and leaves the Gall behind To apply this out of the subitary death of this Noble Gentleman wee may cull many comforts True it is that Death is sayd to kill the old by Maturity and the young by Treachery and that unripe untimely ends are by all extreamly pittied but if we will harken to Reason issuing out of the mouths of the most profound Philosophers she will tell us that brevity of Life is to be preferred before longevity If we will give beliefe to Seneca he will assure us that Nature never bestowed a greater Benefit on man than shortnesse of Life it being so full of Cares Feares Dangers and Miseries that Death is become the Common wish of all men afflicted He who dyes soone should no more complaine than he whose Navigation in a rough troubled sea is quickly ended We account not those the best trees that have withstood the rage of many Winters but those who in the least time have borne the most fruit Not hee who playes longest but sweetliest on an Instrument is to bee Commended Compared with Eternity the longest and the shortest Life differ not Life is not a constant Fountaine but a fickle Floud that quickly rises and as suddainly falls Some have compared life to a Bird in a Childes hand which sometimes flies away before hee can well fasten his hold on it By the vertue of that Organ wherewith wee first behold the shine of the sun by the defect of the same we are brought into the darknesse and shadow of death It is so it is so Hee that built this faire Fabricke would have nothing stable and permanent in it but himselfe This goodly rationall subtle creature Man above the Stars themselves and next to God himselfe in Dignity able to penetrate into the deepest secrets of Nature to observe the motions of the heavens to compasse both heaven and Earth in a thought is onely immortall here below by succession Generation being as restlesse as corruption The mistocles rightly affirmes that no creature is so miserable as Man in that none but he knows the use of life yet when with great studie and industry hee hath attain'd to that knowledge he is by death depriv'd both of life and it together Age brings to us experience in one hand and Death in the other Iust were the teares and sweet was the Humanity saith Pliny of that Royall and youthful * Graecian who wept to thinke that not one of that glorious immense Army hee then commanded should survive one Age Such a gentle commiseration of humane frailty made Anselme thus cry out O durus Casus Heu quid perdit homo quid invenit perdi dit beat itudinem ad quam factus est invenit mortem ad quam factus non est O hard hap Alas What did man lose What did he finde Hee lost the blessednesse to which he was made and found death to which he was not made Shal then the valiant the learned have a harder fate then fools in so soon parting with those Crownes which Mars and Apollo have placed on their heads shall they so suddenly be deprived of the comfort of that faire Fame which with bloud and sweat with fasting and watching they have purchas'd Yes yes Caesar shall never terrifie the World again with his valour nor Cicero charme it with his eloquence The sword of the one and the pen of the other have now with their Lords the same eternall and unprofitable rest Alas alas Mans is as brittle as glasse but not so conserveable As he encreases in growth his life decreases As whether one sleeps or wakes in a ship under saile he is insensibly as it were carried away towards his intended Port so what ever we are doing we unawares sail towards the region of death Time deals with man Arithmetically He first addes to his Beauty and multiplies his Graces and then hee substracts all these and makes a long lasting Division between him and Nature It were strange if we should think wee shall never arrive there whither wee are ever going Plutarch writes of creatures in a certain part of the World which are borne in the morning are in their prime at noon grow aged towards the evening and are dead ere night Had these reasonable soules as wee have