Selected quad for the lemma: death_n
Text snippets containing the quad
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A84272
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An elegie on the death of Sir Charls Lucas and Sir George Lisle.
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1648
(1648)
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Wing E379; Thomason 669.f.13[20]; ESTC R210944
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2,012
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1
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AN ELEGIE On the Death of Sir CHARLS LUCAS and Sir GEORGE LISLE INspire me some prodigious Fury all The Muses are not enough Tragicall Hither you Leaguer Fiends from your black Tents Hell has but Three Fairfax whole Regiments A Pompy's death Caesar would chose t' enjoy His Butchers were an Eunuch and a Boy Cannibals thus War not to reduce but chew As Mastiffs fight to worry not subdue Lightning heav'ns sword blasts not if not withstood Colchester's Bull deales tamely in cold Blood What plenteous harvests storming brought the Towne Each shaver Tarquin lopt his poppy downe All your shot fire steele scarce murdred one Your Mercy only was destruction Poyson tooke in our certaine ruine is Serpents ne're sting but when th' embrace and kisse Scabbards stab'd most no harme i' th' Cannons noat The onely murdring piece was Fairfax throat Quarter from Rebels will dispatch or end The Devil 's most pernitious when our friend When you should Cure you bleed us to our grave The Booke does ne're condemne but when 't should save If the King scape by Rolfe 't is to be hurl'd With Passe and Pistoll to another world Must ye be flesht so soone faces about The Town 's not starv'd the famine is without They 're guiltlesse sure must bid so soone adieu Or like the Devill must you damne 'em too Horse-flesh is sober meat Fairfax digests Tigers and Wolves and is himselfe turn'd Beast He keeps a Sessions when he takes a Towne Councels of War are Juries Buff Coats Gownds His Standards Gibbets are he needs must fright His Physnomy's a funerall black and white Th' head quarters alwayes are at Tiburne all His power makes him but Hangman Generall Counter-march quickly all this Bloud home home Lest we mistake the Devill for Black Tom. This League murders more then Marten could Spawne in a Holland's Leaguer Bastard brood Must the Saints Feastivals be writ in Red Or are ye Gods with bloud and victim's fed Thus and scarce thus Turks Conquer and embrew Turks are no Saints yet Conquer more then you If Executioners 'fore Reformers go Be Derrick henceforth Generalissimo Fairfax and Essex spell their Christian brands You 'le find the same T. R. in all burnt hands Strange Parlies which no Articles dispense But such as dispatcht Laud and Strafford hence If to Capitulate be such a thing And Treaties must end thus God blesse the King Whilst Nol and Tom dividedly doe awe The Land 's bestrid with th' Devils cloven paw In Lilly's dreames the King is still undone If so these are his Lancasheire Mocksuns For they will both be Kings Fairfax i' th' dresse Of the Rlack Prince and Cromwell of Q. Besse Rossiter Lambert Ireton too must reigne England will suffer Heptarchy againe Come hallow'd quill dropt from an Angels wing Inke from that Font we now of Christians sing An Ostridge plume with aquafortis dress'd He that writes Lucas praise must steele digest His Epitaph i' th' cripled Savoy stands Armelesse trunkes there shewes you his fatall hands All Hospitals his Monument conspire Ev'ry maim'd piece presents you him intire Thus his eternall fame shall last as long As Rebels halt or Royalists have tongue Search Marston-moore and in Yorkes Records seeke You 'le find him writ in Stigmatiz'd Toms cheeke Such were his fierce Sallies as some did doubt Whether he rod or had been discharg'd out Then at each sweep he made whole rankes to fall As if th' had duck't before a Cannon ball Some he o'retakes and joynts at knees you 'd sweare Their legs had fled and left the bodies there Now they must to 't the Superstitious way Downe saies his Morglay Villaines kneel and pray He was the Townes best Wall and O! to glutt Revenge this Royall Fort is made a Butt On Cut-throates on perfect your gamesome rites Forward and backward shoot set up two whites Proceed let not your lucky mischiefes slack Royalists mourne but your soules were the black Lisle defies Quarter now his friends bloud 's spilt Your Charity's sin your mercy will be guilt Great spirit death 's a Mistrisse in his eye Or Nuptials 't is the same to kisse and dye His Grave 's as welcome as his Quilt or Downe Would but his Ghost walke 't would nigh clear the Towne Holland's to him a Coate of Maile what crowds Did his thin Newbery shirt send to their shrowds They had not Braines to judge nor hearts to fight But ran and thought the Devill was turn'd white He vengance hurl'd like a pale dismall star Or th' milkie Genius of an innocent War No need of swords to have the Rebels sped H' had soul enough to Lispe whole squadrons dead Farwell brave Twins of valour may no spurne Of Rebels foot light heavy on your Urne We all shall wait upon your fate this year Starv'd Colchester will soone be every where Plenty and Lucas fled at once this Isle Together wants a Summer and a Lisle Your Graves are meritorious Wharton lies Still in his Sawpit and will never rise Your Loyall hunger and your leane Alarmes Was better then to feed Pyms loathsome swarmes Your glorious soules are free whilst others have A Conquerour who to his Gout's a slave Old Fairfax Corn 's ill cut there goes to wrack Weather-wise Booker and an Almanack Their wounds are still i' th' legges you know the spell O' th' Greek they were dipt too in Styx and Hell Rossiter's halfe dead 't is well he 's so much man But geldings serve for th' worke Essex began Their Church is militant and doth appeare Triumphant too for why their heav'n is here Th' Army 's the holy League all for Saints go Because their Murders make all others so May they be Angels too and when they fall Like Jacobs Angels upon ladders all FINIS