A
FUNERALL ELEGIE UPON
the death of the as Noble as Vertuous Prince,
LODOVICK Duke of Lenox, and Rich-
mond, etc. Who deceased at White Hall the 16.
of Februarie, 1623.
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IF ever cruell Death with one great stroke
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The hearts of millions in sunder broke,
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Now he hath don't, in taking him away,
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Who was of thousand men the helpe and stay.
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Had he no meaner man to make his But,
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But he in whom thousands their hopes did put?
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Could he have done us a more foule disgrace,
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Then to pull downe vertues great mansion place?
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And at such time when we him most did need,
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Must he make thousands with one dart to bleed?
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O cursed Monster, thou hast made our King
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The dolefull tune of Lachyrme to sing.
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Our noble Prince, though young, lookes old with care:
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The Dutchesse doth her golden tresses teare.
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The Nobles, curse thy curst ignoble deed,
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And each instead of Robe, takes mourning weed.
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The Commons have no common griefe, but make
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The Earth with their shrill loud outcries to shake.
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And all for Him, whose heavy losse doth wound
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The King, the Commons, and makes all unsound.
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Me thinkes I heare Art in the streets complaine,
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She hath lost him who did her state maintaine.
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Vertue in sable weeds mournes all alone,
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Because her patterne and her Patron's gone.
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The Poore complaine that they have lost their Treasure,
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Death could not doe them a more foule displeasure.
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Sad Teares doe flow from each mans liquid eies,
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And all in Griefe and Sorrow sympathise.
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How then of Death shall we revenged be?
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Yes; he shall live, O Death, in spight of thee.
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His soule shall live in glories lustre bright,
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Though he lies buried in graves darkesome night.
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So shall his name mount on the wings of Fame,
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For all thy hate thou canst not hurt the same.
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Babes yet unborne, so soone as they can babble,
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Shall say that Richmonds Duke was charitable.
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He was a Steward after Gods owne minde,
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The Poores releever, and to none unkinde.
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Though high in Honour, yet he humble was,
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For noblenesse of minde none did him passe.
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Another Job for worthy Patience,
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A Salomon for true intelligence.
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These honours unto him mens words shall give,
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And thus, he in despight of Death shall live.
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LAment, O Scotland, which hast lost a Peere,
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Which was to thee, as thou to him wast deere:
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And thou art like an army which is fled,
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Because their Leader's not, and Captaine dead,
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Let not thy Churches sable sad weeds lacke,
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But be ye clad in mournfull dismall black.
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Why should we not the Church to mourning call,
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Since that a pillar of it late did fall?
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Lenox great Duke, whose sacred godly care,
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Was her rites to maintaine and state upreare.
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Lament ye, which rest on Pernassus hill,
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Ye Muses servants, let sad Poems fill
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Each corner in the Earth, and let your Verse
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Decke and adorne about his funerall Herse.
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Let all the Muses to him honour give,
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He gave them house-roome whiles he here did live.
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The reason why I call for company
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To joyne in mourning with my Elegie,
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Is, because that companions in griefe,
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Doe mitigate the woe, and give reliefe
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To me, which cannot write my griefe conceiv'd,
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Thinking how many with me are bereav'd
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Of him, in whom the Graces all did dwell,
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Whose worth we may admire, but never tell:
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Though we had famous Tullies eloquence,
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Yet we could not expresse his excellence,
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In whom all vertues did in fulnesse raigne,
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Not the least part of wicked vice remaine,
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Whose soule no doubt, now hath receiv'd reward
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Of his good deeds, and hath that sentence heard,
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Which Christ pronounceth to all blessed sprites,
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Come and partake of ne're-fading delights:
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Where we doe leave him joying for his blesse,
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But mourning for our losse, which is no lesse,
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Then is the Orphans, whose kind mother's dead,
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Or then the Widdowes which hath lost her head,
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Whose absence we with bitter sighs deplore,
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And sobs, which doe forbid us writing more.
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