An Elegie On the Death of Sir Charls Lucas and Sir George Lisle
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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, 'tis 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; 'tis the same to kisse and dye.
His Grave's as welcome as his Quilt or Downe,
Would but his Ghost walke, 'twould 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; 'tis 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.