English Puritan & Reformed

On the Sad Loss of Robert Lord Brook

John Wallis (1616-1703) · 1,654 words · 7 min

The source for this document is https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo2/A97063.0001.001

Project Note

This is licensed under Creative Commons CC BY-NC-ND. This license allows reusers to copy and distribute the material in any medium or format in unadapted form only, for noncommercial purposes only, and only so long as attribution is given to the creator.

The source of this document is the Early English Books Online (EEBO-TCP) website. Those books were transcribed in a character for character manner and can be very cumbersome to read since there was no standard spelling during that time. Many spelling variations such as "unlesse", "vnlesse", and "vnles" regularly appear.

This project was conceived to clean up those books as much as possible and make them more accessible to the interested reader, leading to the creation of a massive list of variant spellings and their corrections. This was used to clean up the text, but is of course only as complete as the list itself. Because of the nature of the original transcription, some words have missing characters or places where the original language (e.g., Greek) was not transcribed. This effort does not change that. Be aware that the original transcription can also be faulty and in some cases entire sentences may be missing.

Although this is no substitute for a properly compared, proofed, and scholarly edition, I believe that the result is a document which is far more accessible, particularly for searching for terms using standard spelling. The document has been cleaned and presented in what I hope is a pleasing and useful format for the vast majority of Christian brothers and sisters who just want access to read these spiritually nourishing works.

However, a word of warning: The Puritans were a very diverse group of people and their age was characterized with godliness, but also much upheaval, disputation and strife. They disagreed on many doctrines and some of these works contain less orthodox or Scriptural views than others. The reader is strongly advised to read with discernment, particularly if it is unknown whether author is trustworthy.

This project took a huge amount of time and skill to bring to fruition. I would particularly like to thank David Jonescue for the initial list of Puritans he found on EEBO and the concept behind this project as well as the continuous, unceasing efforts toward seeing this complete. Without his labor, this would not be available. Alex Sarrouf was invaluable in providing the initial list of over 7,000 spelling variations he had identified and corrected, as well as continuing to review more than 16,000 additions to that list for any typos.

Logan West
(with David Jonescue and Alex Sarrouf)
www.puritansearch.org

On the sad Loss of the truly Honorable ROBERT Lord BROOK:

An Elegy, To his Virtuous and Noble Lady.

SWEET LADY,

           Can your weeping Eye behold
          
           A paper, sadly offered, where 'tis told,
          
           Your Lord is Dead? And so Untimely too?
          
           Treble to You, to Vs a double Woe.
          
           'It is Sad to Say; Sadder to you to Hear:
          
           Vnhappy he, must be the Messenger.

           Yet since you Know so True, so Sad a Woe,
          
           Give leave to let you know, We know it too.
          
           we first your Loss, and then your Griefe bemoan;
          
           (Some Ease, in Sadness, not to weep Alone:)
          
           Our Tears (ambitious) make their sad address;
          
           (we'd bear a part, that You might weep the less.)
          
           Give leave, we pray, to join in Tears with You,
          
           (Yet weep we shall, whether with leave, or no:)
          
           And make this paper blest to kiss your hand,
          
           From him who's pressed,

MADAME,

At Your Command, JOHN WALLIS.

AN ELEGIE On the much Lamented Death of the Right Honorable ROBERT Lord BROOK.

         M
        
        Ight I have seen what was desired by all:
       
        How glad would I, or not compose at all,
       
        Or in another style; and not rehearse
       
        Heroïck Worth in Elegeïck Verse.
       
        Or else, might I, and they to whom as dear,
       
        Weep him Alive that's Dead, though every tear
       
        Were tears of Blood, how willing would we pour
       
        A far more precious, then
        
         love's
        
        Golden, Shower
       
        On this Sad Object, on this Bloody sight,
       
        And with our tears or Guild, or wash him White.
       
        But Now (unhappy) cannot but complain,
       
        With sad bemoaning tears, (though tears in vain)
       
        What's past recall, and we, though no redress
       
        Can be expected, must not hold our peace.

        But how (alas!) should I begin to speak,
       
        (Where all Hyperbole's will seem too weak
       
        To equalize) in Measures to express
       
        What knows no other measure but Excess?
       
        Or who can Bound over-abounding Tears,
       
        Within the streightnesse of an even Verse?

        If then perhaps I hardly weep in Rhime;
       
        If not in Consort; (Tears can keep no Time)
       
        If no melodious Harmony be shewn;
       
        Think but, 'It is Hard, to put a Teare in Tune.
       
        (Yet harder, not to Weep.—) Imperfect Tones
       
        Serve well enough to signify our Grones.
       
        A Long, a Large, are all the
        
         Notes
        
        we know;
       
        (Minim and Sembrief
        
         Rests
        
        are long enow)
       
        Our Accents tuned to the Highest
        
         Key;
        
        (And yet our Sighs deeper then
        
         Gam-ut
        
        be:)
       
        Nor curious are to make the
        
         Consort
        
        sweet,
       
        That all keep equal
        
         Time,
        
        that
        
         Closes
        
        meet;
       
        None tunes his Voice unto another's String;
       
        (This Verse was made to Weep, and not to Sing)
       
        All weep a
        
         Part,
        
        but no
        
         Accord
        
        can keep,
       
        (Save only thus, That all agree to weep;)
       
        Oft weep a
        
         Sharp,
        
        when our sad Thoughts be
        
         Flat;
        
        If
        
         Discords
        
        oft appear, yet wonder not;
       
        Some Harmony may Disproportion give,
       
         Discordant
        
        Accents show
        
         Concent
        
        in Grief.

        Then weep we must. That Heart is too too hard,
       
        That in a public Sadness would be spared.
       
        Public, I say, yet more then Common, Grief;
       
        (Else might a Common Cordial yield relief,)
       
        'It is not a Lady mourns, not I, alone,
       
        I am but Speaker of a Kingdoms mone:
       
        A Kingdoms public loss it is; all those
       
        Have lost in Him, that had but ought to loose.
       
        Yea those (as yet) that count his Loss a Gain,
       
        Will (after) say, 'Twas pity
        
         Brook
        
        was slain.

        Such Meekness lodged in a so Noble Breast;
       
        Such Candour mixed with such Heroicknesse;
       
        His Thoughts so Low join'd with Deserts so High;
       
        Practice of Truth as well as Theory;
       
        Not quick (as some) to Bid and slow to Act,
       
        Praising to others what themselves detrect;
       
        His thoughts the same with what he did pretend;
       
        A Course direct as well as upright End;
       
        An Active Vigour with Integrity,
       
        Strait Aims pursued not with an Oblique Eye:
       
        Should I or this or more dilate, yet less
       
        Is said in Words, then what our Tears express.

        How gladly would my pen persist to tell,
       
        How willing would my pleased Fancie dwell
       
        On this so sweet a subject, as to say
       
        How Good he was, how well deserving He;
       
        His Learning, Wisdom, Worth, and Piety,
       
        Worthy how long to live, how late to die;
       
        To speak his Praise, of his Deserts to boast:
       
        But that 'tis sad to think, All this is lost.
       
        Counting His Worth, we count our Losses too;
       
        That we Admire, This doth increase our Woe.
       
        All this, and more then this, is lost in One,
       
        All this is lost when Noble
        
         Brook
        
        is gone.

        Might sad entreating Tears at any hand
       
        Availe with Death, or who doth Death command,
       
        To spare his Life; what floods of these had been,
       
        To purchase it, long since bestowed on him▪
       
        For those which now lament him caught away,
       
        With more advantage might obtain his stay.
       
        Or might some Others death have Him excused,
       
        There were, no doubt, who would not have refused
       
        To rescue him, and purchase by their Death,
       
        That He (more worthy) might have longer breath.
       
        But no entreaties can (though never so just)
       
        Either Reprieve or Ransom him: But must
       
        Himself, arrested, (None by Proxy Dies)
       
        Appeare in Person: Death accepts no price.
       
        If naked Death alone, who can withstand?
       
        Much more appearing with an Armed hand.

        But is there left us no return from death?
       
        Doth not each breath we breathe breathe out our breath,
       
        Which yet the next recalls? Not so in all:
       
        This last exspiring breath is past recall.

        Which if a Single Loss, the loss were less;
       
        (Though Great) but when it forwards the success
       
        Of our contrived woe; What shall we say?
       
        May He be more bewailed that's caught away,
       
        Or we that stay behind, reserved to see
       
        The sadder sequel of that Tragedy?
       
        He shall not see (whatever we may do)
       
        A Glorious Kingdoms sad approaching Woe.
       
        He shall not see, not seeing shall bemoan
       
        An (once renowned) Land soon overthrown.
       
        This shall not now perplex his resting Eye,
       
        Blest with a better sight than Misery.

        But what remaineth Us we cannot see;
       
        The safer he, the nearer danger we:
       
        And what approaching danger might descry,
       
        In losing his, the Kingdom lost an Eye.
       
        An Eye so dear, had we but known its price,
       
        It had been ransomed, though with both our Eyes.
       
        How glad might we (a happy change 't had been)
       
        Weep out our own, could we but weep his in.
       
        But weep we may; yet Tears will naught avail:
       
        Who grants no Quarter, will accept no Baile.
       
        Nor can distinguish by our different tears,
       
        'Twixt Poor and Noble; all in death are peers.

        Then why complain? could we or less expect,
       
        Or think for Him Death would decline his tract?
       
        Isit not determined, all must here agree?
       
        Then sure He must, as well as others, die.

        'It is true, he must: But must he die so soon?
       
        Before his Strength, before his Work be done?
       
        If so; must one so mean effect his end?
       
        Shall
        
         Hector
        
        die not by
        
         Achilles
        
        hand?
       
        If die he must; if so untimely too;
       
        Is Noble Blood spilled by we know not who?

        Then weep we may; not that we thinkit unfit,
       
        (Not envy Heaven to Him, or Him to it)
       
        That he, of whom the Earth unworthy was,
       
        Should be advancit to a more Happy place:
       
        But that we want his help, or to compose
       
        Our sad distracted times, or quell our foes.
       
        When those pull down that ought to underprop;
       
        When Foreign starvelings come to eat Us. up.
       
        When Popish Armies (more then one) in sight,
       
        Do for the Protestant Religion fight,
       
        (To take it from us;) when (a viperous brood)
       
        Who sometimes sucked our Breasts, now suck our Blood,
       
        (Be it a poisoned draught;) and thus requite,
       
        For what they have, and what expect they might.
       
        Like her that once (be their success as bad)
       
        A precious Hen (though undeserved) had,
       
        That laid a Golden Egg each day but once,
       
        Willing (so greedy) to have all at once
       
        By a compendious way, she killed her Hen,
       
        Thinking to find those precious Eggs within:
       
        As was her Gain, let their Success be such;
       
        So disappointed; not, prevail so much.

        The readiest way, they thought, by which they might
       
        Effect their Plot, was to put out our Sight:
       
        A tender Eye must be the mark designed:
       
        'Twas (sure) they meant to make Religion Blind.
       
        No marvel then: They thought (as well they might)
       
        The way to Darkness was to quench the Light.
       
        A Moat, perhaps, they might pretend to see,
       
        Which only to remove, their care should be;
       
        And, first concluding, he might see amiss,
       
        They only meant to work a cure by this.
       
        But if a Beam they could as soon descry,
       
        They might have seen, theirs was the Evil Eye:
       
        (Which ifit offend they may pluck out) not His,
       
        Which saw aright, though saw what was amiss.
       
        Truth is, indeed, they thought it saw too much,
       
        And therefore plucked it out, their rage was such:
       
        Loth to be seen they were, and could not brook,
       
        Their deeds of darkness he should overlook:
       
        But take his Eye from Him, and Him from Us,
       
        Their ends the better to accomplish thus.

        But must we Die? And Unrevenged too?
       
        By Such a Hand? Such miscreants work our Woe?
       
        Let me die first, and not survive to see,
       
        Before I die, sad England's obsequy.
       
        'It is Death to Think; 'tis Worse then death to See;
       
        To bear a Part, is the least death of Three.

        This to prevent, who saw too much before,
       
        He closed his Eyes, willing to see no more.
       
        Yet first bewailed our woe with Tears of Blood,
       
        (A sad prefage) 'twas the last thing he did.

Anagram.

GREVILIUS.
VERGILIUS.

And if VERGILIUS, why not MARO too?

Our AMOR sure he was, we Lov'd him so.

FINIS.