As much grave patron of sage wisdom's lore,
Mayst thou lament thy friend's untimely race,
Who ever favour'd thee 'cause thou hast bore,
While he was Ireland's viceroy, thy great place
Of treasurer, in most respected grace:

His death deserves thy tears, to solemnize
His ceremonious funeral obsequies.

Ye safe secured fathers of wise peace,
Just senators and magistrates in awe,
Wealthy home-breeders which engross your ease,
Ye learned legists of contentious law,
Ye rulers all who him victorious saw;

Fear ye like stroke as him of life deprives,
He was a brazen wall to guard your lives.

Double tongue-oiled courtiers, whose neat phrases
Do model forth your wits maturity

In honied speeches and sick-thoughted graces,
Cloaking your souls in sin's obscurity,

Yet fan your lightness in security,

Weep on his reverend corse; for such as he
Now is, not as he was, yourselves shall be.

But, O forsaken soldiers, ye have lost
The Atlas of your hopes, your staff, your stay,
The staff and stay of your ambitious boast,
Who guerdon'd you with services' due, pray
On him the burthen of your treasure lay:

Reason commands your sorrow, for whose sake
Himself all toil of pains would undertake.

Like Mars in arms, triumphant ye have seen
This warlike champion, whose undaunted mind
Was never yet appall'd; but still hath been
Steeled against the worst, nor hath declin'd
To dull distrust, but evermore enshrin'd

In goodly views of horror ready prest,
To purchase glory by his hands unrest.

Witness, ye wars of Belgia, who tell
Of his eternal fame, heroic spirit,
Incomparable height, which did excel

The common height of common stomach's merit,
He lineally did thirst of worth inherit:
A chronicle of lasting memory,

A president of matchless soldiery!

Let every private action of desert,
Be themes for other pens to labour in,
My quill shall only known reports insert,
Who public credence and belief may win;
Not to be tax'd with fictions, ideot's sin:

Time cannot wrong, nor envy shall not wound,
The lawful right of his due praises' sound.

O who will lend me some deep moving style,
Or add unto my bluntness quick conceit?
What gentle goddess will vouchsafe a smile
To mine unpolish'd muse? What tempting bait
Of formal grace upon my lines will wait?

What power divine of some more angel woman,
Will make me think my verses more than common?

Flint-hearted Lycia may with mild aspect
Cast up the sigh of some fore-matched scorn,
And in the mixture of disdain's neglect,
My death-bewailing scope of grief adorn,
Reviving dulness of a wit forlorn;

Amongst the fancies of her rival lover,

Some groan with this dear noble's funeral cover.

No, beauty full of change, forbear thy care;
An angel more celestial pays her VOWS
Upon her Lord deceas'd, who did not spare
To gratify the frontiers of her brows
With as much pleasure as content allows:

Thou, Lady, on my lines cast favour's glory,
While I inscribe great MOUNTJOY's Irish story.

When fickle chance, and death's blindfold decree,
From the tribunal seat of awful state,

Had hurried down in black calamity
Renown'd DEVEREUX, whose awkward fate
Was misconceited by foul envy's hate:

Back was he call'd from Ireland to come home,
And noble MOUNTJOY must supply his room.

Look how two heart-united brothers part,
The one to slaughter, th' other to distrust,

Yet sorrowing, each with other pawns his heart,
As being loth to go, yet go they must,

Either to horror and a death unjust:

So ESSEX parts with MOUNTJOY, either mourning
The loss of other's sight, as ne'er returning.

SO MOUNTJOY parts with ESSEX, and now flies
Upon the wings of grief to tents of terror;
Or else to vaunt his name above the skies,
Or leave his lifeless carcase as a mirror

Of monumental fear to friends of error:

Vowing revenge should on that land extend,
Which wrought the downfall of his worthiest friend.

'Unblessed soil,' quoth he, 'rebellious nation,
Which hast with treachery sent troops to death,
Butcher of valiant bloods, earth's reprobation,
Heaven's curse, and nature's monster, drawing breath
By other's wracks, as trial witnesseth,

Since by the means of thee my friend hath died,
Mine arm shall scourge the looseness of thy pride.'

Incens'd with rage, and treble-girt with force
Of justice, force and valour, on he goes
With sword and fire; void of a smooth remorse,
He greets the strength of his half-conquer'd foes,
And on them yokes of bondage doth impose:
Or all must yield to mercy, or else fly,
Yet flying, all must fight, and fighting die.

But O, far be it from the height of fame
To triumph on submission; he would not,
Not tyrant-like in bloodshed boast again,
He hated it, as to his worth a blot;

By lenity more honour hath he got:

He was, as by his favourites appear'd,

More fear'd than lov'd, yet much more lov'd than fear'd.

Destruction to the stiff-neck'd rebels stout,
(Stout in their headlong miseries) was bent,
Ruin unto the false inconstant rout;
But favour to the willing still he meant,
A perfect noble mind's true document:
A rule infallible experience bred,

To strive for conquest, spare the conquered.

What myriads of hosts could not constrain,
He by his courteous mildness brought to pass;
What all devoir of mercy could not train,
By his victorious power enforced was:
Both words of milk and thunderbolts of brass,
Attended on the pleasure of his nod;

They deem'd him for a human demi-god.

And thou, TYRONE, the idol most adored
Amongst the superstitious mutineers,
Whose deep ambitious reach was still implor'd
To raise more millions of treacherours,
Of homicidial cruel slaughterers:

Even thou thyself, when any traitor spake
Of MOUNTJOY, at that very name didst quake.

That very name did prostitute the heart,
Of mischief breeding councils in the dust;
In hearing of that name they felt the smart
Of vanquish'd dread, as augur to distrust,
Which was by fear enthrall'd, by doubt discuss'd;

MOUNTJOY, a name importing threats of thunder,
Frustrating hopes of life, and life asunder.