Vpon John Earle of Laderdale his Death

OF those rare Worthies, who adorn'd our North
And shin'd like Constellations, Thou alone
Remaindst last (great Maitland) charg'd with worth,
Second in Vertues Theater to none.
But finding all eccentrick in our times,
Religion into superstition turn'd,
Justice silenc'd, exiled, or inurn'd;
Truth, Faith, and Charity reputed Crimes.
The young man destinate by sword to fall,
And Trophees of their Countries spoiles to reare;
Strange Laws the Ag'd, and prudent to appale,
And forc'd sad yoakes of Tyranny to beare▪
And for nor great, nor vertues minds a roome,
Disdaining life, thou shouldst into thy Tombe.

WHen misdevotion every where shall take place,
And lofty Oratours in thundring termes
Shall move you (people) to arise in armes,
And Churches hallow'd policy deface;
When you shall but one generall sepulchre
(As Averroes did one generall Soule)
On high, on low, on good, on bad confer,
And your dull Predecessors rites controule▪
Ah spare this Monument, great Guests it keeps,
Three grave Justiciars, whom true worth did raise,
The Muses Darlings, whose losse Phoebus weeps:
Best mens delight, the glory of their daies.
More we would say, but feare, and stand in aw
To turne Idolaters, and break your Law.

DO not repine (blest soule) that humble wits
Do make thy worth the matter of their Verse:
No high strain'd Muse our times and sorrows fits:
And we do sigh, not sing, to crown thy Hearse.
Thy wisest Prince, e're manag'd Brittaines State
Did not disdaine in numbers cleere and brave,
The vertues of thy Sire to celebrate,
And fix a rich memoriall on his Grave.
Thou didst deserve no lesse; and here in Jet,
Gold, Touch, Brasse, Porphyrie, or Parian Stone,
That by a Princes hand no lines are set
For thee: the cause is now this Land hath none.
Such Giant Moods our parity forth brings,
We all will nothing be, or all be Kings.