An Elegy Upon The Death Of Mr. Edward Holt - Poem by Henry King
VVhether thy Fathers, or diseases rage,
More mortal prov'd to thy unhappy age,
Our sorrow needs not question; since the first
Is known for length and sharpness much the worst.
Thy Feaver yet was kind; which the ninth day
For thy misfortunes made an easie way.
When th' other barbarous and Hectick fit,
In nineteen winters did not intermit.
I therefore vainly now not ask thee why
Thou didst so soon in thy Youths mid-way dy:
But in my sence the greater wonder make
Thy long oppressed heart no sooner brake.
Of force must the neglected blossom fall
When the tough root becomes unnaturall,
And to his branches doth that sap deny,
Which them with life and verdure should supply.
For Parents shame, let it forgotten be,
And may the sad example die with thee.
It is not now thy grieved friends intent
To render thee dull Pities argument.
Thou hast a bolder title unto fame,
And at Edge-Hill thou didst make good the claime;
When in thy Royal Masters Cause and Warre
Thy ventur'd life brought off a noble skarre.
Nor did thy faithful services desist
Till death untimely strook thee from the List.
Though in that prouder vault then, which doth tomb
Thy ancestors, thy body find not room,
Thine own deserts have purchas'd thee a place,
Which more renowned is then all thy race;
For in this earth thou dost ennobled ly
With marks of Valour and of Loyalty.
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