%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> AN / ELEGIE UPON THE / DEATH OF THE MIRROVR / Of Magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke; / Lord Generall of the Forces of the Counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by / A Musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642. Harington, Henry University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center Director Patricia Fumerton 1642-1642 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 06/21/2014 32943

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

R212625 BAck blushing morne, to thine Eternall bed, / Ruffle for ever the tresses of thine head Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 341 AN / ELEGIE UPON THE / DEATH OF THE MIRROVR / Of Magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke; / Lord Generall of the Forces of the Counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by / A Musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642. AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE MIRROUR Of Magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke; Lord Generall of the Forces of the Counties of Warwick, and Stafford, who was slain by A Musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642. AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF THE MIRROR Of Magnanimity, the right Honorable Robert Lord Brooke; Lord General of the Forces of the Counties of Warwick, and Stafford, who was slain by A Musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642. Harington, Henry 1642-1642 H.O.

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol Americas animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family Featured folklore gender holidays/ seasons infidelity labor/ craft law London love maritime marriage military/ war monstrosity mythology/ Classical news nobility/ court politics/ government procreation punishment race/ ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious groups royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 6/21/2014 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America country/ nation death military/ war news nobility/ court politics/ government virtue Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 6/21/2014 1:13:40 PM XBallad Chow, Jeremy Created XML Version of Ballad 6/21/2014 1:13:40 PM Transcription Supervisor Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/21/2014 1:13:40 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/21/2014 1:13:40 PM Transcriptionist Two Fisher, Joshua Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/21/2014 1:13:40 PM Transcriptionist One Le, Vi Transcription of ballad manuscript 5/16/2013 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 3/30/2014 Checker Christopher Foley Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 3/30/2014 Checker Christopher Foley Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 3/30/2014 Checker Christopher Foley Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/29/2012 Checker Olivia Miller Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/29/2012 Checker Olivia Miller Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/29/2012 Checker Olivia Miller Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/25/2012 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/25/2012 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/25/2012 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/25/2012 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 10/17/2012 Bibliographer Olivia Miller Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created
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<seg n="1" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">AN</hi></seg> <seg n="2" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">ELEGIE UPON THE</hi></seg> <seg n="3" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">DEATH OF THE MIRROUR</hi></seg> <seg n="4" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">Of Magnanimity, the right Honourable <hi rend="bold">Robert</hi> Lord <hi rend="bold">Brooke;</hi></hi></seg> <seg n="5" rend="left"><hi rend="bold"><hi rend="italic">Lord Generall of the Forces of the Counties of</hi> Warwick, <hi rend="bold">and</hi> Stafford, <hi rend="bold">who was slain by</hi></hi></seg> <seg n="6" rend="left"><hi rend="bold"><hi rend="italic">A Musket shot at the siege of</hi> Liechfield, <hi rend="bold">the second day of March,</hi> 1642.</hi></seg>
BAck blushing morne, to thine Eternall bed, Ruffle for ever the tresses of thine head In some thick Cloud, and thou whose raies do burn The Center of the Universe, returne: For if thy head beyond its Porch appeares, Thyselfe, thy self must needs melt into teares. Bright Saint thy pardon, if my dolefull Verse Do seem in sighing ore thy glorious Hearse To envy death; for fame itselfe now weares Griefes Livery, and only speakes in teares. Brave Brooke is dead, like Lightning, which no part Oth body touches, but first strikes the heart, This word hath murdred all; it can a shower Enforce from every eye, it hath a power To alter natures course, how else should all Run wilde with mourning, and distracted fall. Ist not a grosse unttuth to say, thy breath Expird too soon? or that impartiall Death Thy Corps too soon surprizd? No, if thy yeares Be numbred by thy Vertues, or our teares, Thou didst the old Methusalem outlive; Though Time not forty yeares account can give Of thine abode on earth, yet every hower Of thine unpatternd life, by Vertues power A yeare in length surpast, each well-spent day, The body maketh young, the soule makes gray. Ah cruell Death! who with one cursed Ball, Didst make the Atlas of our State to fall, In one thou all hast slaine, whose death alone, A death will be unto a Million. Could none but his sweet Nectard blood appease The fire-sprung Bullets heat? Must it needs seaze His sacred face, it selfe there to enshrine, Not in an earthly, but a Tombe divine. See lucklesse Liechfield that thou do not hide The precious blood, which from the wound did slide At this Lords death, it may not Cloisterd be In thy fraile earth, alwayes impuritie It did abhor, therefore in Sacrifice, Send it unto its head above the skies, And for an Altar whereon it to lay, A thousand thousand soules through griefe this day
Themselves to death have wept, whom thou maist take, And them conjoyne thine Altar for to make. But lift not up thine head, least that the skies In weeping showres of blood put out thine eyes. And is this blessed Brooke (whose Cristall streames Sweld with such store of Grace, whose blissefull beames Enlightned all) is it so soone drawne drie, Leaving its ancient current, to fill each eye With mournefull teares, surely in Paradise Itselfe it now dischannels, where no vice Or shade of it appeares, a place most pure, Where all such Saints forever must endure. I might relate thine actions here on earth, Thy mysterie of life, thy noblest birth, Outshind by nobler vertue, but how farre Th hast tane thy journey bove the highest starre I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin. I might unto the world, great Lord repeate, Thine owne brave story, and tell it how great Thou wert in thy minds Empire, and how all Who out live thee, see but the Funerall Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be, They but weake apparitions are of thee. Thine actions were most just, thy words mature, And every scean of life from sin so pure, That scarce in its whole history we can Finde Vice enough to say thou wert but man. Tis past all mortals power, then much more mine, To tell what vertues dwelt within this shrine, Yet if illiterate persons walk this way, And ask what jewell glorifies this clay, Say, good Brookes ashes this Tombe hath in keeping, Then lead them forth, lest they grow blind with weeping. Tell but his name, no more, that shall suffice, To draw downe floods of teares from dryest eyes, Our griefes are infinite, therefore my Muse, Cast Anchor here, mine eyes cannot effuse Any more teares, this for thy comfort know, Fate cannot give us such another blow.
Ex opere (praesertim) Henrici Haringtoni, London printed for H.O. Anno Dom. 1642.