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