An Elegy on the Death of George Pitt, Title page – Dedication
Piae Iuventuti Sacrum, An ELEGIE on The Death of the most vertuous and hopefull young Gentleman GEORGE PITT Esq:
Sen: Herc: Fur: Act: 3.
Prima quae vitam dedit hora, carpsit.
Even that first hour wherein man lives,
Takes one hour from the life it gives.
Printed in the Yeare 1658.
To THE MOST VERTVOVS AND THEREFORE MOST DESERVEDLY HONOURED LADY, Mris ALICE PITT, With all due Service and Devotion is humbly Dedicated the following Elegy: At the Funerals of her onelyonly, and worthily Beloved Sonne Mr G. P.
MADAM,
SInce You can be so Charitably kind,
To let us share the Blessings of your Mind;
Since of the Comforts of your Wombe, your Son,
You could allow me part; and still had done,
Had not our wretched lives curs'd Mistresses
His Progresse Fear'd, Envy'd our Happinesse.
It seems But just, I should be sharer to,
As of your Ioyes before, soe sorrows now.
Not then to joy with you, it had but bin
My Misery; 'twere, not to grieve, my sin.
That was my Priv'ledge, This my duety is;
That Gratitude Commands, Religion this.
Nor dare I mourne by halves, The whole man he,
Must weare noe party-colour'd livory:
Such as indeed the joy-dissembling Heire
Too oft at's Father's funerall seems to weare;
when turne him inside out, you'll eas'ly find
Much diff'ring colours in his cloak and Mind.
My sorrow's die'd in graine I onelyonly have
Just so much life as keeps me from the grave.
Your Bounty cloaths the outward man in black,
His Death would not allow my soule to lack
Her Mourning-suit; who in respect to you
Has clad her Maid all in close mourning too
Your Goodnesse calls on one; and here you see,
My bold griefe multiplies that one to three.
Upon the weak staffe of a splitted Quill,
My Creeple Muse comes halting up the Hill;
And humbly at your feet does prostrate fall,
The devout'st mourner at this Funerall.
Your sorrows rais'd her from that Bed of ease,
Where she so long had hugg'd her own disease;
And had expir'd long siuce, a prey to death,
But that your sighs brought a supply of breath
Hearing your groans, she started up, and see
No Sun appear, she straight cries out-'Tis he!
And with a trembling eye, roaving about,
At length she spies that mournfull HARROVV out.
Seeing this*The two tops are the Church and your house. two-top'd Hill (for now there's odds
Betwixt your house, and that which once was God's:
Though these made one, 'till some more wise then we
Durst preach it Schisme to live in unity.)
Seeing these tops two blackest clouds o'reshade
(God's frown the one, your sadnesle t'other made:)
She calls it her Parnassus, and does run
In hast, to take leave of her setting sun.
The Deity inspir'd her was your Son,
Whose vertues made your teares her Helicon.
But may this fountaine soon run dry! that streame
No more occasion'd on so sad a theme!
O rather may my Muses last breath be
Exhal'd in this unwelcome Elegie!
O may she rather spend her rustick Rithme
Upon the reigning vices of the time;
And with her betters only reap these gaines,
An happy Curse of Silence for her pains!
Had she not in this sin which she has done,
Serv'd the sad mother more then happy son;
She had not in so deep a note sat down,
And groan'd: But up to Heav'n had flown
In lofty numbers; such as might become
The Sainted off-spring of your happy wombe.
I cannot blame your love, which did contrive
So many waies to keep this Flow'r alive:
Though in a lovely garden here he grew,
Made for such Flow'rs alone as he and you:
Though you did well those lawfull hopes to nourish,
To see him in this garden thrive and flourish:
Though such endeavours with Religion stand,
Yet did your pray'rs still contradict your hand:
You wish'd him blest, your own experience shows
That no man's so before to heav'n he goes.
I know you grudge him not his early rest,
Nor think his blessing lesse, 'cause so soon blest.
Who soonest goes this journey, runs his race
With as much ease as speed, and takes his place
Highest in Heav'n; we who stay here behind,
Laden with sins and sorrows, we shall find
The entrance much more hard, and there must be
Content to sit lower by much then he.
This is your Blessing, that for seav'nteen yeares
You have possess'd what now you lose with teares.
That heav'n intrusted you with that rich prize,
In love of which it selfe did sympathize
With you and us: That you have been so long
His Nurse, 'till he can speak the Angells tongue.
And beares his part in that sweet quire, that siug
Loud Halleluiahs to their God and King.
May that bright Glory, which now Crownes the Son,
Attend the Mother when her race is run!
There may you meet where endlesse comforts may,
And shall mak't an aeternall Holiday.
Till when my alter'd Calender shall b…
Two letters for this day in every yeare.
A black one for your losse, an other Red
To signifie the happy day he sped
In Heav'n; May all the vertuous family
Still live so innocent, so happy die!
May Heav'ns warme rayes revive your joies and keep
Your Hopes awake, untill your Bodies sleep
In peacefull Graves, and all your Soules do flye
In triumph up to Immortality!