Else, had that sense of honour still surviv'd Which Fairfax from his ancestors deriv'd, 220 He ne'er had show'd himself, for hate or fear, So much degen'rous from renowned Vere (The title and alliance of whose son His acts of valour had in Holland won), As to give up, by his rash dooming breath, This precious pair of lives to timeless death; Whom no brave enemy but would esteem, And, though with hazard of his own, redeem. For 'tis not vainly by the world surmis'd, This blood to private spleens was sacrific'd. 230 Half of the guilt stands charg'd on Whalley's score By Lisle affronted on his guards before; For which his spite by other hands was shown, Who never durst dispute it with his own. Twice guilty coward! first by vote, then eye, Spectator of the shameful tragedy. But Lucas elder cause of quarrel knew, From whence his critical misfortune grew; Since he from Berkeley Castle with such scorn Bold Ransborough's first summons did return, 240 Telling him loudly at the parley's beat, With rogues and rebels he disdain'd to treat. Some from this hot contest the world persuade His sleeping vengeance on that ground was laid: If so, for ever blurr'd with Envy's brand, His honour gain'd by sea, was lost at land: Nor could he an impending judgement shun, Who did to this with so much fervour run, When late himself, to quit that bloody stain, Was, 'midst his armed guards, from Pomfret slain. 250 But all in vain we here expostulate What took them hence, private or public hate: Knowledge of acted woes small comforts add, When no repair proportion'd can be had: And such are ours, which to the kingdom's eyes Sadly present ensuing miseries, Foretelling in These Two some greater ill From those who now a patent have to kill. Two, whose dear loss leaves us no recompense, Nor them atonement, which in weight or sense 260 With These shall never into balance come, Though all the army fell their hecatomb. Here leave them then; and be 't our last relief To give their merit value in our grief. Whose blood however yet neglected must Without revenge or rites mingle with dust; Not any falling drop shall ever dry, Till to a weeping spring it multiply, Bath'd in whose tears their blasted laurel shall Grow green, and with fresh garlands crown their fall. 270