Kingston Upon Thames, Surrey, South-East England, British Isles [Map]

On 7th July 1648 Francis Villiers (age 19) was killed during a skirmish at Kingston Upon Thames, Surrey [Map]. He was in the Buckingham Vault at Westminster Abbey. Andrew Marvell wrote "An elegy upon the death of my Lord Francis Villiers":

TIs true that he is dead: but yet to chuse,

Methinkes thou Fame should not have brought the news▪

Thou canst discourse at will and speak at large:

But wast not in the fight nor durst thou charge.

While he transported all with valiant rage

His Name eternizd, but cut short his age;

On the safe battlements of Richmonds bowers

Thou wast espyd, and from the guilded Towers

Thy silver Trumpets sounded a Retreat,

Farre from the dust and battails sulphry heat.

Yet what couldst thou have done? 'tis alwayes late

To struggle with inevitable fate.

Much rather thou I know expectst to tell

How heavy Cromwell gnasht the earth and fell.

Or how slow Death farre from the sight of day

The long-deceived Fairfax bore away.

But untill then, let us young Francis praise:

And plant upon his hearse the bloody bayes,

Which we will water with our welling eyes.

Teares spring not still from spungy Cowardize.

The purer fountaines from the Rocks more steep

Destill and stony valour best doth weep.

Besides Revenge, if often quencht in teares,

Hardens like Steele and daily keener weares.

Great Buckingham, whose death doth freshly strike

Our memoryes, because to this so like;

Ere that in the Eternall Court he shone,

And here a Favorite there found a throne;

The fatall night before he hence did bleed,

Left to his Princess this immortall seed.

As the wise Chinese in the fertile wombe

Of Earth doth a more precious clay entombe,

Which dying by his will he leaves consignd:

Til by mature delay of time refind

The christall metall fit to be releast

Is taken forth to crowne each royall feast:

Such was the fate by which this Postume breathd,

Who scarcely seems begotten but bequeathd.

Never was any humane plant that grew

More faire then this and acceptably new.

'Tis truth that beauty doth most men dispraise:

Prudence and valour their esteeme do raise.

But he that hath already these in store,

Can not be poorer sure for having more.

And his unimitable handsomenesse

Made him indeed be more then man, not lesse.

We do but faintly Gods resemblance beare

And like rough coyns of carelesse mints appeare:

But he of purpose made, did represent

In a rich Medall every lineament.

Lovely and admirable as he was,

Yet was his Sword or Armour all his Glasse.

Nor in his Mistris eyes that joy he tooke,

As in an Enemies himselfe to looke.

I know how well he did, with what delight

Those serious imitations of fight.

Still in the trialls of strong exercise

His was the first, and his the second prize.

Bright Lady, thou that rulest from above

The last and greatest Monarchy of Love:

Faire Richmond hold thy Brother or he goes.

Try if the Jasmin of thy hand or Rose

Of thy red Lip can keep him alwayes here:

For he loves danger and doth never feare.

Or may thy tears prevaile with him to stay?

But he resolv'd breaks carelesly away.

Onely one argument could now prolong

His stay and that most faire and so most strong:

The matchlesse Chlora whose pure fires did warm

His soule and only could his passions charme.

You might with much more reason go reprove

The amorous Magnet which the North doth love.

Or preach divorce and say it is amisse

That with tall Elms the twining Vines should kisse:

Then chide two such so fit, so equall faire

That in the world they have no other paire.

Whom it might seeme that Heaven did create

To restore man unto his first estate.

Yet she for honours tyrannous respect

Her own desires did and his neglect.

And like the Modest Plant at every touch

Shrunk in her leaves and feard it was too much

But who can paint the torments and that pain

Which he profest and now she could not faigne?

He like the Sun but overcast and pale:

Shee like a Rainbow, that ere long must faile,

Whose rosiall cheek where Heaven it selfe did view

Begins to separate and dissolve to dew.

At last he leave obtaines though sad and slow,

First of her and then of himselse to goe.

How comely and how terrible he sits

At once and Warre as well as Love befits!

Ride where thou wilt and bold adventures find:

But all the Ladies are got up behind.

Guard them, though not thy selfe: for in thy death

Th' Eleven thousand Virgins lose their breath.

So Hector issuing from the Trojan wall

The sad Jliades to the Gods did call

With hands displayed and with dishevell'd haire

That they the Empire in his life would spare.

While he secure through all the field doth spy

Achilles for Achilles only cry.

Ah ignorant that yet e're night he must

Be drawn by him inglorious through the dust.

Such fell young Villiers in the chearfull heat

Of youth: his locks intangled all with sweat

And those eyes which the Sentinell did keep

Of love closed up in an eternall sleep.

While Venus of Adonis thinks no more

Slaine by the harsh tuske of the Savage Boare.

Hither she runns and hath him hurried farre

Out of the noise and blood, and killing warre:

Where in her Gardens of Sweet myrtle laid

Shee kisses him in the immortall shade,

Yet dyed he not revengelesse: Much he did

Ere he could suffer. A who le Pyramid

Of Vulgar bodies he erected high:

Scorning without a Sepulcher to dye.

And with his steele which did whole troopes divide

He cut his Epitaph on either Side.