Elegia secunda, Anno ætatis 17.
In obitum Præconis Academici Cantabrigiensis.

Te, qui conspicuus baculo fulgente solebas
Palladium toties ore ciere gregem,

Ultima præconum præconem te quoque sæva
Mors rapit, officio nec favet ipsa suo.

Candidiora licet fuerint tibi tempora plumis [ 5 ]
Sub quibus accipimus delituisse Jovem,

O dignus tamen Hæmonio juvenescere succo,
Dignus in Æsonios vivere posse dies,

Dignus quem Stygiis medicâ revocaret ab undis
Arte Coronides, sæpe rogante dea. [ 10 ]

Tu si jussus eras acies accire togatas,
Et celer a Phœbo nuntius ire tuo

Talis in Iliacâ stabat Cyllenius aula
Alipes, æthereâ missus ab arce Patris.

Talis & Eurybates ante ora furentis Achillei [ 15 ]
Rettulit Atridæ jussa severa ducis.

Magna sepulchrorum regina, satelles Averni
Sæva nimis Musis, Palladi sæva nimis,

Quin illos rapias qui pondus inutile terræ,
Turba quidem est telis ista petenda tuis. [ 20 ]

Vestibus hunc igitur pullis Academia luge,
Et madeant lachrymis nigra feretra tuis.

Fundat & ipsa modos querebunda Elegeïa tristes,
Personet & totis nænia mœsta scholis.

The Second Elegy
At the Age of Seventeen
On the Death of the Beadle of the University of Cambridge

You, conspicuous with your shining staff, were wont so often to summon the Palladian band; but, beadle as you were, fell Death, the last of all beadles, has seized you, and shows no favor even to his own office. Although your temples were whiter than the downy feathers under which we have heard that Jove disguised himself, still you were worthy to renew your youth with a Haemonian potion, worthy like Aeson to relive your early days, worthy that Coronis's son, at the insistent prayer of a goddess, should with his healing art recall you from the waves of Styx. Whenever you were sent by your Apollo to go as a swift messenger to summon the gowned ranks, you stood like wing-footed Cyllenius in the Trojan halls, sent from the ethereal citadel of his father; or stood like Eurybates, when before the face of angry Achilles he announced the stern commands of his lord, the son of Atreus. O great queen of sepulchres, attendant of Avernus, too cruel to the Muses, too cruel to Pallas, why not seize those who are useless burdens to this earth? At that crowd should you aim your shafts. Therefore, Academia, mourn in sable raiments for this man, and let his dark bier be wet with your tears. Let plaintive Elegy herself pour forth sad measures, and let a melancholy dirge sound through all the schools.