Selected quad for the lemma: cause_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
cause_n	great_a	king_n	war_n	4,472	5	6.2395	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A66004	Iter boreale with large additions of several other poems : being an exact collection of all hitherto extant : never before published together / the author R. Wild.	Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.	1668 (1668)	Wing W2136; ESTC R7135	38,722	126

clapt up you another me But oh the difference too is very great You are allow'd to walk to drink and eat I want them all and never a penny get And though you be debarr'd your liberty Yet all your Visitors I hope are free Good Men good Women and good Angels come And make your Prison better then your home Now may it be so till your foes repent They gave you such a rich Imprisonment May for the greater comfort of your lives Your lying in be better then your Wives May you a thousand friendly papers see And none prove empty except this from me And if you stay may I come keep your door Then farewel Parsonage I shall ne'r be poor ON THE DEATH OF M R. CALAMY Not known to the Author of a long time after Anno 1667. ANd must our Deaths be silenc'd too I guess 'T is some dumb Devil hath possest the Press Calamy dead without a Publication 'T is great injustice to our English Nation For had this Prophet's Funeral been known It must have had an Universal Groan Afflicted London would then have been found In the same year to be both burn'd and drown'd And those who found no Tears their flames to quench Would yet have wept a Showre his Herse to drench Methinks the Man who stuffs the Weekly Sheet With fine New-Nothings what hard Names did meet The Emp'ress how her Petticoat was lac'd And how her Lacquyes Liveries were sac'd What 's her chief Woman's Name what Dons do bring Almonds and Figs to Spain's great little King Is much concern'd if the Pope's Toe but akes When he breaks Wind and when a Purge he takes He who can gravely advertise and tell Where Lockier and Ronland Pippin dwell Where a Black Box or Green-Bag was lost And who was Knighted though not what it cost Methinks he might have thought it worth the while Though not to tell us who the State begnile Or what new Conquest England hath acquired Nor that poor Trifle who the City fired Though not how Popery exalts its head And Priests and Jesuits their poyson spread Yet in swoln Characters he might let fly The Presbyterians have lost an Eye Had Crackf 's Fiddle been in tune but he Is now a Silenc'd Man as well as We He had struck up loud Musick and had plaid A Jig for joy that Calamy was laid He would have told how many Coaches went How many Lords and Ladies did lament What Handkerchiefs were sent and in them Gold To wipe the Widows he would have told All had come out and we beholden all To him for th' ovreflowing of his gall But why do I thus Rant without a cause Is not Concealment Policy Whose Laws My silly peevish Muse doth ill t' oppose For publick Losses no Man should disclose And such was this a greater loss by far One Man of God then twenty Men of War It was a King who when a Prophet dy'd Wept over him and Father Father cry'd O if thy Life and Ministry be done My Chariots and Horsemen strength is gone I must speak sober words for well I know If Saints in Heaven do hear us here below A lye though in his Praise would make him frown And chide me when with Jesus he comes down To judge the World This little He This silly sickly silenc'd Calamy Aldermanbury's Curate and no more Though he a mighty Miter might have wore Could have vi'd Interest in God or Man With the most pompous Metropolitan How have we known him captivate a throng And made a Sermon twenty thousand strong And though black-mouths his Loyalty did charge How strong his tug was at the Royal Barge To hale it home great GEORGE can well attest Then when poor Prelacy lay dead in'ts nest For if a Collect could not fetch him home Charles must stay out that Interest was mum Nor did Ambition of a Miter make Him serve the Crown it was for Conscience-sake Unbribed Loyalty his highest reach Was to be Master Calamy and preach He bless'd the King who Bishop him did name And I bless him who did refuse the same O! had our Reverend Clergy been as free To serve their Prince without Reward as he They might have had less Wealth with greater Love Envy like Winds endangers things above Worth not Advancement doth beget esteem The highest Weathercock the least doth seem If you would know of what disease he dy'd His grief was Chronical it is reply'd For had he opened been by Surgeons art They had found London burning in his heart How many Messengers of death did he Receive with Christian Magnanimity The Stone Gout Dropsie Ills which did arise Form Griefs and Studies not from Luxuries The Megrim too which still strikes at the Head These he stood under and scarce staggered Might he but work though loaded with these Chains He Pray'd and Preach'd and sung away his pains Then by a fatal Bill he was struck dead And though that blow he ne're recovered For he remained speechless to his close Yet did he breath and breath out Prayers for those From whom he had that wound he liv'd to hear An hundred thousand buried in one Year In his Dear City over which he wept And many Fasts to keep off Judgments kept Yet yet he liv'd stout heart he liv'd to be Depriv'd driv'n out and kept out liv'd to see Wars Blazing-Stars Torches which Heav'n nev'r burns But to light Kings or Kingdoms to their Urns. He liv'd to see the Glory of our Isle London consumed in its Funeral Pile He liv'd to see that lesser day of Doom London the Priests Burnt-sacrifice to Rome That blow he could not stand but with that Fire As with a Burning Feaver did expire Thus dy'd this Saint of whom it must be said He dy'd a Martyr though he dy'd in 's bed So Father Eli in the Sacred page Sat quivering with fear as much as age Longing to know yet loth to ask the News How it far'd with the Army of the Jews Israel flies that struck his Palsie-head The next blow stunned him Your Sons are dead But when the third stroke came The Ark is lost His heart was wounded and his life it cost Thus fell this Father and we well do know He fear'd our Ark was going long ago The EPITAPH HEre a poor Minister of Christ doth lie Who did INDEED a Bishoprick deny When his Lord comes then then the World shall see Such bumble Ones the rising-Men shall be How many Saints whom he had sent before Shouted to see him enter Heavens door There his blest Soul beholds the face of God While we below groan out our Ichabod Under his burned-Church his Body lies But shall it self a glorious Temple rise May his kind flock when a new Church they make Call it St. Edmundsbury for his sake R. W. THE Loyal-Nonconformist OR An Account what he dare swear and what he dare not swear Published in the year 1666. I Fear an Oath before I swear to take it And well I