Selected quad for the lemma: death_n
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B03246
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An elegy on the [right honourable] Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury, Who dyed on the 21st. of January, 1683.
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1683
(1683)
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Wing E435; Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.3[144]
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2,355
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1
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An ELEGY On the Right Honourable Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury Who dyed on the 21 st of January 1683 THe Busie Statesmen who by Toyls unblest Torment themselves to give their Country Rest Those publick Great First movers of the State Who almost turn the Mighty Wheels of Fate Roul the vast Stone like Sysyphus in vain Whilst Deaths last Call ends a whole Ages Pain The Graves long Rubicon must all pass o're Whence launching Caesars can return no more Farewell Great Shaftsbury Times Sythe can stretch Where Malice Sword and Axes ne'er could reach Thy Life great Statesman stood in Fate so high That thou by nought but Heav'ns own Hand couldst die Yes Heaven alone compiles thy Funeral-Urn Less than the Sun the Phoenix shall not burn What did wise Solon or Lycurgus do Lycurgus dy'd like Thee an Exile too And whilst proud Belgia thy Bones Entombs And triumps at the Glory it assumes Belgia who in thy Fate has now done more Than all her Trumps or Opdams could before Belgia has vanquisht more in thy one Grave Than all the Wounds her Thunder ever gave Sleep then thou Activ'st of Mankind Oh make Thy last low Bed and Deaths long Requiem take Thou who whilst living kept'st the World awake Oh may thy Funeral-Rites walk that large round Till to thy Western-shore thy loss resound Till Carolina shall in Mourning stand With all the Cypress of a VVidow'd Land Let Fools and Knaves through their false Opticks find Thy Spots and be to all thy Brightness blind Let Envy all her monstrous Forms suggest And lodge the Raven in the Eagles Nest Let 'em rail on and vent their hurtless Gall VVhilst Shaftsbury's Renown surmounts 'em all From his clear Fame the dissolv'd Clouds shall throw And leave the Earthly Vapours all below Yes Mighty Man lay thy great Reliques down Thou Idol of the croud Dread of the Crown Shaftsbury in popular Arts and Harts so learn'd As with his VVeight the Scale of Nations turn'd To him the Kingdoms Genius bended low The Thrones best Friend or formidablest Foe If the best Gifts which the kind Stars dispense The highest Prodigies of VVit and Sense For Immortality Foundations lay No Greater Soul e're lodg'd in Walls of Clay Swiftly his restless Orb of Fire went round And light and warmth we from his Influence found His kindest Rays and temperater Heat The Protestants still-favour'd Climates met There his best Aspect smil'd whilst Rome alone Felt all the Fury of his Torrid Zone This was the Cause did such great Foes engage VVith such keen Malice and such Mortal Rage For this so high the Roman Vengance boyls VVith Fires more hot that their old Smithfield-piles But Heavens kind Call has all their Engines crost Heav'n that has lodg'd thee on that safer Coast VVhence thou look'st down and seest thy Mighty Hunters lost EPITAPH UNder this Stone does Sleeping lye All that was Earth of Shaftsbury But Funeral-Tears and Weeping Eyes Infallibillity denies Whilst his wish'd Death 's enough to be The Subject of a Jubilee A more sworn Foe to Roman Pride Not Hannibal himself e're dy'd For which his Deathless Fame below His Soul above His Soul Ah no! From Heav'n's lock'd out too sure if they Who succeed Peter keep the Key Doom'd to Hells hottest burning Seas If the Popes Curse can do the Feat If Papel Rage and Roman Spight For any but themselves Hell-fire can light An ELEGY On the Death of the much to be lamented Anthony K of Poland THe busie Toney who by Toil unblest Torments himself to break his Countreys Rest Who ceasing to be Engineer of State Turn'd Rogue yet could not turn the Wheels of Fate Like Sysyphus he rowls his Stone in vain Death plucks his Tap and ends his PLOTS and Pain The Graves long Pampus Rebels must pass o're Thence restless Raskals can return no more Wretch of 3 Names farwel Thy Deaths kind stretch Secures Thee from the Sword and Axes reach Thy Life Old Tricker stood in Fate so high That Hang-man's hand was fit to make Thee die Yes Hang-man only frames Thy Funeral Urn Less man than Hang-man Traytors shall not burn What did Old Solon and Lycurgus do They went to Amsterdam and died too Whil'st Belgick Boor Thee and Thy Tap Entombs And tryumphs in the Brandy he assumes Boor who in burying Thee hath done much more Than Trump or Opdam who were dead before Boor with bright Spade does more in Thy one Grave Than in all Graves that his bright Spade e'r gave Trick on trick on thou Will-with'-Wisp now make New Broils in Hell and never Requiem take With Plots and Popery keep the Devil awake May Thy tormented Ghost walk a large round And its deserved Punishment resound Till Carolina shall agasted stand Mourning Kid-napper who supply'd her Land Let partial Whigs through their false Opticks find Thy Worth and ever be like Thee half blind Let Factious Varlets monstrous forms suggest Such Ravens shall never croak i' th' Eagles Nest Rail on Phanaticks vent your envious Gall Your Toney's Tapping Arts have spoil'd ye all From Meeting-house dissolved Tubs shall throw And sneaking Tubster send to th' Room below Yes Mouse-trap-man Thy rotten Loins lay down Seducer of the Rabble scorn o' th' Crown In Treach'rous Arts and Trayt'rous Hearts so learn'd His weight all hands of Whimsey-boards still turn'd To him Rebellion's Genius bended low The Thrones Friend when at th' Helm when not its Foe If the worst gifts Malignant Stars dispense If mis-applied strength of Wit and Sense For lasting Infamy Foundations lay No greater Knâ—â—â— was ever cloath'd in Clay His restless Orb of Shams went swiftly round And none but Raskals his kind Influence found His gentler Rays and Life-creating heat The Land of Whigs and Betty Morris met Th' unthinking Crowd he courted and alone He dreamt to domineer i' th' British Zone But lost in his own Maze he doth engage VVith eager Malice and with lasting rage His Brain more hot than Copper-kettle boils In Shops of Cooks about Py-corner-Piles But Hells kind Call hath all his Consults crost Hell that hath plac'd him on a fiery Coast Through glass he peeps and sees his Tricks and Trickers lost EPITAPH Under this Stone doth rotting lie All th' Devil has left of Shaftsbury No Funeral Tears nor weeping Eyes The melting Sisterhood denies Whilst Mine-heer thinks his Death to be A joyful Brandy-Jubilee A firmer Friend to PLOTS and Pride In Holland heretofore ne'r dy'd For which His Odious Name below His Soul 's above in Heaven Oh no! It found no Lodging there if He Speak Truth who always kept the Key Adjudg'd to sit i' th' hottest Seat The little Guest will do some Feat And a fresh Fire in Hell will light To entertain the wand'ring Salamanca-Wight LONDON Printed Anno Domini MDCLXXXIII