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B01561 Minerva's check to the author, attempting to write an elegy upon the Right Honourable and much to be lamented Roger first Earl of Orrery, who departed this life at Castle-Marter in the county of Cork in Ireland, 16 Octobris anno 1679. T. B. 1680 (1680) Wing B190; Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.3[111] 1,617 1

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MINERVA's Check to the Author Attempting to write an VIVIT POST-FVNERA VIRTVS ELEGY Upon the Right Honourable and much to be Lamented ROGER First Earl of ORRERY Who departed this Life at CASTLE-MARTER in the County of CORK in IRELAND 16 Octobris Anno 1679. THat News hath Wings we ev'ry day do find And Ill doth ever leave the best behind Admire not then the death of ORRERY Renown'd all 's days should in a moment flie Both far and near the World to terrifie At Cork at Dublin London and at Paris Too soon't arrives and ROME but there ne'er tarries Till at both Indies or where e'er more far is ' Mongst the Worlds Treasuries it there declare Than any theirs a Pearl more rich more rare W' have lost thus ranging all the World about Finds many zealous mournful Poets out But still I thought the Muses triple Trine And Learned Crew concern'd must have design Some Eagles Quill should make the worthy Pen To write their Dictates on the best of Men But chanc'd to view a mournful Elegy Upon his Death enough to stupifie The Reader whilst the Poet did invite Each Poetaster on him Distichs t' write This Author took I for good warrant to it To be as bold as any Errant Poet But quick as Thought Minerva said in haste Hold hold poor man don 't Time and Paper waste He was my Foster Child 't was my good hap The Babe to dandle first upon my Lap Who kindly took my Breasts and throve so well That in the Liberal Arts he did excell Thy grov'ling Fancy and too low pitch'd Eye Cannot reach up unto the Poets Skie Be not like those that to shoot up are-bold At what their dazled sense cannot behold Thine hand to th' Stars thou may'st extend as well As ORRERY's due praise conceive or tell His Noble Birth Life Death is a fit Story Reserv'd to Crown some Poet Laureat's Glory His Dust is Sacred therefore do not dare The Muses Darling and the Graces Dear With thy rude Rhimes devoid of Time and Measure Once to prophane a Sacred Poet's Treasure I bless'd him young thus 'bove thy reach and stature Besides what Mars bestow'd on 's Noble Nature Thou fain would'st tell how th' Graces still invite him Their Guest when Mars doth cease t' excite him Brighter in Arms than 's Arts ere-while to shine In God's and 's King 's cause still defending thine His care to breed brave Horses thou would'st write In Peace for Pleasure and in War for fight Thou fain would'st talk on ' s Vict'ry at Knockny Clarshy And give him next to God the God-a-mercy While thousands yet alive would with thee say His Prowess under God obtain'd that Day But what is this to all that he hath done To th' Towns and Castles he by force hath won thou 'dst find an endless Task on 't to declare His Peaceful Virtues or 's exploits in War In general terms I know thou'dst praise thus far Prudent in Counsel prosperous in War But home to speak his praise and to descend Unto particulars there were no end Singly admire his prudence in the thing So well contriv'd that did restore the King Whose constant Loyalty since th' Restoration 'S a worthy pattern to th' unstable Nation Thou kenst not of the Knots or the Meanders Of State-Intrigues display'd ' mongst bold Commanders Then lay thy Pen by don't i' th' least Eclipse A General 's Glory by thy Pen or Lips Let England Scotland Ireland mourning say For threescore years and more enjoy'd have they In ORRERY an Atlas lost this day His death 's a loss unparallel'd the King A grave wise Counsellor and most loving Subject hath lost the Church a Gracious Son The Realm a Peer yea and a Peerless one The Court a Pillar th' Army a Commander Of high Conduct as was great Alexander The Countreys loss as great yea greater rather In ORRERY is lost a most dear Father Th' hast company enough who than to mourn Can't other glory add unto his Urn. I tell thee still thou need'st not can'st not write Great ORRERY's due praise who Shines too bright His Sacred Poems now but in the Press Will speak his noble praise in fairer dress His Wit and Worth were 'bove thy Ken or Story Who therefore 's wrapt into immortal Glory But ' cause thou had'st a mind to do thy best Thou with his Coat of Arms a Mourner rest Thou art forewarn'd she said Now farewell Friend So ere I had begun I made an END T. B. LONDON Printed for Rowland Reynolds at the Middle-Exchange in the Strand 1680.