Selected quad for the lemma: glory_n
Text snippets containing the quad
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A66004
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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.
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Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
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1668
(1668)
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Wing W2136; ESTC R7135
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38,722
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126
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Horseman we have lost In whose each single Pray'r incamp'd an Host How have I heard him on some solemn Day When doubtful War could make all London pray Mount up to Heav'n with armed cries and tears And rout as far as York the Cavaliers Have you not seen an early-rising Lark Spring from her Turf making the Sun her mark Shooting her self aloft yet higher higher Till she had sung her self into Heaven's Quire Thus would he rise in Pray'r and in a trice His Soul become a Bird of Paradise And if our faint Devotions Prayers be What can we call his less than Extasie On his Preaching If with the Almighty he prevailed so Wonder not that he Wonders wrought below The Son of Consolation and of Thunder Met both in him in others are asunder He was like Luke Physician of both kinds Wrought Cures upon Mens Bodies their Minds The Falling-sickness of Apostacy Dropsie of Drunkenness Prides Tympany The Meagrim of Opinions new or old Palsie of Unbelief Charities cold Lusts burning Fever Anger 's Calenture The Collick in the Conscience he could cure Set the souls broken bones by holy Art He hath dissolv'd the Stone in many a Heart Harder than that he dy'd of O come in Ye multitudes whom he hath heal'd of sin And thereby made his Debtors Pay him now Some of those tears which he laid out for you Interest-tears I mean for should you all Weep over him both Use and Principal 'T would wash away the Stone which covers him And make his Coffin like an Ark to swim Now wipe thine eyes my Muse stop thy Verse Thy Ink can only serve to black his Hearse Yet stay I 'll drop one Tear sigh one sigh more 'T is this although my Poetry be poor O what a mighty Prophet should I be Had this Elijah's Mantle faln to me Oh might I live his Life I 'd be content His sore Diseases too should me torment And if his Patience could mine become I would not be afraid of Martyrdom R. W. UPON THE DEATH OF So many Reverend Ministers of late STill we do find Black cloth wears out the first And fruits that are the choicest keep the worst Such men So many and they die so fast They 'r precious death on do not make such waste Scarce have we dry'd our eyes for loss of one But in comes tidings that another's gone Oh that I had my former Tears agen All but those few laid out upon my sin Had I an Helicon in either Eye I have occasion now to verse them dry Triumph licentious Age lift up thy Song Presbytery sha'nt trouble you ere long Those that tormented you before your day Are now apace removing out o' th' way Yea rather tremble England stand agast To see thy glorious Lamps go out so fast When Death like Sampson thus lays hold upon The Pillars of the Church The Building 's gone When we do see so many Stars to fall Surely it boads the World's great Funeral London look too 't and think what Heav'n is doing Thy Flames are coming when thy Lots are going Well may we all fear God intendeth Wars When he commands home his Embassadors That Venerable Synod which of late Was made the Object of Mens Scorn and Hate For want of Copes and Mitres not of Graces Are now call'd up with Moses and their Faces When they return shall shine God sees it fit Such an Assembly should in Glory sit The learned Twisse went first it was his right Then holy Palmer Borroughs Love Gouge White Hill Whitaker grave Gataker and Strong Pern Marshal Robinson all gone along I have not nam'd them half their only strife Hath been of late who should first part with Life Those few who yet survive sick of this Age Long to have done their parts and leave the Stage Our English Luther Vines whose Death I weep Stole away and said nothing in a Sleep Sweet like a Swan he preach'd that day he went And for his Cordial took a Sacrament Had it but been suspected he would die His People sure had stop'd him with their Cry My blearey'd Muse 't is tears have made her so Must wash his Marble too before she go AN ELOGY UPON THE Earl of Essex HIS FUNERAL ANd are there all the Rites that must be done Thrice Noble ESSEX Englands Champion Some Men some Walls some Horses put in black With the Throng scrambling for Sweet-meats and Sack A gawdy Herald and a Velvet Hearse A tattar'd Anagram with grievous Verse And a sad Sermon to conclude withall Shall this be stil'd great ESSEX's â—â—neral Niggardly Nation be asham'd of th'odds Less Valour among Heathen made men gods Should such a General have dy'd in Rome He must have had an Altar not a Tomb And there in stead of youthful Elegies Grave Senators had offer'd Sacrifice To Divine Devereux O sor a Vote Ye Lords and Commons ye are bounâ—â—o do 't A Vote that who is seen to smile this year A Vote that who so brings not in a Tear Shall be adjudg'd Malignant It were wise T' erect an Office in the Peoples eyes For issuing forth a constant sum of Tears There 's no way else to pay him his Arrears And when w'have drein'd this Ages eyes quite dry Let him be wept the next in History Which if Posterity shall dare to doubt Then Glosters whisp'ring Walls shall speak him out And so his Funeral shall not be done Till he returnith ' Resurrection To the Father of a very vertuous Virgin Deceased who desired an obscure Person to make an Elegy c. SIr Be advis'd She 's not your Daughter now But a crown'd Saint in Heav'ns great Court you Must take heed what you offer to her Shrine You 'l be profane if that be not Divine Sternhold who kill'd the Psalms and David too In Meeter and good meaning did not do More violence to Heav'n than you to her If whil'st you think 't a kindness you shall blur Her Honour with my Ink 't is a disgrace To set black Spots upon a glorious Face Disdain will burst her Coffin sure to have Such dirty Feet as mine stand on her Grave Besides 't is niggardly to weep in Verse Tears without measure best become her Hearse The talking Book is shallow still we see Great Sorrows like deep Rivers silent be Were I Apollo's Priest indeed and fit To send a Poem up in flames of Wit Yet i 'm but one Sir to her Altar's due Whole Hecatombs of Verse and Poets too Go search St. Pauls-Church-yard imploy choice eyes To scan all Epitaphs and Elegies All the rich Fancies sacred Raptures all The Pearly drops which ever yet did fall On spotless Virgins Tombs then make your claim Print and devote them to your Daughters name Those vast Hyperboles those lofty Notes Which crackt the Muses Voices rent their throats Offended scrup'lous Readers made them think Poetry only strong Lines and strong Drink Allayed by her merit soon will be Reduc'd to sober Truth and Modesty