Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique &c. By Henry Bold |
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Elegy at the Funerals of W. Moyle Esq;
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Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique | ||
Elegy at the Funerals of W. Moyle Esq;
May 28. 1660.
Sad, as forsaken Lovers! black as night
When yet un-chaos'd to be christend light!
Heavy as Laden consciences! and Pale,
As childish fears! Why mourn ye? What d'ye ayle?
When yet un-chaos'd to be christend light!
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As childish fears! Why mourn ye? What d'ye ayle?
You, that were wont for to out dare the Sun
In's Glory, now, as if your souls were gone
And left your bodies pawnd until they come;
Grief and disaster (only fill the Room.)
But Oh!—
In's Glory, now, as if your souls were gone
And left your bodies pawnd until they come;
Grief and disaster (only fill the Room.)
But Oh!—
I've met the Cause! Behold! and see
The subject (once) of your Idolatry!
Moyle that was (late) the glory and the prize
Of Arts and Natures misteries, here lyes
Cold as the hand of fate, as breathless grown
As winds were in the first confusion:
Here sigh and weep! whilst in a sacred boast
I tell what you and all the world have lost.
The subject (once) of your Idolatry!
Moyle that was (late) the glory and the prize
Of Arts and Natures misteries, here lyes
Cold as the hand of fate, as breathless grown
As winds were in the first confusion:
Here sigh and weep! whilst in a sacred boast
I tell what you and all the world have lost.
Moyle! the lov'd Moyle! whom 'tis as hard to praise
As 'twas to imitate his works and wayes.
He was (believe me Reader for 'tis rare?)
One in whom all choice Gifts implanted were.
Man Miracle! who when alive possest,
All ingrost virtue, in his Catholick Breast,
Where all the graces dwelt as 'twere their Sphere
And every muse, took up her Lodging there.
And sadly, now, to Celebrate his Herse,
Burthen their Eyes, with tears, their hands with verse.
His Countryes Joy! and Greif! None was more free
Hearted, or handed, to the Poor, then He;
If good works prove short-liv'd here you may read
The sad (but certain) cause, 'Tis he is dead.
As 'twas to imitate his works and wayes.
He was (believe me Reader for 'tis rare?)
One in whom all choice Gifts implanted were.
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All ingrost virtue, in his Catholick Breast,
Where all the graces dwelt as 'twere their Sphere
And every muse, took up her Lodging there.
And sadly, now, to Celebrate his Herse,
Burthen their Eyes, with tears, their hands with verse.
His Countryes Joy! and Greif! None was more free
Hearted, or handed, to the Poor, then He;
If good works prove short-liv'd here you may read
The sad (but certain) cause, 'Tis he is dead.
No truth in Proverbs! April showers (they say)
Bring forth the fragrant flowers of following May.
April hath cropt our Prim-rose there it lies,
From hence transplanted, into Paradise.
Thus do we sow our seed, to rot i'th Earth
That it may quicken to a second Birth;
Thus is he laid in Ground, never to Dye,
But to spring up, to all Eternity.
Bring forth the fragrant flowers of following May.
April hath cropt our Prim-rose there it lies,
From hence transplanted, into Paradise.
Thus do we sow our seed, to rot i'th Earth
That it may quicken to a second Birth;
Thus is he laid in Ground, never to Dye,
But to spring up, to all Eternity.
Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique | ||