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The works of Mr. Thomas Brown

Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings

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An Elegy on that most Orthodox, and Pains-taking Divine, Mr. Samuel Smith, Ordinary of Newgate, who dy'd of a Quinsey, on St. Bartholomew's Day, the 24th of August, 1698.
  
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An Elegy on that most Orthodox, and Pains-taking Divine, Mr. Samuel Smith, Ordinary of Newgate, who dy'd of a Quinsey, on St. Bartholomew's Day, the 24th of August, 1698.

Tyburn , lament, in pensive sable mourn,
For from the World thy ancient Priest is torn.
Death, cruel Death, thy learn'd Divine has ended,
And by a Quinsey, from his Place suspended.
Thus he expir'd in his old Occupation,
And as he liv'd, he dy'd, by Suffocation.

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Thou, reverend Pillar of the tripple Tree,
I would say Post, for it was prop'd by thee;
Thou Penny-Chronicler of hasty Fate,
Death's Annalist, Reformer of the State;
Cut-throat of Texts, and Chaplain of the Halter,
In whose sage presence Vice it self did faulter.
How many Criminals by thee assisted,
Old Smith, have been most orthodoxly twisted?
And when they labour'd with a dying Qualm,
Were decently suspended to a Psalm?
How oft hast thou set harden'd Rogues a squeaking,
By urging the great Sin of Sabbath-breaking;
And sav'd Delinquents from old Nick's Embraces,
By flashing Fire and Brimstone in their Faces?
Thou wa'st a Gospel-Smith, and after Sentence,
Brought'st Sinners to the Anvil of Repentance;
And tho' they prov'd obdurate at the Sessions,
Could'st hammer out of them most strange Confessions,
When Plate was stray'd, and Silver Spoons were missing,
And Chamber-maid betray'd by Judas kissing,
Thy Christian Bowels chearfully extended
Towards such, as by their Mammon were befriended.
Tho' Culprit in enormous Acts was taken,
Thou would'st devise a way to save his Bacon;
And if his Purse could bleed a half Pistole,
Legit, my Lord, he reads, upon my Soul.
Spite of thy Charity to dying Wretches,
Some Fools would live to bilk thy Gallows Speeches.
But who'd refuse, that has a taste of Writing,
To hang, for one learn'd Speech of thy inditing.
Thou alway'st had'st a conscientious itching,
To rescue Penitents from Pluto's Kitchen;
And hast committed upon many a Soul,
A pious Theft, but so St. Austin stole.
And Shoals of Robbers, purg'd of sinful Leaven,
By thee were set in the high Road to Heaven.
With sev'ral Mayors hast thou eat Beef and Mustard,
And frail Mince-pyes, and transitory Custard.
But now that learned Head in Dust is laid,
Which has so sweetly sung, and sweetly pray'd:

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Yet tho' thy outward Man is gone and rotten,
Thy better part shall never be forgotten.
While Newgate is a Mansion for good Fellows,
And Sternbold's Rhimes are murder'd at the Gallows;
While Holborn Cits at Executions gape,
And Cut-purse follow'd is by Man of Crape;
While Grub-street Muse, in Garrets most sublime,
Trafficks in Doggerel, and aspires to Rhime;
Thy Deathless Name and Memory shall reign,
From fam'd St. Giles, to Smithfield, and Duck-lane.
But since thy Death does general Sorrow give,
We hope, thou in thy Successor will live.
Newgate and Tyburn jointly give their Votes,
Thou may'st succeeded be by Doctor Oates.