Poems or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson |
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An Elegy upon old Freeman, us'd hardly by the Committee, for lying in the Cathedral, and in Church-Porches, praying the Common-prayer by heart, &c.
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 | Poems |  |
An Elegy upon old Freeman, us'd hardly by the Committee, for lying in the Cathedral, and in Church-Porches, praying the Common-prayer by heart, &c.
Here in this homely Cabinet,Resteth a poor old Anchoret;
Upon the ground he laid all weathers,
Not as most Men, gooslike on feathers.
For so indeed it came to pass,
The Lord of Lords his Landlord was.
He liv'd instead of wainscoat rooms,
Like the possest, among the tombs.
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To be acquainted with the Dead.
Each morning from his bed so hallow'd,
He rose, took up his cross, and follow'd.
To every porch he did repair,
To vent himself in Common-prayer.
Wherein he was alone devout,
When preaching justled praying out.
In such procession, through the City,
Maugre the Devil and Committee,
He daily went; for which he sell,
Not into Jacob's, but Bridewell.
Where you might see his loyal back,
Red letter'd like an Almanack.
Or, I may rather else aver,
Dominickt like a Calendar.
And him tryumphing at the harme,
Having naught else to keep it warm.
With Paul he always praid, no wonder;
The lash did keep his flesh still under.
Yet whipcord seem'd to loose its sting,
When for the Church, or for the King.
High Loyalty; in such a dearth,
Cou'd bafle torments with mean Earth.
He did not for his sufferings pass,
Who, spight of bonds, still Freeman was.
'Tis well his Pate was weather-proof,
For Palace-like it had no Roof:
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The Crown being under Sequestration.
Though bald as Time, and Mendicant,
No Fryer yet, but Protestant.
His head each Morning, and each Even,
Was water'd with the dew of Heaven.
He lodg'd alike, dead and alive,
As one that did his grave survive.
For he is stil, though he be dead,
But in a manner put to bed.
His Cabin being above ground yet,
Under a thin Turf-coverlet.
Pitty he in no porch does lay,
That did in Porches so much pray;
Yet let him have this Epitaph,
Here sleeps old Jacob Stone and Staff.
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