Amanda A Sacrifice To an Unknown Goddesse, or, A Free-Will Offering Of a loving Heart to a Sweet-Heart. By N. H. [i.e. Nicholas Hookes] |
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An ELEGY on the death of Dr. MEDCALFE, late Vice-Master of Trin. Col. in Cambr.
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An ELEGY on the death of Dr. MEDCALFE, late Vice-Master of Trin. Col. in Cambr.
Most sacred Reliques, at whose Obsequies
Devotion bids us weep not teares but eyes;
'Tis but weak sorrow which commands we must
Sprinkle some water only to lay thy dust,
And huddle up th' Atomes at so poor expence,
As if we meant to sweep thy ashes hence;
We'l rather spend our springs, and when we're dry,
Weep for more teares, another Elegie,
Old Ennius shall preach no Funeral here,
Nor make's (without a sigh, a sob, or teare)
Expose thee with a Diogenes staffe,
Which serv'd the Cynick for an Epitaph;
No we'l command the Muses to thy Herse;
And make Apollo weep in golden verse.
Parnassus cloth'd in mourning weeds to grace
Thy Corps, shall stoop to give thee burying place:
And so it for a Golgotha we'l have,
And weep a Helicon into thy grave;
Nay, it is fit when such great Doctors die,
Parnassus should appear Mount-Calvarie.
Devotion bids us weep not teares but eyes;
'Tis but weak sorrow which commands we must
Sprinkle some water only to lay thy dust,
And huddle up th' Atomes at so poor expence,
As if we meant to sweep thy ashes hence;
We'l rather spend our springs, and when we're dry,
Weep for more teares, another Elegie,
Old Ennius shall preach no Funeral here,
Nor make's (without a sigh, a sob, or teare)
Expose thee with a Diogenes staffe,
Which serv'd the Cynick for an Epitaph;
No we'l command the Muses to thy Herse;
And make Apollo weep in golden verse.
Parnassus cloth'd in mourning weeds to grace
Thy Corps, shall stoop to give thee burying place:
And so it for a Golgotha we'l have,
And weep a Helicon into thy grave;
Nay, it is fit when such great Doctors die,
Parnassus should appear Mount-Calvarie.
Then shed your grief and labour to out-vie
The grave-stone sweating in its Agonie,
With crystal jems, which from your eyes distil,
In stead of dust the Sextons shovel fill,
Speak and weep volumes at his sepulchre,
As if in learned Medcalfs Coffin were
The ruines of a famous Librarie,
A Chronicle, a three-ages registrie;
And since w'have lost this jewel-house,
—This treasury,
'Tis fit each Scholar ware
—A watrie pearl in's eye.
The grave-stone sweating in its Agonie,
With crystal jems, which from your eyes distil,
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Speak and weep volumes at his sepulchre,
As if in learned Medcalfs Coffin were
The ruines of a famous Librarie,
A Chronicle, a three-ages registrie;
And since w'have lost this jewel-house,
—This treasury,
'Tis fit each Scholar ware
—A watrie pearl in's eye.
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