Ex otio Negotium :: :: University of Virginia Library

Has grief so seiz'd and sear'd man-kinde in all
The convoyes of Intellegence? No fall
But those of Waters heard? No Elegies
But such as whine through th'organs of our eyes?
Can Pompey fall again? And no Pen say
Here lies the Romane Liberty in clay?
Or can his bloud Boe-die th'Egiptian Sand,
And the black crime doe less than tann the land?
And make the Region instead of a verse
And tombe his sable Epitaph and Hearse?

So here Northampton that brave Heroe fell
Tryumphant Roman thy pure paralell,
The blush and glory of his Age: Who dyed
In all points happy, but the Weaker side.
Only to forreign parts he did not roam,
The kinde Egiptians met him nearer home.
Both, and such, Causes, that the world confess
There's nought to plead against them but Success.
Malignant Loyalty! a glorious fame
And sin, for which God never found a name.
Which had it scaped the Rubrick of these times
Had still continued among Holy Crimes.
A Text on which we finde no gloss at all
But in the Alcorn of Gold-smiths Hall!

Now (Great Adolphus) give me leave to stir
The ashes of thy Urne, and Sepulcher;
And branch the flowers of the Sweadish glory
As rivall'd to the life in our sad story:
Yet not impaire thy plumes, by adding more
To suit that splendor from a neighbour shore;

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Nor deem thy honor less thus match'd to bee,
If Compton dyed to grasping Victorie.
An active soul in gallant fury hurl'd
To club with all the worthies of the world.
Blinde, envious, piping Fortune! what could bee
The tottering ground of this thy trecherie?
To stop the ballance of that brave Carrear
Was both at once thy miracle and fear?
Was't not a pannick dread surpriz'd thy soul
Of being made servile to his high controul?
Blush and confess poor Caitiff-godess! so
Wee'le quit his in thy reall over-throw.

And Death, thou worm! thou pale Assassinate!
Thou sneaking hireling of revenge and hate,
Didst not thou feel an Earth-quake in thy bones?
Such as rends Rocks and their foundations?
No Tirtian shivering, but an Ague fit
Which with a burning Feaver shall commit
The world to ashes? when thou stolest creptst under
That Helmet which durst dare Jove and his thunder

But since the bays he reacht at grew not here,
Like a wise souldier, and a Cavalier,
He left his coveteous enemie at bay,
Rifling the carriage of his flesh and clay:
While his rich soul pursued the greater game
Of Honour to the skies, there fix'd his name.

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I shall not therefore vex the Orbs to trace
Thy sacred foot-steps in that hallow'd place.
Nor start a feigned Star, and swear it thine,
Then stretch the Constellation to thy line.
Like a Welch Gentleman that tacks his kin
To all Coats in the countrey he lives in.
Nor yet, to raise thy Flaming Crest, shall I
Knock for the wandring Planets in the sky:
Perhaps some broken beauty of stale doubt,
To comment on her face has hir'd them out.

Let fame, & thy brave race thy Statue live,
The world can never such another give.
Whiles each soul sighes at the sad thought of thee
There fell a Province of Nobilitie.
A fall, had Zeal but husbanded its throat,
That sunck the House of Lords, and saved the Vote.
They only state mute Titles in their gears,
He singly represented all the Peeres.
One, had the enemy imployd their Smeck,
Those Ring-worms of the Church, to beg a neck
With Claudius, to metropolize all worth,
Rome, & what ere the Suburbe world brought forth,
In him the sword did glut its ravening eye,
The rest that kick'd up were the smaler Frye.
Sparks only of that fire in him deceas'd,
Nyfles that crack'd and vanish'd north & west.

He lead the Royal war in such a dye,
In that dire entrance of the Tragedy,

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The sense (Great Charles) no longer to prorogue,
None but thy self could speak the Epilogue.