The Glory of Dying in WAR:
WITH
A particular Application to the Death
OF THE
Late EARL of SANDWICH.
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BLest Sandwich! Earths envy! Heavens delight!
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Whom the Gods honoured to die in Fight!
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A Glory far beyond the powr of Verse;
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Only, for Mars, and Cannons, to rehearse.
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Tis Natures pride; Virtues reward; a Bliss
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Would make the Angels slight their happiness,
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And Court this Death; Maugre the blinde mistake
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Of vulgar sprits, and those lean Souls, who make
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It terrible; chusing rather to go
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Ten years tormented with a Gouty Toe,
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Or war against a Cough, their loathing tongues
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Spitting the filth, out of their conquerd lungs:
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Or else their Corpse, with Salves and Sear-Cloths please;
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Live rotten Monuments of their disease;
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And carry pale-facd Death about to show,
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Making a Grave, and stink, where ere they go.
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Whilst thou, Great Sandwich, madst a Nobler choice,
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Not to be praisd enough by humane voice.
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Who in defence of King and Country did,
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Have ever hitherto been Deifid.
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The sharpest Teeth of Time could never skar
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The Glory of a man was killd i th War.
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If Advocates gain honour by a Cause
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Concerning Trespass in the Common-Laws;
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What merits he, who pleads with dint of Sword?
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And may be killd, or kill at every word:
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Who speaks with Lightning and with dreadful Thunder,
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Making the Earth to shake, all Mortals wonder:
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By whose success, Kingdoms or fall, or stand,
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Has the fortune of Princes in his hand;
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Nay, the worship of the Gods! nay, the lives
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Of ourselves, our servants, children and wives.
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In this Concern stout Sandwich bravely stood,
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Until he floated in a Sea of Blood:
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Repelld the fury of the Hogen Might;
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Shiverd their Valour, banishd em the Fight:
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And then to make his Victory compleat,
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The Heavens stoopd and took him from the Fleet,
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Leaving his Body on the gentle Bed
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Of Neptune, where the Sea-gods honoured
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His Herse, and with the Glories of the Main
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Conducted it to shore; when with a Train
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Of Honours it was met, and in great State
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Placed amongst the Gods o th Second Rate.
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Thus whilst his Corpse insults with Royal love,
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His Soul is led in Triumph by Great Jove.
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Heaven and Earth do both conspire to build
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Trophies unto the man that dies i th Field.
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Now come, ye curst Diseases, that have led
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Your Captive Coward to his dying Bed;
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Shew me what ease, what comfort you afford
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The Proselyte you gained from the Sword.
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Tis true, you give a little time; for what?
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To make him feel his grief, or lye and rot:
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A Cap, a Doctor, and a tender Nurse;
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And so you plague his Body with his Purse:
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Ye put him on a Rack; he nere confest,
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Nor yet by flatteries, your Death was best.
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Tell me, sick Clay, what Honour, what Renown
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It is to die upon a Bed of Down?
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No, no; the way to Glory doth not lye
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Thorough the pangs of a sad Malady:
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Not he who is a Slave to Death, and stands
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Ready to serve her Messengers Commands;
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Submits to every disease, and falls,
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When ere a petty Cold, or Fever calls:
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That mans a man of life, and valour, can
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Bid Death stand off; and when he please, come on;
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That, for his Countries sake, dares single meet
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All the Death-Heads o th Hogen Mogen Fleet!
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Make Death serve him, in killing others, then
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Commands it to return to him agen;
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And lift him from this doleful Vale of Tears,
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(Without the help of Sickness, or of Years)
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Unto Eternal Joy, and Bliss, and Glory,
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Where Angels love to Chant, and tell his Story.
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Thus did, thus livd, thus did, admird by all;
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SANDWICH the Great, and Valiant Admiral.
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