AN
ELEGY
Upon the Death of that
WORTHY GENTLEMAN
Collonel Edward Cook
Who departed this Life the 29th. of January. 1683 4.
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TIS Vertue which alone supports the whole,
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For without that the Worlds without a Soul,
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Most certain then, as that grows faint and weak,
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Th eternal Chain decays; at last must break:
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When great Cooke fell the Jarring Links did twang,
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And Nature sighd as if she felt the Pang:
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Nor is it strange, --- for Vertue was his guide,
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With him it flourishd, and with him it dyd;
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Not all --- some Lagging Atoms yet remain,
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To guard Mankind, and prop the sinking Frame.
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In War he was nursd up, Arms his delight;
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Gentle in Peace, and Terrible in Fight:
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Death he had seen in various shapes, but none
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Coud move him to be fearfull of his own:
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Nor did old Age abate the Martial Flame,
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Twas always great, and always was the same.
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His Charity did equally extend
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To cherish the distressd and serve his Friend.
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When he did good (and who his Life surveys,
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Will find he did delight int all his Days.)
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Twas for the sake of good, and not for Praise.
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Great though he was, yet he was lowly too;
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Meekness gains more repute than Pride can doe.
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Restless Ambition nere his Thoughts employd;
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Peace and Content he sought, and those enjoyd.
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Vertue he prizd, though twere in Rags enshrind;
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He lookt not on the Person but the Mind.
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His Judgment was unbyast, firm and strong,
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His Conversation pleasant, gay and young;
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But then his Mirth was still from folly free,
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And such as Nuns without a blush might be.
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And, as when Tygers range the Woods for Prey,
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And chance to meet a Lion in their way,
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Straight they forget their rage, and learnt t obey;
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So Atheous men, though they blasphemd before,
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Awd with his presence, blusht and said no more:
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For Piety was still his constant Guest,
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And found its full Perfection in his Breast.
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Such was his Life --- and now his Death well shew,
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His Death, the greater wonder of the two!
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For when the fatal Pangs were drawing on,
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And the last Sands were eager to be gone,
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When all his Friends lay drownd in Tears of Grief,
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Wishing, but yet despairing of Relief;
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Evn he alone his Change with Patience bore,
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Like all the Changes of his Life before;
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And with a Cheerfulness too great to tell,
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A Cheerfulness that does all thought excell,
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At his last gasp he cryd, Ime well! Ime well!
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Then dyd, easie as Infants drop asleep;
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Wit, Vertue, Valour, for your Darling weep!
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O Pity, Pity that some abler Quill
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Had not performd his Praise with greater skill;
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And in a happy, high, immortal strain,
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Preservd his Vertues sacred with his Name;
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That Fame to late Posterity might tell,
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No Hero ever livd and dyd so well.
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