MINERVAs Check to the Author,
Attempting to write an ELEGY
Upon the Right Honourable and much to be Lamented
ROGER First Earl of ORRERY,
Who departed this Life at CASTLE-MARTER
in the County of CORK in IRELAND,
16 Octobris Anno 1679.
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THat News hath Wings, we evry day do find,
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And Ill doth ever leave the best behind:
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Admire not then the death of ORRERY,
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Renownd alls days, should in a moment flie.
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Both far and near the World to terrifie.
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At C[o]rk, at Dublin, London, and at Paris
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Too soont arrives, and ROME, but there neer tarries,
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Till at both Indies, or where eer more far is.
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Mongst the Worlds Treasuries, it there declare,
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Than any theirs, a Pearl more rich, more rare
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W have lost; thus ranging all the World about,
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Finds many zealous mournful Poets out:
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But still I thought the Muses triple Trine,
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And Learned Crew concernd, must have design
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Some Eagles Quill should make the worthy Pen,
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To write their Dictates on the best of Men;
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But chancd to view a mournful Elegy
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Upon his Death, enough to stupifie
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The Reader, whilst the Poet did invite
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Each Poetaster on him Distichs twrite.
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This Author took I for good warrant to it,
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To be as bold as any Errant Poet:
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But quick as Thought Minerva said in haste,
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Hold, hold, poor man! dont Time and Paper waste;
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He was my Foster Child, twas my good hap
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The Babe to dandle first upon my Lap,
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Who kindly took my Breasts, and throve so well,
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That in the Liberal Arts he did excell.
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Thy grovling Fancy, and too low pitchd Eye,
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Cannot reach up unto the Poets Skie:
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Be not like those that to shoot up are bold,
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At what their dazled sense cannot behold:
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Thine hand to th Stars thou mayst extend as well,
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As ORRERYs due praise conceive, or tell:
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His Noble Birth, Life, Death, is a fit Story,
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Reservd to Crown some Poet Laureats Glory:
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His Dust is Sacred, therefore do not dare
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The Muses Darling, and the Graces Dear,
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With thy rude Rhimes, devoid of Time and Measure,
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Once to prophane, (a Sacred Poets Treasure.)
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I blessd him young thus bove thy reach, and stature,
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Besides what Mars bestowd ons Noble Nature.
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Thou fain wouldst tell how th Graces still invite him
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Their Guest, when Mars doth cease texcite him
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Brighter in Arms, thans Arts ere-while to shine,
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In Gods ands Kings cause still defending thine.
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His care to breed brave Horses thou wouldst write,
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In Peace for Pleasure, and in War for fight:
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Thou fain wouldst talk ons Victry at Knockny Clarshy,
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And give him (next to God) the God-a-mercy;
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While thousands yet alive would with thee say,
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His Prowess (under God) obtaind that Day
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But what is this to all that he hath done,
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To th Towns and Castles he by force hath won?
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Thoudst find an endless Task ont, to declare
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His Peaceful Virtues, ors exploits in War.
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In general terms I know thoudst praise thus far,
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Prudent in Counsel, prosperous in War:
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But home to speak his praise, and to descend
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Unto particulars, there were no end.
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Singly admire his prudence in the thing,
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So well contrivd that did restore the King,
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Whose constant Loyalty since th Restoration
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S a worthy pattern to th unstable Nation.
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Thou kenst not of the Knots, or the Meanders
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Of State-Intrigues, displayd mongst bold Commanders.
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Then lay thy Pen by, dont ith least Eclipse
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A Generals Glory by thy Pen, or Lips.
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Let England, Scotland, Ireland, mourning say,
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For threescore years and more enjoyd have they,
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In ORRERY an Atlas, lost this day.
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His deaths a loss unparalleld, the King
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A grave wise Counsellor, and most loving
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Subject hath lost, the Church a Gracious Son,
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The Realm a Peer, yea, and a Peerless one;
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The Court a Pillar, th Army a Commander
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Of high Conduct, as was great Alexander;
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The Countreys loss as great yea greater rather,
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In ORRERY is lost a most dear Father.
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Th hast company enough, who, than to mourn,
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Cant other glory add unto his Urn.
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I tell thee still thou needst not, canst not write
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Great ORRERYs due praise, who Shines too bright
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His Sacred Poems now but in the Press,
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Will speak his noble praise in fairer dress:
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His Wit and Worth were bove thy Ken or Story,
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Who therefores wrapt into immortal Glory.
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But cause thou hadst a mind to do thy best,
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Thou, with his Coat of Arms, a Mourner rest.
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Thou art forewarnd (she said.) Now farewell Friend.
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So ere I had begun, I made an END.
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