AN
ELEGY
On the Lamented Death of
Poor Truth and Honesty;
Who Departed this Life, with the Renowned Paper call'd
the London-Post, on Monday the 11th Day of June, 1705.
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ALL Humane Things are subject to decay,
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And when Fate Summons, Scriblers must obey;
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This Authors find, who forward to Transgress,
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Disturb their Readers, and Disgrace the Press.
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Amongst the Rest, none more Experience shews
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Of Sublunary Beings Mortal Woes
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Than Transitory Ben's obsequious Quill,
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Resistless of the Grand Destroyer's Will.
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Not but he try'd all Methods of Escape,
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Shifting, as others do, from Shape to Shape,
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In hopes, stern Death Ambiguous in the Chase
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Might seize some other Libel in his Place,
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And with a Nobler Victime Sate its Rage,
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Than with his Emptyness and Hungry Page,
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But Hopes are vain to Men by Fate persu'd,
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No Tricks can its unerring search Elude,
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It penetrates through every Thick Disguise
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And Fixes on the destin'd Sacrifice.
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Such H---------s was, whom no Escape avails,
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Ev'n undisguis'd, behind his Beam and Scales,
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Death found him out, and follow'd him from thence
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Under another Title tortring Sense,
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Dragging th' Offender out to Execution
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With all his Mermydons of Resolutions,
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As it dismiss'd the Traitors to their Graves,
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And Truth and Honesty were Hang'd for Knaves.
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Yet shall not his Devoted Paper Die;
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Without the Funeral Rites of Elegy,
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Living he made us Laugh, and Dead should make us Cry.
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O Ben. to thy Immortal Pains is due,
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We had not only News but Nonsense too,
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That Mails when wanting, daily were supply'd,
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With storm'd Entrenchments on thy Country's side,
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That Winds when Adverse brought us in Expresses,
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And we were made amends for Facts by Guesses,
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That Men were charg'd with FauIts they ne'er committed,
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And Ladies with base Characters Bewitted,
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For this must to thy Honour be recorded,
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Thou hast o'er both the Sexes strangely Lorded,
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Trampel'd on Virtue, wheresoe'er 'twas found,
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And Innocence left Bleeding on the Ground,
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As every Grace, and every Cupid griev'd,
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To see what Wounds the tender Sex receiv'd.
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Who now shall Lash the Priesthood with the Laymen!
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Make Sport for Porters, and Discourse for Dray-men!
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Who shall, like Thee, his Empty scull be racking
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For Billing-gate against the Sin of Tacking.
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Alass! that Excellence with Thee's departed,
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For which the Rabble Rout is broken Hearted!
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For which so many Coblers left their Stalls,
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And Butchers hung their Patch-work on their Walls.
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Mourn Him ye Coffee-Houses, Mourn Him Dead,
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And weep your Day-break Custom from you fled,
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Since He's no more for whom they Early rose
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To make their Comments on, with untied Rose.
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But Grief prevails and gains upon my Spirits,
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Impatient to sustain such Wondrous Merits,
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The Loss of which breaks in upon my song,
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And stops the rising Accents of my Tongue.
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Not that this Loss is not to be retriev'd,
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Aeneas in his Son Ascanius liv'd,
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Whose Virtues in his Offspring's Offspring known,
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Settled his Empire and confirm'd his Throne.
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So may the canting Scribelers He has left behind,
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Of the same Stamp and Virulence of Mind,
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Go on with his most pestilent Designs,
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And six what's aim'd at in his Mortal Lines:
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While scandal though it does its Champion lose,
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Survives in Observators and Revieues.
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Under this Stone lyes Honesty and Truth
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Who dy'd with a Known False-hood in their Mouth,
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Mistake me not, I speak it to his shame,
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Who dar'd to give a Fiend an Angels name.
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From hence let Authors have a special care,
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They represent Transactions as they are,
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That subjects with their Titles do aggre,
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Not lash in Extravagange, as we.
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Else one that writes may find it to His cost,
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London's Gaztte may fall like London's Post.
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