DIRECTIONS TO FAME, ABOUT AN ELEGY On the Late Deceased Thomas Thynn, Esq AND AN EULOGY On other most Famous English Worthies.

By an Vnknown Author.

It Fama per Orbem

LONDON, Printed by J. S. and are to be Sold by Richard Bald­win, in the Old-Baily, 1682.

TO THE Lady OGLE, The Supposed RELICT OF THE LATE DECEASED Thomas Thynn. Esquire.

Madam,
To You these Verses I Address;
Addresses are the Mode, if they express
Abhorrence of a late Association:
How should I then exceed that part o'th' Nation,
Ʋnless I do abhor their curst designe;
Who the Great Thynn to Murder did combine?
I may the same Addressors Copy own,
The Reason why I trouble you unknown:
If they, to shew their Loyalty and Love,
By late Addressing to the Pow'rs above,
Did not themselves too too officious prove:
Why should I think your goodness would refuse,
At least, to pardon this my humble Muse
For her Attempt, the Great Thynn's Memory
To Consecrate unto Eternity?
To whom could She with greater Right apply
Her self, then unto You; who may be thought
The Accidental Cause, that Fam'd Thynn brought
To his untimely Death? Whom for your Friend,
She hopes you'l own; were it but for his end?
How Ill! Enjoyment thus to be deny'd;
To have the shadow only of a Bride!
Hard Fate of Man! That being a Slave to's Word,
And scorning to be false to his accord,
Occasion thence should rise, that to his Life,
The period puts. The Angry Sisters Knife
Could nought withhold, from cutting of the thread?
Hard-hearted (Destinys!) to Write Thynn dead!
Yet so it is. Such the event may prove,
When they, whose Age hath quasht all thoughts of Love,
Attempt by needless promises to bind
Lovers from that, to which they're most enclind.
As if Engagements alter could the mind,
And Youthful Heats be by such Bonds confin'd.
We know that Love doth to it's Center tend:
Fruition is the longing Lovers end.
Would Old Age then this, as Youth's Error mend?
Tho' you refus'd the Great Thynn in his Life,
For your Espous'd to own, your self his Wife;
Yet now he's dead, you need no scruple make,
Were it but for the promis'd Joyntures sake.
Your Pardon, Madam, I again Implore,
To you I have one small Petition more:
Petitions to a Lady, I do hope,
Will not by Tory be abhorr'd, nor Pope.
When some great Hero shall you next time Wed,
Let joyful Hymen lead you both to Bed.
I doubt not but you'l take this in good part,
Well follow'd it may please you to the heart.
Wives pleas'd by Night are likely so by Day;
And then no fear that they will run away.
Besides, that danger is bred by delay,
Youth's Blooming hopes with Patience cannot stay.
Your hopes therefore too long do not defer;
So humbly Prays your poor Petitioner.

DIRECTIONS TO FAME, &c.

THou Daughter of the Sphear, thou Voice of Air,
See that to me thou hither strait repair;
Some few Directions I have Thee to give,
That English Worthies Names may ever live.
First, Put thy Trumpet to thy Mouth, and sound
A shrill, a loud, a long Note all around,
From Heav'ns high Arch to Places under Ground:
That all the Nations of the World may hear
Thy Trumpet's Voice. See that thy Sound be clear.
Now take a little Breath. Well! So begin,
And loudly found the Name of the Great Thynn,
Prince Thynn, Tom of Ten Thousands; whose great Mind,
Not in one Town, Hundred, or Shire confin'd,
Sought his whole Country's Good; both far and near
A Patriot fam'd. See that thou blow this clear.
Then breath a while. Well! Now begin agen,
And sound forth Baseness of ungrateful Men:
How some him hated, how some angry were;
Some him oppos'd, nor could his Merit bear;
How his just Praises some abhorr'd to hear,
Because a Patriot true he did appear.
Take breath again: Then blow, how others just
Were to his Worth, and in him plac'd their Trust;
And lov'd, admir'd, ador'd this Patriot true:
Sound therefore forth his Praises; 'tis his due.
For thy next Task, Great Monmouth's Glory take,
Which more than ten or twelve great Blasts may make.
Take therefore Breath; then loudly trumpet forth
This Martial Hero, Monmouth's matchless Worth;
For Valour fam'd Abroad, well known at Home;
Of Protestants belov'd, and fear'd of Rome.
Sound forth his Glory gain'd in Forreign Wars;
A Souldier's Wounds are honourable Scars:
How he at Maestrich-Seige got great Renown,
And how he twice for Lewis won the Town.
Let the fam'd Battle of Mons his Valour sound;
Where Orange, by his Aid; of France got Ground.
Tell how the Name of Monmouth ran before,
To us being eccho'd from the Belgick-Shore;
Which, at's Arrival, made us strait adore,
And ev'ry day admire him more and more.
So that, for all the late Court-Reformation,
He still doth live the Darling of the Nation.
Then next, resound his Progress in the West,
Where the Great Thynn for him kept constant Feast:
How Multitudes, Hundreds, and Thousands strong,
Men, Women, Children, numberless did throng,
To see Great Monmouth, as he pass'd along:
How Gentry, Yeomen, flock at his Renown,
To welcom him into each Country Town:
How Men admire, the Women him approve;
And each Sex strive, who should him shew most love.
From Avon's Bank to Middl'ton's River sound,
And let it back to Exeter rebound.
His Oxford-Journey eccho'd loud from Isis,
Along the curling Waves of proud Thamisis,
Relate; and what great Joy did fill the Town,
Whil'st all spoke of our Monmouth's high Renown.
Monmouth & Thynn, those two great Names of Worth,
Together joyn'd, a lovely Pair sound forth.
Next, Shaftsbury may make more than a Blast,
Or two, or ten; his Wisdom, Judgment vast,
His politick Head, his thinking Mind, his Care
For King and Country, all Theams noble are,
Which would require to shew thy Art most rare.
Canst thou desire a larger Field for Art?
Mine to Direct, to Perfect is thy Part.
Come Trumpetter, shew us thy greatest Skill,
Breath, and thy blubby Cheeks with fresh Air fill.
What's Great mix not with mean. I would have none
To him a Pillar raise of Common Stone.
Birth, Riches, Honours, Parts, and Worldly State,
Are gifts to many Men dispens'd by Fate.
Give me the man, Ʋsurpers fear and dread,
That him must court, and use, yet wish him dead.
Now, now thy Skill, thou Daughter of the Sphear,
Here's one great Stone his Pillar for to rear.
From Towns 'tis not uncommon to be sent,
Or Shires, (so many are) to Parliament.
But Is the Man of Three Names also chose,
For Noll to ask: What eminence this shows?
Noll was too wise to dread mean, common Foes.
When late Ʋsurping Pow'rs were tumbling down,
How many then return'd to help the Crown?
Great Charles restore, that he might all Command:
The common Act of almost the whole Land.
But where's the few, who own'd him in Exile,
When Cromwel's Iron Rod rul'd all the Isle?
Yet some there were, and Thousands too perchance,
That Lov'd him, tho' (Exil'd) he liv'd in France.
This many boast. But where's the Man-of Sense,
Who him preserv'd by his Intelligence?
Who dar'd to own, tho' secretly, his Cause,
For which he must by the Ʋsurper's Laws
Assuredly have dy'd, had it been known,
And for the Kings Life sav'd have lost his own?
But two Stones more this Pillar up to raise
May serve, a lasting Trophy to his praise.
By parts, and Vertue, from Gentility,
To be rais'd up unto Nobility,
Is not unusual, or a thing so rare,
But that in Story Instances there are.
But for a Subject to have on him thrown,
From King and Country's Enemies, and his own,
The utmost of their Spleen, Wrath, Malice, Rage,
How rare? scarce such an Instance in an Age.
How great's that Man, whose very Enemies
Would lavish for his Life so great a prize,
As Credit, Honour, Bodies, Souls, Estate,
So he might fall a Victim to their hate?
And why such hate to the Great Shaftsbury?
'Tis plain, they are afraid our Liberty
They shall not be inabled to destroy,
As long' as Charles, and He their Lives Enjoy.
One great Stone more can we but now procure,
'Twill be enough; and if of Signature
Royal, so much the better still. Come, Fame,
Search thy Records, turn unto Shaftsbury's Name.
Know'st not where 'tis? Search one of th' highest Rooms
Within thy Temple, 'mongst the Great Mens dooms.
There, there! Turn o're the Leaves of that great Book,
And for the Name in Capital Letters look.
Hast found it? Well! What stands there on Record?
What's the report thou mad'st of the King's Word?
What did Great Charles say of this Noble Lord?
Speak boldly: Shaftsbury Me out would bring,
When I am into Trouble brought. What thing
Can greater be, than thus t'oblige a King?
Are these the very words? I'm sure the sence
Is not mistook, if true th'Intelligence.
Fly then, ye Slanderers, from Pulpit, Court,
From Church, from State, thither no more resort.
Go to, go to, ye States-men, that pretend
The Government (but Tinker-like) to mend.
One hole to stop, but two, ten, twenty make;
Who'l this for Policy, Craft or Prudence take?
To praise your little selves, some scribling Pen
Gold Ore can hire, and dispraise greater Men.
Much of that Authors Rate, who lately writ
Of Absalom, and Achitophel's great wit.
How easy 'tis; nor is't a thing so rare,
For Poets to cry up, when they compare
A Pigmy Mushroom to a great Man's Name;
And that's the Poet's, not his Hero's Fame.
He, who can bring Eclipses on the Stage,
His Muse can suit to this, and the last Age,
Can his Play's Epilogues so dext'rous make,
As for his Prologues some may them mistake:
And with more readiness his Prologues turn
To Epilogues, than for's Religion burn.
How easily these Hero's of his Pen,
Of Mushrooms may he fancy into Men?
The sooner, if by Sonnets he did more,
Than Pious Priests could ever do before,
And to Religion turn'd his own dear Whore.
So rare an Art, perchance, might fill his Mind
With Thoughts unfitting, much above his Kind;
And make him think, 'twas easie for his Verse
Heroes to raise, and whom he pleas'd depress.
He, who out of the Quagmire of his Brain,
Could start up David's Harp to Charles's Wain;
With how great Ease, even as the Maggot works,
He may Christians fancy Pagans, Jews, or Turks?
His Hackney-Muse for some great Dame might pass,
Would we but view her Face in the false Glass
Of his own Fancy: But since she rode Post,
Old Noll, because Victorious, to accost;
And still perhaps, for Gold, would court his Ghost.
What can we think her but a Prostitute,
Who doth to change her Self so often suit?
No wonder then, that she doth represent
Men from themselves, and Truth quite different.
So in the Jaundice, oft things Yellow shew,
And from false Opticks, Species false do flow.
But when State-storms shall wipe these Colours off,
How mean she'll look, beneath each Foot-Boys Scoff?
Then Priest-craft might the Poet please again;
Instead of Rhiming Plays, the Country-Swain
Doctrine to teach and use, with Application,
Enough to ravish the whole Rhiming Nation.
Then might the Bays become Canonical,
And Lawrel grow upon the Churches Wall.
How pretty would it be, to see Apollo
To hasten thither, and his long Train follow
Of Poets, Poetasters, and the Muses?
How would they hearken to the Poet's Uses?
To see fair Chloris, and the lovely Philis,
The Shepherd Damon, the sweet Amaryllis,
With her Amintor, come in hand and hand,
And to the preaching Poet listening stand?
How rare would this be? Oh, the blessed Time,
To hear the Bells Poetick Musick chime!
And then the Sermon too might be in Rhime.
To see the Garlands hanging, and the VVreaths,
The Pulpit stuck with Bays, from whence he breaths
Soft gentle VVhispers on the Rhimers under;
And then the Cushion Thumps, and so does thunder
In sharp Reproofes, Corrects their Poetry,
Shews where their mounting fancy soars too high,
And where their humble muse too low doth fly;
And then (like Learned Preacher) makes Digression
With little wit, less shame, and no Discretion;
Our great Men's Lives to satyrize pretends,
And so with railing, 'stead of Blessing ends.
How soon would then drink-Water Poets shun
Parnassus, and unto his Sermon Run?
How well this Priest would sute unto his Nun;
Should he take that time to preach up the Pope,
And Christen Bells? but then beware the Rope.
For such bold prancks would hardly scape the Laws.
"Nought then would serve to prop his tottering cause.
His Holy Water, though drawn from the stream
That gently flows from the fain'd Hipparene;
Would not the devil-a-Beadle keep away
Nor thunder from the Lawrel nor from Bay
The Lightning: while the Amorous David lives,
And to Religions Laws full vigour gives.
Whilst Noble Shaftsbury stands Armour proof,
Let Weather rise, or winds blow ne're so rough.
So solid is his Truth, his Loyalty,
It needs no Art its worth to magnifie,
Muchless can Hackney-Pens it Vilify.
What think'st now, Fame? where some great Architect
Shall we procure, this Pillar to Erect?
The grand Materials thou seest ready there,
Where's then the Master-Builder it to rear?
But now, I think; we need not so much care
For Tools or Workmen; the Stones ready are.
What matter is't, tho' they be roughly hewn?
The solid firmness will be better shewn.
The Work commends th' Artificer, not the Stone.
That pleases most, which is most natural:
These Stones then cast together, as they fall,
So let them lye, they cannot fall amiss:
That Truth is best, which plain, and artless, is.
Who e're a lasting Trophy would erect,
Materials good, and sound, he doth expect:
Not Tinsel ware, guilt o're, when nought lies under,
But base vile trash; this ne're will make a wonder.
Fam'd Artless Stonehenge on the Wiltshire-plains,
Is more admir'd among the Western Swains,
Than the carv'd Heads, how'ere so natural,
Which they at Christmass see in Landlords Hall.
Unto the Learned likewise I appeal,
Whether of Nature this doth not reveal
More, and of wonder, than Mausolus Tomb,
Or Aegypts Piramids. I'le stand their Doom.
Were cry'd-up Dryden Judge, I need not care.
Here's not vile stuff, nor Counterfeited ware,
Us'd, this Triumphant Pillar for to rear.
Such leave to him, who with false weights of late,
The Medal weigh'd, that when he would create
Some guilded Fop into a Man of State;
He may have where-withal the doughty piece
To deck, and so fetch home the Golden Fleece.
What matter is't how little Truth be writ,
So that there be the Varnish of some wit?
And yellow Boys have soundly paid for it.
These charmers make his Sp'rit of Poetry come;
So Peter-Pence can Bless, or Curse, from Rome.
Small Honesty, less Truth, and little wit
For some mens Fame will make a Poet fit,
Out of no worth great praises to create,
And then an Hero make, not made by Fate;
Deed great enough for Poet Lawreate.
But if in Helicon these be the Laws
Apollo makes, who would espouse his Cause?
Who but a true Conformist in all ways,
To what is uppermost, through all his days.
Let no man envy then the Poet's Bayes;
Who, that he might not a Dissenter prove,
Seems by his Acts resolv'd to fall in Love
With this loose Age's Vices, Whoring, Drinking,
Lewd Railing, Scribling much, and little thinking,
With Huffing, Roaring, Ranting, Damning, Sinking.
But let him like his fancy'd Froggs croak on,
And 'stead of Medals, write Sedition;
Until, by his own croaking sound, and ta'ne,
He live a Slave to some proud Tory Crane,
And for him then small Panegyricks frame.
So now to's Frog-like croaking leave him, Fame,
(The generous Eagle scorns so mean a Game,)
And let's return to our great Man of Name:
To whom this Pillar, of choice Stones prepar'd,
To future Ages lasting thou hast rear'd.
'Tis Marble true, that stands both Wind and Weather,
Tho Rain, Hail, Snow, in Storms come all together.
Now, Fame, thy utmost aid I do Implore,
To fill each Isle, each Creek, each Nook, each Shore,
With Shaftsbury's great Name. What can'st thou more?
O're Hills, o're Dales, o're Desart Plains it sound,
And when it shall have past the whole VVorld round,
Let it's loud Eccho back to us rebound.
His Seconds, Howard, Grey, and Cav'ndish Name,
And not forget some other Nobles Fame,
Kent, Essex, Wharton, Lovelace, Buckingham,
With Salisbury, and other Famous Lords,
Whose Names and Merits swell up thy Records:
Fam'd Patriots, not in late Poets sense,
"As those who would by Law supplant their Prince;
But such, whose wishes are to have Charles Great,
That He might ever fill his Fathers Seat
With as great Lustre, Majesty and Honour,
As fit it is to ask of the Great Donor.
Hold now, retire to fetch more breath; and then
Sound forth our Commons, true, Old English Men,
Who would not sell their Country's Right for Gold,
Their names, their worth, their number should be told;
Couldst thou but promise me thy breath would hold:
However sound in gen'ral their Renown;
They are well known in Country, and in Town.
In the next place, to wish who can forbear,
The praise of Old, and of New Shrieves to hear,
In London fam'd Triumphant? Sound this clear.
Fam'd Bethel, Cornish, Pilkington, and Shute;
Men of Great Souls, great Worth, and great Repute:
Whom Favour could not bribe, nor fear compel,
Their Priviledge to betray, nor Birth-right sell;
The Glories of our English Israel;
VVho in the Breach, 'gainst all Opposers, stand
The City's Bulwark, Safe-guard of the Land,
Under Our Faith's Defender, whom we find
His Subjects to protect by Law inclin'd?
Who as their own, espouse their Country's Cause,
And would not Juries pack, to wrest the Laws?
Tho' Hackney-Pens should Innocence defame,
False Plots against good Patriots could Frame,
And Irish Evidence would Swear the same;
Yet these brave Men would highly scorn to Joyn,
Against Just Right, and second their design;
Tho' other Pow'rs against them should Combine;
They fear not great Mens Threats, nor Mulct, nor Fine.
Let nemies reproach, ill Tongues revile,
By basest Acts, by Bribes, by Fraud and Guile,
Condemn the Innocent, the Guilty quit,
And make Law speak, Just as they would have it,
Then ring the Bells, and Huzza-Healths drink round,
Undaunted Shrieves shall always stand their ground,
And be, in spight of Malice, Honest found.
The Country shall them laud, the City Sing
Of their high praise: how Loyal to their King,
How great, how good, how faithful to the State?
See, Fame, that thou to all do this relate.
Lift up thy Voice, and thy whole force unite,
Sound, and resound their praise with all thy might.
Let all the Eccho of thy Trumpet hear,
In London, and all Places far and near,
That to their Merit all may Trophees rear.
Another blast make of Great London's Glory,
So Fam'd in Antient and in Modern Story:
London, that Planet fix't, which doth dispence
All o're the Nation its grand Influence.
But pass not o're the good Lord Mayors Show;
For some were good, and some were bad, we know.
Good Mens great Deeds sound forth, as faithful, true
Slight such, whose Actions say, they slighted you.
Hold here. Refrain. Take breath, and so return
To the great Thynn, for whom we now must moum.
Thy Trumpet veil in Cypress, as 'tis due,
And put on Mourning Weeds of sable Hue.
But first let's hear thee make a doleful Tone,
Most lively to express a dying Grone,
The City sighs, Friends cry, and Countries mone.
Hold there, and stop. What Marble can forbear
For Thynn's untimely Death to drop a tear?
Unto his Memory Thousands are to small
A Tribute to be paid: Let's pay him all.
Hold, hold; least that the Sluces of our Eyes
Pull'd up, so great a Deluge should arise,
The Cataracts being open, as to drown
All places near, in Country, and in Town;
So great his Merit was, such his Renown.
Or grief renew'd, our hearts should faster bleed,
Than he, who suffered, or, who did the deed.
In Mourning clad, see that thou next refound
In Heaven, in Earth, and Regions under ground,
Great Thynn's sad Murther, in a mournful tone,
Enough to make the Worlds Foundation grone.
Above, below, and in each dead Mans Cell,
Of Thynn's fate let thy Trumpets Eccho tell.
Now here leave off a space, to get more breath,
That thou may'st sound more loud the great Thynn's Death
But then involve in dark obscurity
The Actors of this direful Tragedy:
Let their's be the perpetual Infamy.
Of these Mens horrid Names no mention make,
Let them sink deep, as Lead, in Lethe Lake.
Let their Memorials fret like canker'd rust,
And perish in the Earths oblivious dust.
That fatal shot, by which great Thynn did dye,
May ever serve to blast their Memory.
When these base strangers to his Coach drew near,
How little did he his own Murther fear?
Of such a treacherous Act who thought to hear?
Three Men to come well arm'd, what valiant skill
Shew'd it one single Man, unarm'd, to kill?
But such we find was the design'd intent,
To shoot, to kill, to fly, 'twas this was meant:
For this were these vile Murd'rers hir'd and sent.
And with too great success alass—
Who is't can choose but weep? But now refrain
We must, and from our griefs some respite gain,
These Murderers to seek. Here sound Thynn's Friend,
Great Monmouth, who prov'd so unto his end.
Unto his Diligence sound praises due,
The Murder to Revenge. Friendship most true,
A dying Friend's curst Murd'rers to pursue!
Just his Resentments, Laudable his Zeal,
Those to detect, who friendships common-weal
Strove to destroy; who would a Sacrifice
Of all that's good, make to their Avarice.
Stop here a while, and next sound forth the sence,
We all should have, of a just Providence.
That when themselves secure the Murd'rers thought;
They were found out, and unto Justice brought.
Next Carols loudly sound to Charles the good,
So careful to Revenge his Subjects blood;
He would not favour grant, nor pardon give,
But was resolv'd, that they should Dye, or Live,
As Law requir'd, as Justice did Command:
So may Great Charles for ever Rule the Land.
A little pause; and then to all Men sound,
What punishment these base offenders found.
How the three Actors in this Tragedy,
Were doom'd to Death, and by the Rope did dye.
As for the Principal, he's not thought clear,
Tho' some him quitted. Sound this far and near.
What must thy next blast be? Stay, take some breath;
How doleful is't to think of great Thynn's Death?
But sadder then still to hear the doleful sound
The great Thynn's Corps is putting under ground.
However order keep. Publish his Dath,
Thynn, Thynn, Thynn, sound thrice, and so take breath.
Thynn's Dead, and to be buried. Doleful story.
What's now become of all this great Mans Glory?
His sad Fate tell's us, all is Transitory.
Next sound the Funeral Pomp, sad Obsequies,
(Badges as great of grief as Elegies)
The Streamers, Scutch'ons, and black Mourners throng,
With silence how profound all past along,
The Mournful Grandeure, and the solemn State,
Wherein the Corps (as was decreed by Fate)
Was carried to the Abbey. Next resound,
How great Thynn's Corps they laid in Sacred Ground
Then make one blast of the great Monument,
Which, we do trust, it is his Friends intent
In Westminster soon to erect a shrine
Fit to contain Thynn's Reliques most Divine.
While we do hope, from Earth is fled his Soul,
His better part, and far above the Pole
Being mounted, happy is, and fully blest,
From Toyl Grief, Trouble, Eternally to rest,
Thus I direct thee for Thynn's Elegy,
To sound his just praise to Eternity.
Next I direct Thee Fame, thy Voice to raise,
And Trumpet forth those English Worthies praise,
Whose Names so precious are in these our days.
Throughout their Lives may Honour them attend,
And their Immortal Glory know no end.
Mine is the wish, thou Daughter of the Sphere
Thine is the Part to sound them far and near.
Sum up their praises all in one long blast,
Ten Hundred Thousand Ages for to last,
And sound them forth? while I Thynn's Mournful Herse:
(The most that I can do) deck with this Verse.
Here Lies Great Thynn, Gentile in Birth, no Lord,
Yet more by us, than some such Names, Ador'd.
His Country ask, if you would know his Life;
If of his Death, go, ask his unkind Wife.
FINIS.

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