TO THE HONOURABLE THE LADY Alisamon Pierepont.
MADAM,
WHen Debtors all have brought their hasty Crop,
You well may wonder at my tedious stop:
I'm angry at my self, and think to pay,
But straight an inward whisper bids me stay.
'Tis conscience tels me that I owe too much;
Great Debts are slow, and mine I'm sure is such.
This Tortoise pace is properly my own,
Who in this kind can shew no currant coyn.
Nature lent me not one propitious Muse,
And since I had the Schools farewel, I use
[Page]With Poets at no time to hold commerce:
'Tis indignation now, that dictates Verse.
What may seem sharp, let then imputed be
To that unruly Passion, not to me.
What's dull and flat, you may call truly mine;
That is the mark which proves it genuine.
If ought be thought, beyond the Moon; know I
A Star for subject have, that's pierc'd the skie.
Then take them, Madam, read, weigh, and excuse;
If others snarle, and censure, say but thus,
The Author tempts his Stars beyond their light,
To offer up a Duty in my sight,
Who knows his obligations, and must say,
All falls farre short of what He ought to pay.
O. P.
MEMORIAE VIRI ILLUSTRIS FRANCISCI PIEREPONT, Nobilitate, doctrinâ, pietate, suavitate-morum, & fortunâ florenti.
O Nulli proavis & nobilitate secunde!
Sed placida cunctis humilitate minor,
I sursum, magno dextram conjunge Magistro,
Quo major nullus humiliorque fuit.
Qui potuit miro summus licet incremento
Humilitate suum nobilitare decus.
Te Domini mites animos, moresque sequutum
Haud dubie Domini gloria dia beat.
Summo virtutis ejus admiratori apposuit Ludovicus Molinaeus, Historiarum Professor.
Ʋpon the sensible losse of the Honourable FRANCIS PIEREPONT, Esq. who departed hence Jan. 30th. 1657.
BLUsh! Blush remorsless Parcae! Was not your Names
Antiphrasis confirm'd enough, till Fames
Sad Trumpet tels the World, a Potentate,
A Pillar of the Church, a Prop of State
Is wholly sunk? Forc'd by what fatal Must,
Cut you at once the thread of Great, Good, Just?
This speaks your envy to Mankind, for we
Could draw by Him Virtues Epitome.
List; worst of the three Daughters of the Night;
I must proclaim thy everlasting spight.
Th' hast rob'd me of a Noble, Learned Friend,
With whom no precious hour I e're could spend,
But some encrease of Knowledge in me wrought,
Some favour heap'd, or else some Virtue taught.
For would I what was vain and idle fly?
'Twas then enough to keep him company.
Was Good my thirst? His Soul did it display
By a most gentle, and familiar way:
And in His noble body thus inshrin'd,
Nobility it self hath far out-shin'd.
He suck'd no Sophismes from the Schools, to raise
Sins Dark-Lanthorn, our purblind Reason's praise
(That Ignis fatuus, which 'twixt Good and Bad,
Curs'd Mortals in a mist hath alwaies led.)
Above the Soul's essential Faculty,
That bright, first-breath'd Lamp of Innocency:
But did eclipse the Badge of humane fall
With Science purely Intellectuall,
[Page]Which own'd Gods Type, and in His Cask of Clay
Enjoy'd the Virgin Light of its first day.
His private Alms he alwaies strove to smother,
One hand in them was stranger to its Brother:
His publick Deed's but a Record to show
What Governours of Hospitals should doe;
Improve the Patrimony of the Poor,
Not pocket up their Rents, but give them more.
He taught, not bound His Offspring Charity,
Who then's her self when in full Liberty.
Would Rich men then in Pierepoint's footsteps tread,
The poor need not to ask or cloths, or bread.
He could Astraea's Sword directly weild,
Knew whom to punish with it, whom to shield.
The Ballance He 'twixt all could evenly poize,
To charm their discord, and their jarring noise.
He lov'd the ancient Scripture-Hierarchy,
The Ruling-Elder with's Presbytery:
But when high Northern blasts by th' root had torn
Those ever-virid Yews, and almost born
The tottring Temple down; He help'd to shroud
Their naked Members under Jonah's Gourd.
And i'th' spight of Criticks, He'd rather bear
A Soloecisme in Church, (Lay-Presbyter)
Then see it, Monster-like, without a Head.
But now He's Dead! that Pious man is Dead!
Dead did I say? Oh false Opinion!
Pure Gold's not subject to corruption.
The skilful Artist to delude the eye,
Can, by a mixture of crude Mercury,
Turn it to dust; and with as easie sleight,
By Vulcan's help, cast it again more bright:
But though he sweat, puff, blow, and try his all,
He finds that body Homogeneal.
Call then the Sons of Art, they'l thus the Process read
In proper tearms:
[Page]This now innobled Lead
A vessel's of Almighty-Chymistry.
The Body separate from its Soul, which we
Saw lock'd with Hermes seal from mortals eyes,
Great Piereponts body, now Fermenting lyes
In Natures prouder womb, where't shortly must
By Saturns cold be fix'd in noble dust:
Whence when the fierie Tryal it hath run
'Twill rise more glorious than the morning Sun,
To re-invest its widdow-soul from ground,
Call'd up by'th last shril Trumpets joyful sound:
And joyntly Both new link'd inseparably,
Present their claim to Immortality.
Then style't not Death, which the first step must be
To lift us up to our Eternity.
Here's comfort, Madam, be not á la mort,
Your longer stay casts you not one day short.
Your Husband should goe first, but in this wheel
You and we all tread closely on his heel.
O. Pottlintun.
An Elegy expostulating Deaths arrest upon my Honourable, dear, and noble Freind, Mr. Francis Pierrepoint Esq,
AVant, grim Serjeant, with thy grisly Face,
Be gone, Ile break thy bald pate, and thy glasse
If th' entrest here; this is no common ground
Thou Rogue, thou treadst on, no, it will be found,
The Lord of th' soyle thou seekst for is of Fame
Above Arrest; knowst any of the name
Of Pierrepont Debtors? Tis a name we know
For Wealth, for Learning, and for Wisdome too
The Nation boasts of; (besides high discent
Which others have, which all the other want.)
Such as have seen the Vatican at Rome,
Lord Marquesse.
Mr William Pierepont.
Mr. Fran. Pierepont.
Say Pierrepont lives the Vatican at Holme.
States who fetcht Wisdom from the men of Greece,
Confesse one Pierrepont then the seven more wise.
Whilst all of all sorts do attest this truth,
Second to none, is third Brother to both:
And dar'st thou arrest him? He can retain
The greatest schollar, and the wisest man
(Advocates of his own house) to plead his cause
Besides his Inno [...]ence and our just Lawes.
Thus for my Freind, expostulating I
(Maugre my threats) was made me this reply,
Pale death with equal foot attends the doore
Of Pallaces and Cottages ful poore,
By statute Law there's an appointed day
When rich as poore Dame Natures debt must pay.
The great, the good, the just, the wise, the high,
Princes and Pierreponts too, they all must dye.
And must he die then? rather is he dead
Was there no Proxy to appear in's stead?
[Page]Might not one poor Debt be forgiven him,
Who many a poor man's Debt had oft forgiven?
'Tis payd, 'tis payd. Then Reader passe not by
But pay a Tear, if not an Elegy
As tributary to his noble Hearse,
Whose name wil stand in Prose as well as Verse:
And needs no Poet to proclaime him good
In words rather exprest, then understood.
Whilst [...]ho him understood knew him a man
Meek, not Morose, though Presbyterian,
Had only such been trusted with that key
Good men had all been for Presbytery;
Though vast in parts, and Patrimony rather,
H' appear'd a giving, then a gifted Brother,
And yet his gifts were high enough to reach
As far to judge, as any man's to preach.
Grace crown'd his gifts; glory now crownes his graces:
Heav'n with supplies fill up such vacant places.
Sic cecinit Lachrymans; Sic Lachrymans precatur. G. Pigot.
Vpon the much lamented Death of the Honourable FRANCIS PIEREPONT Esq,
EAch Debtor has been call'd his dues to bring,
Of just acknowledgements an Offering
To make upon the sad and mournful Urne
Of this Beloved Saint, shal others mourne,
Much lesse concern'd then I? I silent stand,
Whom you when living might of right command,
To whom I ought of Love, and service more,
Then if my All was sould would pay that score.
Dame Natures Debt, or yours, I know not whether
The greater, but like to be clear'd together
So great a summe requires a longer day,
I now the Interest alone can pay.
But why so long, ere that comes in my Muse?
Oh! blame me not, heark to my just Excuse:
My Plumes have been so steept in teares, that I
Could not til now get wing, neither so high
As others can I soare; I've only breath
To crawle upon the ground, and chide with Death,
Who hath bereft me, and not me alone,
But ev'n the Church, and Common-Wealth of one,
Whose parts and virtues will eclipsed be,
If my dul pen set forth his Elegy.
I'le only hint, what in a larger story.
More fully may be spoke of Piereponts glory.
Nature being lavish to 'm with art did strive,
Which longest should his name preserve alive.
Heralds he left his birth to tell, did scorne
That, as below a person Heaven borne.
Heroick Acts not words, spoke his Discent,
His Freindship real was 'bove Complement,
[Page]His noble spirit deck't with humility,
His humble soule inrich't with Majesty,
His Justice gave to every one his own,
His Wisdome sav'd his. His Charity was sown
In each fit soile. His Piety was free,
From common errors, or State policy.
Pious and politick, rare in our State,
These in a Statesman should concenterate.
Hold Muse, the Field is large, should'st over run
Thy self, canst thou add Lustre to the Sun?
Darken it thou dost, its time now to retire
Sigh out thy remnant dayes, observe, admire
What cannot by the loftiest stile b'exprest,
Labour to imitate, lets not disturb the rest.
Of this deare soule, with thy Caelestiall Graces
[...]le repone te in Heavens imbraces.
Collonell White:
Ʋpon the much lamented Death of the Honourable Francis Pierrepont Esq,
VVEll may I be asham'd and blush that in
This Worthies praises I have silent bin,
When others trumpets sound so loud, that I
Might (though unfit to speake) an Eccho be;
But greif thats great vents slowly, first it will
Utter it self in briny teares, which still
The Pen may steep in, that strives to expresse
What 'tis to want so great a happinesse,
As I and more enjoy'd, whilst the Sun shone clear
Now (alas!) set in this our Hemisphere.
Pardon then Reader (when 'tis so great worth)
If my dull Muse fall short in setting forth.
In such a publick cause, it is I see,
Hard to speak full, as hard to silent be.
O! how my greif renewes, while each fresh thought
Of him, (cloath'd with a sigh heart-deep,) breakes out
In broken Language, that the World may tell
My losse, but only they that feel't can spell
My meaning out, but lest the torrent should
Too soon drye up, I cannot but behold,
How the Wound bleeds afresh in's consorts eyes,
Whilst shee think's on her dearest's Obsequies;
As the widow'd Dove deprived of her Mate
To greive is all her joy, to mourne her State:
Her teares her daily bread are, as if he
(Who in one moment ceased for to be)
Was by th' all wise creator, (who in vaine
Does nought) each minute giv'n and tak'n againe
Her losse so great, as he that doth it view,
May think what Poets faine, might here prove true;
[Page]With Greif one turned quite into a stone:
Nature would yeild, indeed, 'tis grace alone
Makes this a fiction; yet the sword cuts deep,
And when God strikes, then it is grace to weep:
Excuse her passion then, because her head,
Her joy, part of her selfe, her Husband's dead.
Death only could that knot unty, where Love
Inform'd two bodies with one soule, to prove
There was not Freindship here, but unity.
And he, though dead, lives in her memory,
And still will live: His name's not writ i'th sand:
A nobler Tombe inshrines him, whose command
Ore each rebellious passion shew'd how far
He did excell what common Mortalls are.
Though high, yet humble, high in parts, not pride;
His power great, his pittie nere deny'd,
The poore mans suit, who ere had cause to say
He came complaining, that went sad away?
Learn'd in what was worth his study; and that
His cheif delight was to communicate.
Thus virtue, that in's greener yeares did lye
Sown in his heart, grew to maturity;
Till's Harvest came, when he full ripe, from us
Was take'n and layd amongst what's precious
In Gods peculiar store house, where he stayes
Waiting to see those long expected dayes,
When what death parts, shall reunite, and then
No night that joy will overcloud againe.
George Fisher.
On the lamented Death of the truly Honourable Francis Pierepont Esq.
TO thy dear memory, blest Soul! I pay
This humble tribute; though in such a way
As rather doth proclaim my want of skill,
(That n'ere set foot on high Pernassus hill,)
Than thy great merit. Greif knowes not the art
To break that silence which might break an heart.
My deep Resentments of thy noble Love,
And faithfull freindship, I so oft did prove,
With all those Heavenly virtues did inspire
Thy generous breast, with more than common fire
I faine would utter, and thereby engage
The cold attempts of a declining age,
Which may admire thy Candor but dispaire
To match that copy thou hast drawn so faire:
Whom not our words, as thy own worth, commends
Dear to thy God, thy Country, and thy Freinds.
But why do I in vaine strive to rehearse
Thy praises in the ligatures of Verse?
I'le leave that work most worthy to be done
By those in words that not in numbers run,
Whose task doth lead them in a stile more free,
T'instruct the world how much it lost in thee.
In whose example it might plainly read
Their Doctrine; and find out the way will lead
To be both great and good; whole life could teach
What men should do, or what themselves did preach.
Vere Harcour [...]
To the never dying Memory of that thrice Noble person and patriot, the Honourable Francis Pitrepont Esq Who departed this Life at Nottingham the 30th. day of January, 1658.
IT's somewhat to be Nobly borne, and much
I'inherit thousands by the yeare; what such
A Birth, and birth-right speakes, i'th' world appeares
By the homage paid on all hands unto Peeres,
And their Coequalls; whom all men adore,
As supreme powers: [...]nd to say no more,
Such civil Adoration is their Due,
Which bids that monstrous Parity Adieu,
That All-confounding Monster, whose lean Iaws
Gape wide to swallow both estates and Lawes.
Long may the Grandieur of this Nation be
Stockt with such Gentry and Nobility,
As share the glory of their An'cestries,
And carry it on to their posterities.
But yet all this at highest speakes but low,
A worldly glory at the best; a show
Of earthly influences, which altogether
Cannot exceed the Line of this life: neither
Adde one cubit to a better. See 'm
Nothing'd in death to us, us so to them.
Tis sad when great ones have no other birth
T' ennoble them, than what they have from th' earth;
Better unborne, then not be borne again;
The new birth is the noblest: there's a vein
Of bloud runs in the heart of the Beleiver
Bespeaks him Heavenly borne; and never
Doth that Birth faile. So borne doth never dye,
But hath in death, Life t' all eternity.
[Page]How glorious then must he be, to whose Herse
We sadly pay the Tribute of this Verse?
Whose Noble Lineage, Great Estate, and all
Cōtentments flowing from them, he could call
Things on this side true Happiness. Elswhere
He sought, and found that Happines which ne'r
Shall end or fade; and whose Foundation
Th' eternal Spirit layd in Regeneration.
True Saving-grace, the Diamond in the Ring,
Shin'd bright in his sweet Nature: Every thing
Had such a gracious lustre in Him, as
The Good appear'd stil with the Great, and was
Above it rather. His Humilitie
Exalted him. Greater you could not see
Lodg'd in a Noble breast. His spirit might
Be read in's habit; void of Pride, and quite
Another thing than vain. Without ostent
Both; for the one was as the other meant.
That holy heat of Love, which in his breast
Faith had enkindled, He with warmth exprest
In's, dear affections to Gods Ordinances,
His Ministers and People. His observances
Of holy Duties, private and personal,
Grac'd with his walking answerable, were all
Fair evidences at the least of his
Sinceritie, ne're to fall short of bliss.
Bring forth the person, rich, poor, old, or young
Can justly say, He ever did him wrong.
Me-thinks I see the Country round about
In a bemoaning Posture, groaning out
Their sighs; with this condoling Sympathy,
We have lost our Patriot; and he's mist already.
Me-thinks I hear the City making moan
One to another, our best Neighbour's gone.
The Ministry especially; we have lost
A Stay, a Prop, a Patron, and almost
[Page]Our selves in losing Him; who was indeed
Our Friend, and stil we found him so at need.
A Friend to Truth and Peace, but no divider,
That heal'd our Breaches, never made them wider.
How full of Bowels to the Poor? What day
Pass'd without works of Mercy to them? Nay
Scarce any Meal, but at his Gates he fed
Whole troups of hungry souls with daily bread.
When Winters cold, or blustrings made their stay
At's Gates less comfortable; he would say
Let in the Poor, and serve 'um. If he saw
Any among them naked, he would draw
Out his compassions to them, and command
Cloaths to be put upon them: His own hand,
Rather than fail, would do it. How the knel
These rang at's Death out-groan'd the Passing-bell.
To none an enemy, but to those whose sin
Proclaim'd them to be so to God: Wherein
He could not hold, but with an holy zeal
Brake forth, and sometimes ring an angry Peal.
An innocent in doing ought was evil,
A very bungler in the works o'th' Devil.
A soul fitted for Heav'n, where glorious Grace
Triumphs with him in's ever-mansion place.
His dearest Consort then may not return
Her comforts back again upon his Urn
With showers of Tears which still dissolve afresh
With thought or mention of his Name: Much less
Nothing her self with grief. A greater Honour
Cannot in this life be conferr'd upon Her
Then this of Hers, that she did once possess
All in her dear'st save endless Happiness.
John Viner, of Westm.
In obitum Nobilissimi ac verè cordati viri Francisci Pierepont, Armigeri, &c.
PLurima jam strages agrum confecerat orbem,
Nunc & edax multo funere pinguis humus,
Exemplo quatiente animos, cum nuncia fati
Tristis, ad exitium tota parata fores,
Pulsaret faciles non immortalis Amici,
Supremam Domino claudere jussa diem.
Prodit huic Genius, volucris custodia vita,
Ac cupit intrantis sistere posse gradum.
Non patet haec (inquit) sceleratae janua turba:
Improbus haud nostras ausus adire domos.
Non hic contemni se laesa potentia coeli
Questa est indignis exagitata modis.
Hîc malè confictum nec Religionis amorem
Impietas prae se ferre superba solet.
Hîc nemo socium vix cautum, pessimus arte,
Prodidit, intactam dissimulando fidem.
Pauperis oppressi non hinc penetralia clamor
Vindicis assuevit sollicitare Dei.
Nullius hîc famam mendaci lividus ore
Polluit indoctus censor honesta loqui.
Nulla caperatam faedat nubecula frontem,
Si fortè alloquiis auris amica vacat.
Non musis invisa domus, non grata socordi:
Compositos juvenes non tulit iste locus:
Nec sunt haec Domini crudelis inhospita tecta,
Prompta sed officio gratia fratris adest.
Ergo alio concede, tuis nunc parce sagittis,
Laethalis senibus findat arundo latus,
Aut quibus indignas animas sua corpora gestant;
Hîc virtus, Pictas, nobilitatis bonos.
Hunc cives, dives, pauper ubi (que) jacens,
Quàm voluit Christi nova nupta puerpera membrum,
Laetetur secum, quod (que) simul doleat;
Vota nihil prosunt; lachrymae nihil; impigra telum
Mors jacit, & medium guttur utrin (que) ferit.
Per jugulos humor funesto spargitur aestu
Noxius, allisi pectoris ima gravans:
Donec pars melior, sedes pertaesa priores,
Ac gaudens coelo liberiore frui;
Dum nequit ulteriùs molem sufferre cadentem,
Quae, malè conceptis ignibus usta, tumet;
Incola carceribus displosi corporis ardens
Emicat, angelicis associanda choris.
Jam fatis defuncte, Deo qui charus, ab alto
Subjectam faelix despice victor humum;
Ac tutos sponsi thalamos ingresse boati,
Convivae niveâ cingito veste latus.
Caelicolúmque pie primâ te classe repone,
Dum subit infernas impia turba domos.
The same in English.
GReat was the havock Death had made,
Whilst every where men dread a shade:
The famish'd ground was then full fed
With a rich feast of bodies dead;
What time that breathless Post of Fate
Knocks at our friends attentive gate,
With hastie summons to invite
The man to bid the World goodnight.
The watch, that had the guard that day,
Prevents his speed, and bids him stay;
[Page]Then holding parley, know (said he)
From lewd companions we are free.
No horrid crimes this house doth hide;
Nor is that Heaven-assaulting Pride,
Which vainly scorns the powers above,
Charg'd here; nor the dissembled love
Of pure Religion made a paint
To wash and falsifie a Saint.
Nor may a Judas here commend,
Kiss and betray his fearless Friend.
The oppressed Poor's vindictive cries
Do not from hence to heaven arise.
Detracting envy here must raise
No damps to poyson others praise.
No sullen cloud cast o're the face
Obscures the entertainers grace.
Which did the Muses so far take,
As made them frequent visits make;
And bless the place from drowsie Fools,
That fill the seats in Bacchus Schools:
Yet hospitable kindness feasts
The civil ever-welcome guests.
Then pass us by, and aim thy darts
At wither'd and out-dated hearts.
Or let thine arrows find out those
Whose brutish corps like Souls inclose!
Must Virtue, Grace, and noble Birth,
Descend into sepulchrall earth?
And the dear consort of his life
Be now a Widdow, not a Wife?
And must that stock be now cut down,
Whose branches are so fairly grown?
Let theirs, let Friends, and Neighbours teares
Both rich and poor prolong his years!
How faign would Christs black comely Bride
This flow'r might still uncrop'd abide;
[Page]That they might smile and droop together,
Or in Serene or Cloudy weather!
Tears have no force, nor wishes power
To intercept the fatal hour.
Death's deaf to all, soon strikes a note
That sounds harsh from his wounded throat.
Now the fell humour doth infest
The troubled region of his breast,
So long, till the diviner Form,
Not able to ride out the storm,
Fain in safe harbour would retire,
And quit the Bark, which all on fire
Is soon blown up, and forc'd to Land
Her Pilot on the Ethereal strand.
Unbody'd Saint now safely rest,
From the foul worlds black tempests blest:
And in the Bridegrooms closet dress
Thy self with Robes, that may confess
A richer glory and more white
Than his that doth eclipse the light!
With crowned Elders then repose
Thy pious self; while graceless foes
Sail down the Stream, the Port forsake,
And perish in th' Inferal Lake.
S. Brunsil.
In obitum celeberrimi viri Francisci Pierepont Armigeri, Carmen funebre.
O Si vel pietas, vitae candórve moverent
Supremos Divos, Tartareasve domos!
Si summum Ingenium, studium (que) notabile cursum
Fatorum potuit sistere, vivus adhuc,
Et gra [...]us vivis, mortis contempserat iram
Pierepont, verus Nobilitatis honos.
Sed durae nimium Parcae nec talia curant;
Fatorum rabiem sistere nemo queat,
Thus Englished.
O That these links of Noble Birth, high Parts,
Candor that gave him int'rest in all hearts;
Bounty inlarged, unsoyl'd integrity,
Wel-temper'd zeal, wel-fixed piety
Had made a chain t'have ty'd th'Immortal guest,
His Heav'n-born soul to th' Mansion of his breast!
Then the much loved Pierepont stil should live,
By's own Embalming self-preservative;
We should not then sit down by weeping crosse,
Computing his great worth, and our great losse:
This's all we say to make the reckoning even,
He though thus good, was not too good for heaven.
Laurence Palmer.
On the Death of that Honorable and worthy Patriot, FRANCIS PIEREPONT, Esq. Sic flevit Z. C.
IF to be deeply wise, and honest too;
If to know well to speak, and well to do;
If to be learned, and the learned's friend;
If much in Alms, nothing in Pride to spend;
If to grow rich on his own Patrimony,
Without the loss, or grief, or curse of any;
If to profess Religion, and withall
Not to be dangerous, or schismatical;
If to be noble at th' old Herald's rate,
And humbler far than those o'th' mushroom's date;
If to be both in love and blood most near
To the great Aesculapius, Dorchester;
If to be Parent, Master, Husband, all,
As each relations rule doth strictly call;
If to attain that heavenly art, to end
And umpire strifes, and yet lose neither friend;
If these may be esteem'd a good mans glory,
They were constellated in Pierepont's story:
And if these lost at once can make the world
Wisely consider her last sand is running;
(Cause such a prop and pillar down is hurl'd)
We need no Sedgwick t' tell us [Doomesday's coming.]
Zach. Cauderey.
On the death of the Honourable Francis Pierepont Esq. Third Son of the Right Honourable, Robert Earl of Kingston.
BUt is he dead? can I believe
That he should dye, and we should live?
Me-thinks we may the knot untie,
Better to live, fitter to dye.
Death I see doth wisely chuse
The Gold, but doth the dross refuse.
If each place had had its right,
Thou long since hadst bid's good-night:
But now th'art gone, in doubt are we,
Whether to joy, or grieve for thee.
Our loss is great, greater thy gain,
Our comfort doth exceed our pain:
He that writes thy sad Elegy,
Shews more love to himself, then thee.
Blest soul! I can no more relate
Thy life past than thy present state:
My Pen can onely blot the story
Of thy life, and of thy glory.
Our all's unwelcome courtesie,
At best, but wel-meant injury.
Long may thine live, and forward grow
In Grace, and Goodness, for to show
The world, that as they bear thy name,
They are heirs also of thy Fame.
Sam. Pickring.
Ʋpon the praemature and much lamented death of of the Honorable Francis Pierrepont, Esq. deceased January 30, 1657.
AH! Why so fast, great Sir? the soul that was but sent
A while agoe, so soon to quit its Tenement,
And leav's, is sad and strange to us; such sudden flight
Doth cloud our day, and turn it to a darksom night;
And thus it needs must do, for though some Stars appear,
Yet when the Sun is set, it's night i'th' Haemisphere:
And so it is with us, for since our sad deprival
Of thy self, where is thy Compeer, or thy Rival?
If to thy birth we cast our eyes, thou wast of them
Whom well we may call Surcles, shot from noble stem,
In glistering beams of Honor, thou did'st brightly shine,
And virtues Pearly Chain, to deck thee, it was thine.
With all the gifts and richest ornaments of nature
Thou wast stor'd, which might adorn and bless a creature:
The sev'ral parts of happiness which scattered be
In others, all concentred were, and met in thee.
Then why so fast away, since to make up thy bliss
All things did thus concur? O sure the cause was this,
The little Common-wealth of man, like greater States,
Hath some certain periods set, and hidden fates,
Heaven's statute-Law stands vnreverst, that all must die;
But how, or where, or when, we have no certainty.
Sam Cottes, of Collick.
Ʋpon the much lamented death of the Honorable Francis Pierrepont, Esq.
WHen Sun is set, the Stars by their faint light,
Serve onely for to shew us that 'tis night.
Change but the Scene, 'tis we, who now attend,
The doleful Funerals of this noble friend.
Whose presence made it day with us, we knew
No night, till he bad us and th'world adieu.
Surviving friends cannot (though joyn'd) repair
Our loss, onely tell us how poor we are.
Strangers that live at distance can no more
Conceive of it, then we our selves before
It did befall us, still so sensless does
Enjoyment make us of what's precious:
But now quick-sighted sorrow hasts t'indite
His Epitaph, and dictates thus to write.
Here lies the glory of his kinde,
The sweet composure of whose minde
Won all that knew him, such it was,
So milde, in it, as in a glass,
Others, who would behold, might see
Not what they are, but ought to be.
Whom Learning had its Patron (sad
That we can onely say it had.)
In whom impartial Justice knew
To distribute to each his due.
Happy in reconciling those,
Whom pride, and passion had made foes.
A constant hearer of the Word:
Though great, he own'd a higher Lord.
Whose zeal and prudence you might see,
In his well-govern'd Family.
Stay Reader, all's not here exprest,
But silent grief sighs out the rest.
Richard Grant.
On the much lamented death of the truly Honorable Francis Pierepont, Esq.
IS mourning grown a fashion? and a Hearse
Become the common subject of a Verse?
Are th'Muses all close Mourners? and are Tears
The onely Pearls which they of late do wear,
And drop for Beads over their Graves, to whom
In Pilgrimage Poetick feet do come?
No wonder then, great Sir, if at your Shrine
The Muses should turn Vo'tries, and combine,
There to lament the loss which they sustain
By your sad death; whose sacred Urn contains
Those precious Reliques, which may justly call
For their attendance at your Funeral.
Mahomets Tomb may unfrequented lie,
Whilst yours is visited by passers by;
O're which to drop our Tears in Verse will be,
Devotion now, instead of Poetry.
Doth virtue now prove fatal? Is't a sign
A Star is falling, when it doth out-shine
It's bright Colleagues? doth a more glorious light
Onely portend a sad approaching Night?
Do Pearls dissolve the soonest? and they die
Fastest, who best deserve to multiply
Their days among us? Do the highest Sphears
Finish their course in the least tearm of years?
Or have the greatest Orbs, as well's the least,
The Earth their Centre and the place of rest?
Did these things seem so strange to us, that you,
Great Sir, are fain to die to prove them true?
[Page]But if our knowledge at no meaner rate,
Can purchs'd be out of the hands of fate:
Than by your loss, wee'd rather much remain
Ignorant still, than at such cost obtain
A demonstration. Could none else be,
To us, a patern of mortality?
But he whose life was so much priz'd by those,
Who value men by real worth, not shews;
And can distinguish by converse with one,
Right watred Diamonds, from a Bristol Stone.
Such those knew you to be, who knew you best,
Whose worth was greater then the vulgar test
Could reach to comprehend; they onely knew
So much as to admire, 'twas not one view,
Or two, or more, made by a vulgar eye,
Would serve to take your elevation by.
You lov'd not to expose your self too much
To common view, that you reserv'd for such,
As could discern where the distinction lies
Between pretences and true Piety.
You scorn'd to prostitute Religion to
The lusts of men, as now too many do,
Whose consciences are weather-wise, and go
Round with the quarter where the wind doth blow.
Your blood receiv'd a nobler tincture from
Your great endowments, then by what did come
Down from your Ancestors; whose virtues too
Had the same Chanel with their blood to you.
Next to your noble Brother, whose great worth,
Have set a Copy to be transcrib'd forth
By all great Persons; they may learn by you
How to be Noble, Wise, and Learned too.
Edward Stillingfleet, Fellow of St. Johns Coll. Cambr.
On the much lamented death, &c.
MY coal-black Muse presents, gives fire
Just in my bosom, founds retire
To levity. More zealous thence
With sense of loss, and loss of sense
Proceeds to tell how that of late
(Such was her passion) Church and State
Had lost a light. So she refuses
To be prophane amongst the Muses.
Such influences Subjects grave,
Upon a Poets vein may have,
Especially when they are noble dust,
Religious, Charitable, Just,
Learned and Politick, such compositions,
Without tautologies and repititions,
Can ne're be press'd; the Book of Life
Is able to decide the strife.
O horrid graves, ye can retain
But what's your own, no Pierreponts brain.
I summon every heart and hand
Within the bounds of Holy Land
T'unite their forces, let them know
They've lost a leader, and that now
The Church, since she is grown more old,
Must learn to go without a hold.
Arthur Squire.
On the memrry of the honorable Francis Pierrepont Esq. (third Son to the right Honorable Robert late Earl of Kingston) who exchanged this life for immortality, January 30. 1657.
IF any ask the reason, why so late
My Muse a mournful song doth meditate,
I'le answer at the first, she was struck dumb
With petrifying stupor: Let her come
To recollect her self, her sighs and tears
Will amply shew the high respect she bears
To inshrin'd vertue and Nobility,
Deriv'd higher then Natures Pedigree.
Hence is 't that brokenly she Versifies:
(Words in deep sorrow ca [...]'t be heard for cries.)
Copartnership alleviates sufferings;
From sympathy a much less trouble springs:
But here such losers are both Church and State,
They scarce suffice each to lament her fate,
When such as thou, great soul, are snacht away,
And so both robb'd on the same dismal day.
So that if we lament a Senator
Most sage and faithful, or a Warrior
Steel'd with true valor: While we condole
The maim'd Republick, the Church (as if our soul
Were too much soakt in Politicks) cries out,
Alas! How is it that you look about
With careless mindes? Is't nothing that I want
When such a pillar's shrunk? who was not scant
In any point, whereby to introduce
[Page]Religions pow'r into his housholds use.
[...]or onely acting in a narrow Sphere,
Comes forth in publick, fitter to act there.
Doctrine (methinks) and Discipline contend,
Which have in Pierepont lost the greater friend:
Uncertain, which most, truths complexion,
Or orders symmetry took his affection.
Which truly noble Candor, we in vain
May look and wish for, not call back again;
Nay rarely finde in any Mortal brest,
Hence't comes to pass our friend is gone to rest.
An Ostracism ejects him out o'th' World,
Which can no longer bear virtue install'd
In state majestick; but soon tenders up
To Heaven, the overflowing of its cup.
John Tuckney. C. C. J.
Ʋpon the Death of the Honourable Francis Pierepont, Esq. &c.
SHall I be forc'd to dip my Pen
In tears, and scrible mortal men?
Who being mortal, do but nibble
At highest things, and therefore scrible.
If any thing such subjects might
As these teach mortals how to write,
Make them more perfect, and confess
Such copies never could doe less:
But here's the judgement, most men hate
Such a Text-hand to imitate.
I have heard great Sirs vainly boast
Of Riches, Honours, and their host;
I've seen that man of merit sit
In Rome, and biting on his bit
In state, as if by Axiome true
He would prove Paradise as due,
Poor Majesty; compar'd to some
Who knew all those no life to come.
I have known the learned Rout so puft
When they (as wind) have knowledge snuft,
Who in their Rapsodies have been
To the third Heaven near a kin;
Yet when that pale-fac'd hag did low'r,
And summon them to flit their bow'r,
Could not dispute; No death to dye,
He dyed to live, this was the cry
Of him whose language yet doth warble
Through the cruel, spightful Marble
[Page](As you pass by, hark how it breaks
Your hearts, when he being dead, yet speaks.
His honour doth invite a stand,
And ev'ry Passenger command
To know himself. Let no man spurn,
Though ne'r so Noble, at his Urn,
Except they have a mind to dim
Their Honours by dishonouring him.
And while they doe his corps infest,
Like silly birds defile their nest.
But he who thought all this a bubble
T' have onely birth, began to double,
The same with Learning and her charms,
Which wel became a Talbots Arms,
And finding fruitful Helians Font,
He suck'd it, like a Pierepont.
All Coats of Arms so thick, so old,
Without this lining, are but cold.
His moral virtues do present
To us a richer monument;
Prudence her self she did abhor,
Not to make him a Senatour,
Love to his Countrey made him stand
Obedient to her strict command:
He might have chus'd, but that the beauty,
Which doth complexion such a duty,
Soon mov'd his temper; 'twas his food
To have occasion to doe good,
Without requital, and if a crime
Not to grow richer by the time;
I blame him that he did so halt,
Let this be put in for a fault;
But above all that which did throw
The greatest lustre on his brow,
That which did crown his temples round,
And heav'd his soul above the ground,
[Page]It was the image of his God,
To some a countenance, some a rod
That shone in him, let Church, let State,
Let family, Arts all bear the date,
Since that they lost him. Such a day
(Say Nottingham) here did they lay
His careful head, and such a night
(O dismall!) rent him from our sight.
And when you have bedew'd his herse
With many a dolefull, blear-ey'd verse:
Return, and as you softly walk
Confess your grief, your stones will talk.
If you say nothing, and conclude
'Twas you, not they that were so rude.
FINIS