AN ELOGY, Against Occasion Requires UPON THE Earl of Shaftsbury. Calculated for the Meridion of Eighty One.

AT the West-End of th' Universal Frame,
A Place there lies, which some a Land mis-name;
An Excrement of World, call'd Natures Sinke,
A Mass of undrain'd mire, quag, bogg, and stinke.
Ireland Yclep'd, When th' All-creating WORD
Great Natures Architect, and Orders Lord
From Nothing spoke out All, and all around
With Form, Light, Beauty, and perfection Grownd;
This Spot alone ner'e heard th' Almighty found
This heap of Undigested Earth! a Place,
Which of old Chaos wears th' Original Face!
As if the Out-cast of the Works of Heaven;
'T had scarce one days Creation out of Seven.
This Country's by a sort of Natives Man'd,
With Braines, as much unfurnish'd as their Land;
But yet, what e're they want in Wit and Sense
Is made up in their TRĘ²TH and INNOCENCE
Such Innocence born in so pure an Air,
Their very Ground will nought that's Poysonous bear
Since it was washt with the last Massacre.
A Massacre, ROME's Memorable toyle,
Which like the Plague, stop't by ore-flowing Nile
Purg'd all Envenom'd Locusts from their soyle.
With a full Pack of this untainted Brood,
Is Hunted Shaftsbury, to Death pursu'd.
All nobly sworn to hang the Heretick Dogg,
An Oath's no more, then their own Natural Bogg,
Ore which, the nimble Torie safely runs
Whilst the more flow pac'd dastard stick's and drown's.
Yes, Pope and Hell for his Damnation call,
For he knows Rome, and he deserv's to Fall!
Thy Greatness, Rome, by Mystick steps Ascends,
The Blind and Ignorant are thy best Friends:
Reason and truth to Thee are Foes and Spies,
Then Great Infallability, be wise,
And safely Cut off Heads, to put out Eyes.
Favours in Pallaces, let no man boast,
Where but to See, and Know, is to be Lost.
So in the Great Augustus Court of old,
Such Honour did the darling Ovid hold,
Long on his Brows the Royal Laurels hung,
Whilst he soft Airs, to flattered Caesar sung,
Till by a prying Eye undone, he's sent
Damn'd for a look, t' Eternal Banishment:
Yes, in thy Chains, Great Overbury lye,
Rome, is not Rome, till Fear and Dangers dye:
To Preserve Nations, Right, Religion, Kings,
Are for Unhallowed hands, two Sacred things.
In such a Cause 'tis Fatal to embark,
Like the bold Jew that propt the falling Ark,
With an unlicenc'd Arm he durst approach,
And tho' to Save, yet it was Death to touch.
Go blasted then, and branded to thy Doom,
With no less Stains, then hateing Rome,
Supplanting France, and Saveing Christendom.

London, Printed for Ab. Green, 1681.

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