An Elegy on the much lamented death of His Grace the Duke of Beauford who departed this life at his seat at Badminton in Gloucestershire on Sunday the 21st of January 1700, being near the 70 year of his age. 1700 Approx. 5 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2009-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A39150 Wing E426C ESTC R26464 09475301 ocm 09475301 43221

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A39150) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 43221) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1307:36) An Elegy on the much lamented death of His Grace the Duke of Beauford who departed this life at his seat at Badminton in Gloucestershire on Sunday the 21st of January 1700, being near the 70 year of his age. 1 broadside. Printed by J. Wilkins, London : 1700. In verse. Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library.

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 eng Beaufort, Henry Somerset, -- Duke of, 1629-1700 -- Poetry. 2008-05 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-08 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2008-10 Sampled and proofread 2008-10 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2009-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion

MEMENTO MORI:

outline of tombstone including emblems of Death which surrounds text
AN ELEGY, On the much Lamented Death of His Grace, the DUKE of Beauford, Who Departed this Life, at His Seat at Badminton in Gloceſter ſhire, on Sunday the 21ſt of January, 1700. Being near the 70 Year of His Age.

MEMENTO MORI::

decorative border with emblems of Death

BID Mirth adiue, and chearful Harmony, And with me Tune a doleful Elegy: A Star is Faln, an Orb does Diſapear, Was once the Glory, of our Hemiſphre; Sad News is Heard, and Diſmal Tidings Spread! Alaſs! Alaſs! Great Beauford he is Dead: You little think what Prize, fate has Engrosſt, Or what our ſelves, or what the World has loſt, His Pious Dutches Mournfully does ſtand, In ſilent Anguiſh, and uplifted Hand: His Son, and Grandſon, ſadly do Lament, And hardly know which way their Greif to Vent; His Daughters three, great Ladies of Renown, Are much Perplex'd with Greif and Diſmal Moan, Only they've round them Vertue for their Guard, And makes that Eaſie, which we think ſo Hard; Deſign, and Strife, were Strangers to his Heart, • ut Peace and Truth, and that were ner'e Apart. Anger might Knock, but there no Enterance found, It durſt not Tread that Path, twas Holy Ground: His Temper was to Pietie ſo True, Not his whole Life. one Rapi'd Motion knew, Like a Smooth Stream it did untroubled Roul, Clear as His Eyes, and Even as His Soul: Through Traitors Swords, and Plots contriv'd in Hell, Through Inmate Friends, that Pray and yet Rebel; Beauford, undanted has like Gidion paſs'd, Prefering Faith and Honour to the laſt; Nay whats, a Rarity, we find in few, He was both Pious, and a Soldier too: Too ſoon this mighty Loſs is Underſtood, We know the Value, when we loſt the Good: His Loyal Care to Serve his Prince did tend, A Faithful Subject, Counſelor and Friend; 'To'th Royal Line when Faction high did Riſe, His Arms gave Succour and his Heart Adviſe, So once to Saul, did the great Prophet do, Good Counſel gave, and Fought his Battels too. Henceforth Vile Age, thy ill ſpent Time Redeem, Grow Good, and let Great Beauford be thy Theam; In taking Him, Fate leaves us Poor and Bare, This mighty Worth is more than we can Spare; For common Loſſes, common Tears we ſhowre; But his great Merit will command much more: For this great Loſs we ought to have Regard, The Loyal and the brave are ſeldom Spar'd: In Props of Vertue, we are not ſo Rich, But ſuch a Pillar gon, will make a breach; Crowds may drop off, like Hair of no Eſteem, But when one Hero goes we loſe a Limb; Great Ormond's Duke, in Sable Robes appears, With his fam'd Dutches, who abounds in Tears; And none knows when their mighty Sorrow ends, Who loſt the beſt of Fathers, and of Friends: Their Noble Houſe, and Antient Family, Are Dreſs'd in Sorrow's ſadeſt Livery; His high born Kindred round about the Nation, Appear in Mourning, on this ſad Occaſion: But look on further and obſerve the Poor, And Needy, that in Numbers Crowds the Door, Such as he Cloath'd; and thoſe as long he Fed, He greiv'd to ſee a Man that wanted bread: His very Foes, who did his worth Envy, If they were Poor, he freely did Imploy: So much he Lov'd to keep at Work the Poor, He'd pull Down Wall's tho' juſt built up before; About his Houſe, no Idle Perſons Lurk, He took ſuch Care to ſet them all to Work; And none without their Wages went away, He ſcorn'd to Robb the poor Man of his Pay: But to our Sorrow, this Relief is Given, Our Loſs on Earth, has Gain'd a Friend in Heaven.
EPITAPH. Under this Pile the great Duke Beauford lies, Whoſe Death has Cauſed many Weeping Eyes; His Noble Friends with Tears make ſad Complaint, At their great Loſs, tho' Heaven has gain'd a Saint: Where he's Rewarded for his Deeds below, With bleſſings there, to high for Earth to know: His Fame on Earth ought ſtill to be Inrol'd, Not in black Ink; but Shining Leaves of Gold.

LONDON, Printed by J. Wilkins, near Fleet-ſtreet, 1700.