Natura Lugens: OR, AN ELEGY On the Death of the Honourable ROBERT BOYLE, Esq; Who left this Life December the 30th. 1691.
REtired from Business, in a Dark Alcove,
As I sat reading of Seraphick Love;
In ev'ry Page of which, in every Line,
Immortal Wit, and Weighty Judgement shine:
Me thought, a Voice past softly by and said,
Drop, drop a Tear, for Learned BOYLE is Dead.
Amaz'd, in haste, I from my Cell withdrew,
And quickly found the sad Prediction True:
For Common Losses Common Griefs suffice,
But Sorrow here prepares a Sacrifice,
Whole Hecatombs of Tears should offer'd be,
As Pious Incence to his Memory:
BOYLE, whom the Learned World, with Justice, own,
Was Nature's once belov'd, adopted Son.
The most Judicious BOYLE is now no more,
Who did such strange Phaenomena's explore,
Like a Coy Virgin, or a Modest Bride,
Who what she would conceal does closely hide;
In such a Humour did Dame Nature seem,
And was reserv'd to all the World but him,
She Knew his Worth, and freely did reveal
As much as can be known by Human Skill;
Although the mighty Knowledge he ingrost,
It was not by Dull Speculation lost:
But as his Soul was Large, and Great his Mind,
So what he Knew was Known to all Mankind;
From Nature's Mines with Labour dug the Oar,
While we with Pleasure viewed the wondrous Store:
With his Rich Works we might enrich our Sense,
And be Philosophers at small Expence.
But justly we, Great BOYLE, thy Fate deplore,
Much we might know, but now must know no more,
Th' Exchequer's shut, and since our Fate is such,
Be thankful that by thee we know so much.
But oh! what Pen is worthy to rehearse,
In lasting Prose, or much more lasting Verse?
His Pious Zeal, to the First Moving Cause,
Which gave to Nature those Eternal Laws;
For ever still in Second Causes he,
Allow'd an over-ruling Deity:
Let Young Philosophers Direct, and Please
Themselves with Natures Hidden Qualities,
Till they a better Light than Nature's gain,
Their Thoughts are Fruitless, and their Search is vain.
Seraphick Soul, how justly mayst thou now
With Pity look on groveling us below?
Who know but yet in part, for which we see
The Vail of Glory drawn 'tween us and thee;
Whilst thy sublime, pure and unbodied Mind,
Now dwells in Love and Knowledge unconfin'd.
With Envy we thy Glory do not see,
But only wish to Live and Dye like thee;
Noble by Birth, yet Humble too thou wert,
Without Design, and Modest without Art,
Learned without Pride, and Pious not for Show
(Where in another do those Virtues grow?)
But yet, alas! with strange Prophetick Fear
(Thou Truely Christian Great Philosopher)
We judge, when such Great Souls as thine retire,
Nature her self will suddenly expire.
EPITAPH.
REader, beneath this Marble Pile,
Is laid the Dust of Learned BOYLE;
A Word will fill the Mouth of Fame,
While Worth and Learning have a Name:
Let others Court Opinions breath,
By stately Monuments of Death;
Without a Tomb his Fame is safe,
His Name alone's an Epitaph.
LONDON: Printed for John Taylor at the Ship in St. Paul's Church Yard, MDCXCII.