UPON THE Earl of Ossory, Who Dyed of a FEAVER▪ Iuly 30. 1680.


YOur Son's true worth whom we Lament as Dead
Has drawn these Verses from my Heart, not Head;
They are a plain true Narrative of what
All men allow, no feigning what was not;
I never thought you pleas'd with flattering Fictions,
Nor that such stuff was proper in Afflictions:
I seldom Rhime, though there be seasons when
The grav'st and holyest have so us'd their Pen,
Who only Writes on such as OSSORY,
Perhaps needn't Write twice more before they Dy.
THE best siz'd Pillar of the fairest Pile;
That has of late been built on Ireland's Isle
Is fall'n; some were to short, others too long
Some are too old, and others much too young.
His numerous Name being like a Town too wide
To be well mann'd, or fully fortifi'd:
He was their Cittadel within, their Mote
Without, their force which on the Sea did flote;
At Land their Army, nothing being more
Ready to fight upon the Sea or Shore.
He didn't grasp Commands to scrape up Gold▪
When he was Chief, all Offices were sold
[Page 2]'Tis true; for what d' you thing? for Skill in Arms,
For Vigilance and Courage, those only Charms
Wrought on his Soul; He that could pay good store
Of Sterling-merit, needed pay no more.
Who knew him well, could not believe that ever
He meant to Dy thus tamely of a FEAVER;
The Fates did disappoint him; it was their Check
He had not dy'd upon a Blood-smear'd Deck,
Or Storming, fell down from a scalding Ladder,
First by Granadoes rent, or what is sadder.
Some Royal Ship his Coffin should have been.
Stranded in Fight where tall Rocks might be seen
To shew the Sea-faring Crew; where OSSORY
Fought for the Laws, and for the KING did Dy.
What must we Weep? No, let no Muses whine,
Nor Verse be wet with Metaphorick Brine;
His Name's not Dead, who stands inshrin'd with Glory,
Embalm'd by Fame, with Monuments and Story:
Cannons go weep out Flames, Culverins go cry
And roar, from every Ship and Battery,
That OSSORY's gone! gone, whither? to scare Iove's Thunder,
And try what Powers can make him Fear or Wonder.
Should his Friends mourn? when this is his Condition.
Or rather piously envy's fruition?
No, mourn poor Suitors! who want his helpful word,
Mourn more ye KING's that did deserve his Sword.
Rather than weep fret, that the KING, the Nation
Ireland, his House, and th' whole Confederation
Of worthy Men, his Children and his Wife
Were all trappann'd and couzen'd of his Life:
For He (who Fire and Ball was proof) with Ice
Was Burnt, and with a Peach, shot in a trice.
VVhat did you mean, you blind Fantastick Fates,
Thus to exert your envy, peeks and hates?
VVere ye asleep at Mons, why didn't ye there
Kill him, or try if you could make him Fear?
Or tear him with the Belgick Lion's Claws?
Or with Death's treble Tooth (Fire, Sword, Sea) Jaws.
Why Sister Furies! you had been less cruel
T'have let him fall in some punctillious Duel,
Whilst he was spelling in the A B C
Of Honour, and before the World did see
And read the Volumns▪ which his Sword had writ,
Without the help of fourb or fripon wit.
Y'have done your worst, Him whom you could not beat
Yee treacherously have poyson'd by a Cheat.
More Iameses will miss him, than one or two,
When they have great and dangerous work to do:
Since he has fought enough; Let the next Prize
Be play'd by others; thus th'Heavens just and wise
(That he might but look on and not engage)
Have call'd him up, to see't from their own Stage.
Now Tack about (poor Muse) 'Tis time to turn,
We do but rant, to say we will not mourn:
Tis true, some giddy Sceptics may rejoyce,
But so to do is not in good mens choice;
There will be Mourners, though the most sincere
May neither Musselins, Creap, nor long black wear.
Look wistly in mens faces, and you'l spye
Pitts in their Cheeks, and hollows in their Eye,
Red in the Lidds, and underneath them Blue,
Sallow and pale will be the Nations Hew:
Men of brisk stomack will their food refuse,
And not a few immoderate Wine dis-use.
Now sleepless Heads will tell the Clocks all Night,
And slumbring often startle in a fright;
Wh [...]t broken Dreams and Fancies will possess
Concerned minds? what Vapours will oppress
The Hypocondries of distemper'd Spleen?
More than before for many years was seen.
How many wronged wretches, poor and blind,
Will grope in vain their Remedies to find?
What will the Lame-maim'd Sea-men do? whose Chest
Was Patron OSSORY's most munificent Brest.
The sound instead of songs of Drink and Lass
Will sing his Name at Helm (each his watch Glass)
And on the Deck, fancy the starry Trayn
They see, is OSSORY, up in Charls his Wayn;
[Page 4]But singing sigh, That OSSORY no more
Shall mak'm fight at Sea, nor Drink a shore:
What Lamentations will this Blow so sharp?
Cause tso be set upon the Irish Harp?
All Hands to Work, let every faculty
Come help to soften this Calamity.
Come you Divines! more than deserve the fair
Preferments you have had, beat not the Air
In Pulpits, but let your Inspired Arts
Preach Balsoms to the bruised Ormond-Hearts,
Enlarge on Iob, and branch on every Head.
That David spake when Ba'shba's Son was Dead.
VVhere are the Opticks I have often had!
That could reduce a shape, tho ne'r so bad
Deform'd and ugly, to a handsome hew?
Help now to make things hideous and true;
Look fair though false, make Ormond's House believe
They may their OSSORY and their Son retrieve.
Give of those Optick Instruments, to each
Of his Name one, to valiant Souldiers reach
One a piece more, and then (for fear of failure)
Give two a piece to every fighting Sailer;
Thus by Refractions, and contriv'd reflections
Delude his Friend and temper their Affections.
Palliate this Sore, some Aesculapian Hand!
Till dozeing time can Cicatrize it, and
Beget new Hopes, until new measures be taken,
And old designs off from your minds he shaken.
Now, tell me (Heav'ns Favourite) when shall I
Leave off to mourn? when? not till thou dy:
You are in Paradice, we know right well
You have already conquer'd Death and Hell;
Send me a Pasport from the place of Bliss,
And let me your exalted feet go kiss.
So shall your shining Face all my Tears dry,
Like Summer-sun, O let me go, I'le dy.

London, Printed for La. Curtis. 1680.

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