AN ELEGIE On the miraculously Learned, and much Lamented BISHOP of ARMAGH.
Licensed and entred according to Order.
LONDON Printed by Francis Leach, 1656.
AN ELEGIE On the miraculously Learned, and much Lamented Bishop of Armagh.
WHy does my lowly Pen aspire so high,
To write the Reverend Vshers Elegie?
The Subject's sacred, and therefore 'tis fit
It should be handled by Canonick Wit,
Mine's but Apocryphal. I am no Poet
To blazon this great Saint. Some Learn'd one do it.
(Or has his death, a more chastising Doom
Then th' Visitation, struck the Muses dumb?)
Fain I would sacrifice unto his Fame
Numbers as high and Noble as his Name;
But my Muse wanteth such Herculean strength,
As to Pourtray the Holy One at Length:
This humble Tribute I pay to his Herse,
To speak my sorrow, Not to boast my Verse;
Is it a Real truth Armagh is dead?
Tears! overflow and Deluge my Dull Head,
That it, thereby made fertile, may bring forth
Some Petty Off'ring to imbalm his Worth.
Arts droop, the Church grows dark the Gospel-Light
Seems for to bid the Nation now good Night.
Sad Symptomes these, which do import, 'tis true,
Armagh is gone, and Englands Glory too.
How? ne'r a Comet? nor an Earthquake neither?
To Vsher out this Reverend Holy Father?
No dismal Voice? or Vision to foreshow,
And give us warning of this heavy blow?
Have we out-sinn'd the Men of Ninevey?
More hainous? More Prodigious than they?
Is our guilt ripe? and Heav'ns incensed hand
Ready to pour destruction on the Land?
And was this great Apostle sent for hence,
To make way for approaching Vengeance?
Let the wild Doctors of the Tub perswade
'Tis Sion, where they drive their godly trade.
Mauger their vifions, dreams, and holy Prate,
'Tis a sad Truth, and I'll make bold to say't,
This was the Moses who stood in the Gap,
Whose death portends some dreadful after-clap
For those Abominations which of late
Have Gangrene-like o'rspred both Church and State.
Armagh departed? Babel then beware,
Thy doom, by Consequence, is drawing near:
(So when blest Lot, by Angels fetcht, went out,
Brimstone and fire fell on the Sodom Rout.)
This was the man. So just, So stout, So sage,
The Shame and Glory of our sinful age.
How said I, Man? that Epithete's too mean,
Armagh was more. The miracle of Men.
Could he be less who was both learn'd and meek?
Could he be less who never did self-seek?
Could he be less who knew no Guile? no Gall?
Wise as a Serpent, yet a Dove with-all?
Could he be less, who knew no kind of Pride,
And yet knew more than all the Land beside?
Hid not his Talent, but improved it,
Not for his own, but Publique Benefit:
Like the Industrious Bee, which flies abroad,
And toyls to fraight her hive for Common good.
His Intellect scorn'd to be confin'd by Dover,
Bravely expatiating the whole world over:
Like to the Reverend Noah Janus-fac'd,
Had a Reflex look to the Ages past,
Scanning the Actions and the Ar [...]s of old,
Slighted their Dross, but treasur'd up their Gold.
Beyond the Common Ne plus ultra He
(Drake-like, ambitious o [...] Discov [...]rie,)
Sailed still on, Bounded by no degr [...]e
On this side of Universalitie,
Storing his Country with more noble Prize,
Than that which in the W [...]stern Climate lies:
America doth no such Mines contain,
As those compriz'd i'th' Indie of his Brain.
Nor was his Piety below his Par [...]s,
Right Metropol'tan both in Grace and Ar [...]s,
Vast as his knowledge His Integrity,
High in's own Fame, and others Infamy,
Who could be Good, although the Tim [...]s were Bad,
Hated a Rotten heart and Gyddy head.
What ever Changes were He kept his ground,
Seeming the Axe on which the Wheel turn'd Round.
While other Light ones Govern'd by the Tyde,
This way and that way shamefully did slide:
(Like a firm Rock) Armagh still fixed stood,
Mov'd only thus, to smile at th' fickle flood.
Not sway'd by Fear, or Favour, or by Passion,
Kept to the Rule, God's Laws, & those o'th' Nation.
A Saint in practice, not in stile, like Those
Whose Sanctity consists in painted showes,
Specious pretexts, and counterfeit Devotion;
(At best but pious frauds to get promotion.)
Such Arts he scorn'd, and well he might; for He
Was more Caelest, than these can seem to be▪
No New Light, But one of the good Old stamp;
No blazing Meteor, but a burning Lamp.
A Luminary so divinely bright,
His beams (Sun-like) had Heat as well as Light.
A good Samaritan indeed; Who did
Pour forth his pains and oyl, where he saw need.
Free from the Errors of the Church of Rome,
And those more fatal heresies at home.
Me-thinks I see him in the Pulpit still,
Laying about him against Sin and Hell,
With that two-edged sword the word of God
Made keener by his Edifying Nod.
How Zealous was he in this holy War?
How did he combat with the Prince o'th' air?
How did he bear up True Religions crown?
How did he beat the deeds of darkness down?
How did he wound a hardned Conscience,
And, even seared, bring it unto sence?
How did he heal a wounded Conscience too?
Weep Lincolns-Inne, and witness this is true.
You Judges, that were wont Close Bribes to take,
And favour Causes for the Persons sake,
Are you more Righteous and Religious now?
Weep, and confess Armagh reformed you.
You Lawyers, that disdain'd to plead for th' Poor,
Unless an Angel at your Study door
Spoke in's behalf, Are you less covetous grown?
Do you take moderate Fees, and sometimes None?
Weep o'r this Herse, (the Case is alter'd well)
'Twas blessed Vsher wrought this miracle.
You Students, that of late were full of Lust,
And paid at leasure, where you went on Trust,
Are you more chast? more just? Nor Rant? nor whore?
Nor wrong your Creditors, as you did before?
Weep o'r this Herse, and let your sad Complaints,
Speak you converted by the best of Saints.
You Ladies, that were wont to paint and spot,
And for your pleasure doe (you best know what)
Have you sincerely cast the Leopard ski [...]?
Do you hate spots without, and spots within?
Weep o're this Herse, and in sad Accents tell,
He's gone to Heav'n, who rescu'd you from Hell.
You Tradesmen, who were us'd to lie and cheat,
And hugg a thriving prosperous deceit,
Are your weights and your Consciences now right?
Will your wares and your works endure the light?
Weep o'r this Herse, that so the world may see,
Armagb begat your Zeal and Honesty.
Nor is the Loss confined here. (Ev'n All
Have cause to mourn.) 'Tis Epidemical.
So vast a Ruine, such a Desolation
Requires an Vniversal Lamentation.
Armagh's decease in a most solemn way
Calls for a publique Humiliation day.
Sa [...]kcloth and Ashes would become his Herse,
Much better than slight tears, or slighter verse.
Ah cruel Fates! are you turn'd Lev'llers too?
Strive to outvy the Goth and Vandal Crue?
No Reverence to Holy Order? Grace?
No Mercy to a Man of God? Tis Base.
Y'ave ruined more Worth in a Moment here,
Than a whole Age can possibly repair.
Here Rome lies sacked; and it may be said,
Athens is here likewise demolished.
(That wound to Learning, Pagans wasting Greece,
Did but fore-run, and Type-like point at this.)
Death! thou hast donethy worst: we may defie'thee,
And all the mischief that can now come by'thee.
Ee'n pick and choose, and spare not. We can lose
Hereafter but as a Crack'd Merchant does,
By petty parcels. Here a dram of Wit
Thou mayst take from's, or something like to it.
A grain of Vertue there, (and well so too,
Consid'ring Men and Manners what th'are now.)
No such blow this. For why, who can deny'it?
The World is half undone, and Bankerupt by'it.
What e'r was Eminently Great or Good,
In Vsher fell, is to be understood.
Behold a ruin'd Vniversity,
Be it remembred England once had three,
Armagh made up the famous Trinity,
Oxford and Cambridge, in Epitomie.
Nor is it Hyperbolical, to say
His Head contein'd as many tongues as they.
Nothing exempts from surly Fate I see,
Armagh himself yiels to Mortality.
Forgive me (Noble soul) I sin to say,
Thou didst go hence in [...] Mortal way.
Armagh? That [...]ound's enough to claim bold death,
Armagh? That Name implies triumphant breath.
I grant thou wert above the Power of Fate,
The righteous dye not, but they, are translate.
What is in others Forc'd, in thee was Free,
Thou didst not die, but Court thy Destiny?
Thy task being finisht here, Thou dist aspire,
To bear a part in the Celestial Quire.
Farewell great Saint, We may Lament thy Loss,
But cannot speak thy worth. Our sordid Dross
Does but adulterate thy sacred Gold,
None but a Seraphim can thee unfold.
As much above our praise thou art, as we
In Grace were Undergraduates to thee.
Nor need'st thou Monument of Brass or Stone,
Thy own hands have built a more Lasting one,
Which shall Record thy Fame and Vertuous Parts,
While there are Learned Heads, or Holy hearts.
(But herein only lies thy happy story,
Thy Miter's turn'd into a Crown of Glory.)
The EPITAPH.
REader, weep a tear, And grant
Here does lye, A Myter'd Saint.
Here Armagh himself is laid,
Enough, there needs no more be said,
All that is Great, All that is Good,
Lies here Interr'd, is understood.
FINIS.