AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF Thomas Merry, Esq Of St. Ann's Lane, who died on St. Bartholomew's Day, 1682.
⟨A sory thing a jeer on him & ye Whigs 29. Aug. 1682.⟩
'TWas night; the Comet in the Welkin glar'd,
And with great Eyes the greater Bear outstar'd,
When Tom convok'd his friends: The Noble Peer
⟨Earl of Shaftsbury⟩
With Tap in Side, the Salamanca Seer
⟨Dr Oates⟩
In his Geneva Cassack,
Meal-Tub. ⟨ [...]⟩
ColonelWith Cobs, with Scabs, with Cloak, with Sword most fell,
And little Hunt appear'd to make his Will.
Squire Tom his Body from his Bed did raise,
Spitting in Faces, splutters such words as these.
Fellow Reformers, ye do all well know,
I am as very a Rogue as any of you;
Yet shall die in my bed; a Fate I fear,
Attends not all my Friends; my gentler Star
(It's more than I deserv'd) doth kindly snatch
My guilty Neck far from the Claws of Katch.
Now seeing I must cease to draw my Breath,
Some of my Worldly Goods I thus bequeath.
Imprimis Velvet Coat from hence shall pass,
Bedeck't with Buttons of the purest Brass,
To Coffee-House of Dick, where carefully
It is to hang a Monument of me,
As Rogues are trust up in Effigie.
When, Valiant Chetwyn, I did break thy head,
My small Bambooe did stand me in great stead;
Most worthy Friends this noble Stick convey,
And apud Ludlow have it kept for Aye.
My Silver Pepper-Box which without jest,
Instead of Pepper once contain'd a Priest,
Before from Pagan Papist I it stole,
Dear Doctor take; make Sermons for my Soul:
In pure and undefiled Lingua Franca,
At the University of Salamanca.
And when the date of thy fam'd life shall end,
(Which will not be like mine I doubt my Friend)
I give John Ketch of Turn-mill Street Esquire,
Two pounds (I hope he'l do what I desire)
My Learned Doctor for thy future praise,
To Clothe the Triple Tree in Sable Bays.
Item I give unto thy Niece one Dildo,
As well as Hastings which her business will do.
And to thy Brace of Brothers (hopeful Plants)
The Devil by these presents gives and grants,
To Steer and Glaze old Charon's Barge, to carry
Stout Swearers over Styx in a good Wherry:
To thee and to these Heroes of thy Race,
OLD NIC in Hell for ever grants a Place.
To thee my Colonel (a Pepper-Box,
Is no convenient Medicine for the Pox)
I give my Arms and Armour, which I Scower'd
For th' Oxford Job; Oh! they are all since Tower'd:
I quite forgot my self; I can't give those:
Into thy hands I do commit my Spouse,
Whose Life I sav'd, yet ne'r read Aristotle,
His Conjuration at Westminster.
By Piss, by two Old Women, and one Bottle:She is as Blithe, as Brisk and Debonair,
As she thou hast of Danish Race and Hair.
And tho' Dear Friend, I left thee in the Lurch,
At Tower of
In the Bayliffs hands.
Bum behind St. Clement's Church,What for my self I fitted, I'le dispense
To thee, a Cord, which cost me just three pence.
Thou my loved Lawyer, my best Proselite,
⟨Mr Hunt.⟩
'Ere since my dreadful Shooe thy breech did smite.
See that same Shooe be Hung in House of Coffee,
Call'd Amsterdam, as a Remembrance of me.
The Shooe, which through thy Bum by secret art,
Convey'd Rebellious maxims to thy Heart.
And made thee, what lay in thy Power, to deface,
The Government and Church in thy lewd PREFACE.
To thee, sweet Will, the Guardian of a Door,
Where Lords went in and out in days of Yore.
Successor to my Place, not Parts, to thee,
I leave my Discontent and Bawdery.
Thou trusty Page to Franc. Smith's Noble Peer,
Vote-Finder for Two Sheriffs at Westminster;
May thy Wise Head keep its adjunctive Ears,
Till Winter pour down Snow upon thy Hairs.
Then stept in cruel Death, and without stay,
Though Weavers Priest stood by, steals Tom away.
⟨Dr Oates.⟩
And art thou gone, brave Tom? Thou Short-hand speaker,
Of Treason and false News, thou Bawdy breaker;
Of smutty Jeasts, thou Penny-Post o'th' Town,
Thou nonsense Splutterer; man of more renown
Than Old Tom Coriat; thy name in Story,
Shall ever be Superior to John Dory.
Cloath the Queen's Arms, Cloath Harry and his Bush,
Cloath th' Three-leg'd Mare at Tiburn in Black Plush.
Let Amsterdam and Dick profoundly houl,
And mourn in Coffee, Black as was Tom's Soul.
'Tis time indeed for them to sigh and mone,
Since trusty Mercury is dead and gone.
Let all the Weeping Sisters make a Cry,
From Aldersgate, even unto
Half-Moon.
Bloomsbury.To rouse thee up, thou Prophet of the Pond,
That thou, and thy Help-meet may out of hand,
With showers of Tears' oreflow your Watry Eyes,
And in a deluge drown your Pudding-Pies.
Then holy Canter, Sire of the great Seer,
Of Salamanca, let thy Voice sound clear.
From sacred Tub, let all thy Nymphs arise,
From Ducking-Pond to Eccho Tom's just praise.
For Tom at Whoring, and at Plotting too,
Was not inferiour, sage Sir, to you.
EPITAPH.
For Carolina Tom embarkt
Goods worth One Thousand Pound;
He dy'd of FEAR; and since is Crept
To Carolina under Ground.
FINIS.