The Glory of Dying in WAR: WITH A particular Application to the Death OF THE Late EARL of SANDWICH.
BLest Sandwich! Earth's envy! Heaven's delight!
Whom the Gods honoured to die in Fight!
A Glory far beyond the pow'r of Verse;
Only, for Mars, and Cannons, to rehearse.
'Tis Nature's pride; Virtue's reward; a Bliss
Would make the Angels slight their happiness,
And Court this Death; Maugre the blinde mistake
Of vulgar sp'rits, and those lean Souls, who make
It terrible; chusing rather to go
Ten years tormented with a Gouty Toe,
Or war against a Cough, their loathing tongues
Spitting the filth, out of their conquer'd lungs:
Or else their Corpse, with Salves and Sear-Cloths please;
Live rotten Monuments of their disease;
And carry pale-fac'd Death about to show,
Making a Grave, and stink, where e're they go.
Whilst thou, Great Sandwich, mad'st a Nobler choice,
Not to be prais'd enough by humane voice.
Who in defence of King and Country di'd,
Have ever hitherto been Deifi'd.
The sharpest Teeth of Time could never skar
The Glory of a man was kill'd i'th' War.
If Advocates gain honour by a Cause
Concerning Trespass in the Common-Laws;
What merits he, who pleads with dint of Sword?
And may be kill'd, or kill at every word:
Who speaks with Lightning and with dreadful Thunder,
Making the Earth to shake, all Mortals wonder:
By whose success, Kingdoms or fall, or stand,
Has the fortune of Princes in his hand;
Nay, the worship of the Gods! nay, the lives
Of our selves, our servants, children and wives.
In this Concern stout Sandwich bravely stood,
Until he floated in a Sea of Blood:
Repell'd the fury of the Hogen Might;
Shiver'd their Valour, banish'd 'em the Fight:
And then to make his Victory compleat,
The Heavens stoop'd, and took him from the Fleet,
Leaving his Body on the gentle Bed
Of Neptune, where the Sea-gods honoured
His Herse, and with the Glories of the Main
Conducted it to shore; when with a Train
Of Honours it was met, and in great State
Placed amongst the Gods o'th' Second Rate.
Thus whilst his Corpse insults with Royal love,
His Soul is led in Triumph by Great Jove.
Heaven and Earth do both conspire to build
Trophies unto the man that dies i'th' Field.
Now come, ye curst Diseases, that have led
Your Captive Coward to his dying Bed;
Shew me what ease, what comfort you afford
The Proselyte you gained from the Sword.
'Tis true, you give a little time; for what?
To make him feel his grief, or lye and rot:
A Cap, a Doctor, and a tender Nurse;
And so you plague his Body with his Purse:
Ye put him on a Rack; he ne're confest,
Nor yet by flatteries, your Death was best.
Tell me, sick Clay, what Honour, what Renown
It is to die upon a Bed of Down?
No, no; the way to Glory doth not lye
Thorough the pangs of a sad Malady:
Not he who is a Slave to Death, and stands
Ready to serve her Messengers Commands;
Submits to every disease, and falls,
VVhen e're a petty Cold, or Fever calls:
That man's a man of life, and valour, can
Bid Death stand off; and when he please, come on;
That, for his Countries sake, dares single meet
All the Death-Heads o'th' Hogen Mogen Fleet!
Make Death serve him, in killing others, then
Commands it to return to him agen;
And lift him from this doleful Vale of Tears,
(VVithout the help of Sickness, or of Years)
Unto Eternal Joy, and Bliss, and Glory,
VVhere Angels love to Chant, and tell his Story.
Thus did, thus liv'd, thus di'd, admir'd by all;
SANDWICH the Great, and Valiant Admiral.
London: Printed by J. C. 1672.