Tristitiæ Christianæ: or An ocean of pious tears. An elegy upon the death of the reverend, pious, and learned minister of the gospel, Mr. Matthew Mead, who departed this life at his dwelling-house in Stepney, on Monday, the 16th day of this instant October, 1699. In the sixty ninth year of his age. / Written by a constant auditor, and sorrowful mourner, for the loss of this reverend deceased pastor.

MEMENTO MORI

Triſtitiae Chriſtianae: Or an Ocean of Pious Tears. AN ELEGY Upon the Death of the Reverend, Pious, and Learned Miniſter of the Goſpel, Mr. Matthew Mead, Who Departed this Life at his Dwelling-Houſe in Stepney, on Monday, the 16th Day of this Inſtant October, 1699. In the Sixty Ninth Year of his Age. Written by a Conſtant Auditor, and Sorrowful Mourner, for the Loſs of this Reverend Deceaſed Paſtor.

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Bleſſed are the dead which Dye in the Lord.

A Woful Story here I'm come to tell, Of a Loſt Shepherd, whom ye all knew well, Who left us all alone, and's gone away, Being Wounded with Death's Dart the other Day. D • ctor, pray ſtay your Sheep i'th Fold they be, Waiting for th' Shepherd, whom they long to ſee, There for to take ſome of thy Holy Meat; But they're prevented, Death he did them cheat. Judge now, ye Saints, if we han't cauſe to Weep! For that the Paſtor he hath left his Sheep! Whom he, with Spiritual Food, did uſe to feed; A Saint we've loſt, a Saint he was indeed. But tho' he's Dead, his Works they will ſurvive His Glorious Soul as if he were alive; They'l ſerve in place of him, though he is gone, And left his Sheep here for to walk alone. Ah! Could not you afford to ſtay a Space Of Time with us, before you Run the Race. And let us ſee Thee in the Pulpit ſtand, Declaring Truth, with Bible in thy Hand: Methinks I ſee Him, with a jeſture, Look Upon his Bible, that moſt Holy Book, The Word of God, the which he did their Preach, 'Twas his Delight it always for to Teach; Therefore, I ſay, have not we got great Cauſe To 'dore his Name, and his good Works Applauſe. Rouze up, Rouze up, and lend's ſome of your Tears, For that we've loſt him, it too plain appears; How can ye thus ſo eaſie part with one, Who S • udied always Satan to Unthrone; And pull him out of all our wicked Hearts, This was the Labour and chiefeſt parts Of this Divine, who always ſtrove for all, Thouſands of times, he did upon them Call Unto Repentance, e're his Glaſs was Run, But now it's out, and his whole Thread is ſpun: The ſtring of Life and he is forc'd to fall, By th' H • nd of Death that fatal General; Who ſpareth none, the Good, the Bad he'll have, And ſend them quickly to the ſilent Grave: And leave us hear, to Weep with Floods of Tears, For Famous MEAD, who (Chriſt) taught many Years: But now let's Mourn and ſay, Times Glaſs is out, And with his Sithe with him hath had about, And juſt like Graſs, with it did Mow him down, Whilſt we, who do Survive him, needs muſt own, We loſt a Paſtor, whom I can't ſet forth, A Precious Member of a greater worth; Than Ophir's Gold, or any Riches here: Few, few there are that with him can compare, But bid Farewel to a Chearful Harmony, And with me Tune his Doleful Elegy. In a good Age from us he hence departed, And left his wandring Sheep quite broken-hearted, For loſs of Him, whoſe Years were Sixty Nine, He left the Earth, and up to Heaven did Clime. And here his Aged Wife, ſhe does bemoan The Death of her Good Husband, Holy One, A Man of God, whom God did call and chuſe On Earth, his Holy Books her's for to uſe. Methinks I ſee his People for him weep, And Floods of Tears run trickling down the Cheek, Of his moſt vertuous Wife, who God poſſeſt, And with good Children Eight he hath her bleſt; Five Sons ſhe bore him, likewiſe Daughters Three, All which he left Weeping this Day to ſee. His Wife, ſhe was of a moſt Noble Race, Vertue abounds with, and with Heavenly Grace, So Generous, ſo Noble, and ſo Free, So Courteous is likewiſe to all ſhe ſee. And here his Children, they poor Babes, behold His worthy Carcaſs, and their Hands unfold, With weeping Tears, and naſhing Teeth, they cry 'Gainſt Death, their Father's furious Enemy. And here his Congregation came at laſt, Wiſhing they could have had the other Blaſt, From this their Paſtor, who is gone to be With his Great Maſter in Felicity. Oh Cruel Death, what makes you take ſo faſt Away our Doctors, who the Word ſhould caſt Of God unto them, who is heard to ſay We do Lament that Death he took away From us ſome Preachers, but the other Day, As Famous Bates, and Gammon, he did ſtrike, Now Holy Mead, he hath ſerv'd him the like, But this you took and he muſt ever be Sitting with Angels to Eternity. Therefore, ſtay Death, I pray now come not here, So boldly thus, our Preachers for to clear; Who would diſpence the Holy Word of God, And to Declare the Truth of Moſe's Rod, But ſince their gone, we will not Weep no more, In hopes we've left their Fellows ſtill good ſtore, Which Chriſt I hope, he will preſerve and keep From Death's bold Hands, who doth them Daily ſeek. So let them go, their Works will ſerve to be, Our Devotion and Good Company, And ſerve the Name of God his Maſter great, And to the World his Word he did relate, But now in Heaven he doth Praiſes Sing, With a loud Voice to his Coeleſtial King, And ſince Death ſeiz'd him, let him ever lye, In Heaven above, whilſt ſome do for him Cry: He from the Earth is gone, ever to be, Upon the Throne with his great Majeſty.