On the death of Mr Calamy, not known to the author of a long time after. Wild, Robert, 1609-1679. 1667 Approx. 8 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A96486 Wing W2144 ESTC R35250 15087718 ocm 15087718 171567 This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A96486) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 171567) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1581:24 and 2575:19 or 21241:29) On the death of Mr Calamy, not known to the author of a long time after. Wild, Robert, 1609-1679. 1 sheet ([1] p.). [s.n.], London, : printed in the year 1667. In verse. Attributed to Wild by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints. Item at reel position 2575:19 incorrectly identified as Wing (2nd ed.) P2691. Item at reel position 1581:24 is a reproduction of the original in the Harvard University Library. Item at reel position 2575:19 is a reproduction of the original in the Society of Antiquaries. Item at reel position 2124.1:29 is a reproduction of the original in the British Library. Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford. Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. 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Users should bear in mind that in all likelihood such instances will never have been looked at by a TCP editor. The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines. Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements). Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site . eng Calamy, Edmund, 1600-1666 -- Poetry. Broadsides -- England -- 17th century. 2007-06 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2007-06 Apex CoVantage Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2008-01 John Pas Sampled and proofread 2008-01 John Pas Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-02 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion ON THE Death of Mr Calamy , Not known to the Author of a long time after . ANd must our Deaths be silenc'd too ! I guess 'T is some dumb Devil hath possest the Press ; Calamy dead without a Publication ! 'T is great injustice to our English Nation : For had this Prophet's Funeral been known , It must have had an Universal Groan ; Afflicted London would then have been found In the same year to be both burn'd and drown'd ; And those who found no Tears their flames to quench , Would yet have wept a Showre , his Herse to drench . Methinks the Man who stuffs the Weekly Sheet , With fine New-Nothings , what hard Names did meet . The Emp'ress , how her Petticoat was lac'd , And how her Lacquyes Liveries were fac'd ; What 's her chief Woman's Name ; what Dons do bring Almonds and Figs to Spain's great little King : Is much concern'd if the Pope's Toe but akes , When he breaks Wind , and when a Purge he takes ; He who can gravely advertise , and tell Where Lockier and Rowland Pippin dwell ; Where a Black-Box or Green-Bag was lost ; And who was Knighted , though not what it cost : Methinks he might have thought it worth the while , Though not to tell us who the State beguile , Or what new Conquest England hath acquired ; Nor that poor Trifle who the City fired ; Though not how Popery exalts its head , And Priests and Jesuits their poyson spread ; Yet in swoln Characters he might let fly , The Presbyterians have lost an Eye . Had Crack — 's Fiddle been in tune , ( but he Is now a Silenc'd Man as well as We ) He had struck up loud Musick , and had play'd A Jig for joy that Calamy was laid ; He would have told how many Coaches went ; How many Lords and Ladies did lament ; What Handkerchiefs were sent , and in them Gold To wipe the Widows eyes , he would have told ; All had come out , and we beholden all To him , for the o'reflowing of his gall . But why do I thus Rant without a cause ? Is not Concealment Policy ? whose Laws My silly peevish Muse doth ill t' oppose For publick Losses no Man should disclose ; And such was this , a greater loss by far , One Man of God then twenty Men of War ; It was a King , who when a Prophet dy'd , Wept over him , and Father , Father cry'd . O if thy Life and Ministry be done My Chariots and Horsemen , strength is gone . I must speak sober words , for well I know If Saints in Heaven do hear us here below , A lye , though in his Praise , would make him frown , And chide me when with Jesus he comes down To judge the World. — This little little He , This silly , sickly , silenc'd Calamy , Aldermanbury's Curate , and no more , Though he a mighty Miter might have wore , Could have vi'd Interest in God or Man , With the most pompous Metropolitan : How have we known him captivate a throng , And made a Sermon twenty thousand strong ; And though black-mouths his Loyalty did charge , How strong his tug was at the Royal Barge , To hale it home , great GEORGE can well attest , Then when poor Prelacy lay dead in its nest ; For if a Collect could not fetch him home , Charles must stay out , that Interest was mum . Nor did Ambition of a Miter , make Him serve the Crown , it was for Conscience sake . Unbrib'd Loyalty ! his highest reach Was so be Master Calamy , and preach . He bless'd the King , who Bishop him did name , And I bless him who did refuse the same . O! had our Reverend Clergy been as free To serve their Prince without Reward , as he , They might have had less Wealth with greater love : Envy , like Winds , endangers things above ; Worth , not Advancement , doth beget esteem . The highest Weathercock the least doth seem . If you would know of what disease he dy'd , His grief was Chronical it is reply'd . For had he opened been by Surgeons art , They had found London burning in his heart ; How many Messengers of death did he Receive with Christian Magnanimity ! The Stone , Gout , Dropsie , Ills , which did arise From Griefs and Studies , not from Luxuries ; The Megrim too which still strikes at the Head , These He stood under , and scarce staggered Might he but work , though loaded with these Chains , He Pray'd and Preach'd , and sung away his pains ; Then by a fatal Bill he was struck dead , And though that blow he ne're recovered , ( For he remained speechless to his close ) Yet did he breath , and breath out Prayers for those From whom he had that wound : he liv'd to hear An Hundred thousand buried in one year In his Dear City , over which he wept , And many Fasts to keep off Judgments , kept ; Yet , yet he liv'd , stout heart he liv'd , to be Depriv'd , driven out , kept out , liv'd to see Wars , Blazing-Stars , Torches which Heaven ne're burns , But to light Kings or Kingdoms to their Urns. He lived to see the Glory of our Isle , London consumed in its Funeral pile . He liv'd to see that lesser day of Doom , London , the Priests Burnt-sacrifice to Rome ; That blow he could not stand , but with that fire As with a Burning Fever did expire . This dy'd this Saint , of whom it must be said , He dy'd a Martyr , though he dy'd in 's bed . So Father Ely in the Sacred page Sat quivering with fear as much as age , Longing to know , yet loth to ask the News How it far'd with the Army of the Jews . Israel flies , that struck his Palsie-head , The next blow stunned him , Your Sons are dead ; But when the third stroke came , The Ark is lost , His heart was wounded , and his life it cost . Thus fell this Father , and we well do know He fear'd our Ark was going long ago . The EPITAPH . HEre a poor Minister of Christ doth lie , Who did INDEED a Bishoprick deny . When his Lord comes , then , then , the World shall see Such humble Ones , the rising-Men shall be : How many Saints whom he had sent before , Shouted to see him enter Heavens door : There his blest Soul beholds the face of God , While we below groan out our Ichabod : Vnder his burned-Church his Body lies , But shall it self a glorious Temple rise ; May his kind flock when a new Church they make , Call it St. Edmundsbury for his sake . London , Printed in the Year 1667.