DIRECTIONS TO FAME, ABOUT AN ELEGY On the Late Deceased Thomas Thynn, Esq AND AN EULOGY On other most Famous English Worthies.  
By an Unknown Author.  
— It Fama per Orbem  
LONDON, Printed by J. S. and are to be Sold by Richard Baldwin, in the Old-Baily, 1682.   

TO THE Lady OGLE, The Supposed RELICT OF THE LATE DECEASED Thomas Thynn. Esquire.  
Madam,  
To You these Verses I Address;  
Addresses are the Mode, if they express  
Abhorrence of a late Association:  
How should I then exceed that part o'th' Nation,  
Unless I do abhor their cursed design;  
Who the Great Thynn to Murder did combine?  
I may the same Addressors' Copy own,  
The Reason why I trouble you unknown:  
If they, to show their Loyalty and Love,  
By late Addressing to the Powers above,  
Did not themselves too too officious prove:  
Why should I think your goodness would refuse,  
At least, to pardon this my humble Muse  
For her Attempt, the Great Thynn's Memory  
To Consecrate unto Eternity?  
To whom could She with greater Right apply  
Herself, then unto You; who may be thought  
The Accidental Cause, that Famed Thynn brought  
To his untimely Death? Whom for your Friend,  
She hopes you'll own; were it but for his end?  
How Ill! Enjoyment thus to be denied;  
To have the shadow only of a Bride!  
Hard Fate of Man! That being a Slave to's Word,  
And scorning to be false to his accord,  
Occasion thence should rise, that to his Life,  
The period puts. The Angry Sister's Knife  
Can nought withhold, from cutting of the thread?  
Hardhearted (Destinys!) to Write Thynn dead!  
Yet so it is. Such the event may prove,  
When they, whose Age hath quashed all thoughts of Love,  
Attempt by needless promises to bind  
Lovers from that, to which they're most inclined.  
As if Engagements altar could the mind,  
And Youthful Heats be by such Bonds confined.  
We know that Love doth to its Centre tend:  
Fruition is the longing Lovers end.  
Would Old Age than this, as Youth's Error mend?  
Tho' you refused the Great Thynn in his Life,  
For your Espoused to own, yourself his Wife;  
Yet now he's dead, you need no scruple make,  
Were it but for the promised Jointures sake.  
Your Pardon, Madam, I again Implore,  
To you I have one small Petition more:  
Petitions to a Lady, I do hope,  
Will not by Tory be abhorred, nor Pope.  
When some great Hero shall you next time Wed,  
Let joyful Hymen lead you both to Bed.  
I doubt not but you'll take this in good part,  
Well followed it may please you to the heart.  
Wives pleased by Night are likely so by Day;  
And then no fear that they will run away.  
Besides, that danger is bred by delay,  
Youth's Blooming hopes with Patience cannot stay.  
Your hopes therefore too long do not defer;  
So humbly Prays your poor Petitioner.   

DIRECTIONS TO FAME, etc.  

THou Daughter of the Sphere, thou Voice of Air,  
See that to me thou hither straight repair;  
Some few Directions I have Thee to give,  
That English Worthy's Names may ever live.   

First, Put thy Trumpet to thy Mouth, and sound  
A shrill, a loud, a long Note all around,  
From heavens high Arch to Places under Ground:  
That all the Nations of the World may hear  
Thy Trumpet's Voice. See that thy Sound be clear.  
Now take a little Breath. Well! So begin,  
And loudly found the Name of the Great Thynn,  
Prince Thynn, Tom of Ten Thousands; whose great Mind,  
Not in one Town, Hundred, or Shire confined,  
Sought his whole Country's Good; both far and near  
A Patriot famed. See that thou blow this clear.  
Then breath a while. Well! Now begin again,  
And sound forth Baseness of ungrateful Men:  
How some him hated, how some angry were;  
Some him opposed, nor could his Merit bear;  
How his just Praises some abhorred to hear,  
Because a Patriot true he did appear.  
Take breath again: Then blow, how others just  
Were to his Worth, and in him placed their Trust;  
And loved, admired, adored this Patriot true:  
Sound therefore forth his Praises; 'tis his due.   

For thy next Task, Great Monmouth's Glory take,  
Which more than ten or twelve great Blasts may make.  
Take therefore Breath; then loudly trumpet forth  
This Martial Hero, Monmouth's matchless Worth;  
For Valour famed Abroad, well known at Home;  
Of Protestant's beloved, and feared of Rome.  
Sound forth his Glory gained in Foreign Wars;  
A Soldiers Wounds are honourable Scars:  
How he at Maestrich-Seige got great Renown,  
And how he twice for Lewis won the Town.  
Let the famed Battle of Mons his Valour sound;  
Where Orange, by his Aid; of France got Ground.  
Tell how the Name of Monmouth ran before,  
To us being echoed from the Belgick-Shore;  
Which, at's Arrival, made us straight adore,  
And every day admire him more and more.  
So that, for all the late Court-Reformation,  
He still doth live the Darling of the Nation.  
Then next, resound his Progress in the West,  
Where the Great Thynn for him kept constant Feast:  
How Multitudes, Hundreds, and Thousands strong,  
Men, Women, Children, numberless did throng,  
To see Great Monmouth, as he passed along:  
How Gentry, Yeomen, flock at his Renown,  
To welcome him into each Country Town:  
How Men admire, the Women him approve;  
And each Sex strive, who should him show most love.  
From Avon's Bank to Middl'ton's River sound,  
And let it back to Exeter rebound.  
His Oxford-Journey echoed loud from Isis,  
Along the curling Waves of proud Thamisis,  
Relate; and what great Joy did fill the Town,  
Whilst all spoke of our Monmouth's high Renown.  
Monmouth & Thynn, those two great Names of Worth,  
Together joined, a lovely Pair sound forth.   

Next, Shaftsbury may make more than a Blast,  
Or two, or ten; his Wisdom, Judgement vast,  
His politic Head, his thinking Mind, his Care  
For King and Country, all Themes noble are,  
Which would require to show thy Art most rare.  
Canst thou desire a larger Field for Art?  
Mine to Direct, to Perfect is thy Part.  
Come Trumpeter, show us thy greatest Skill,  
Breath, and thy blubby Cheeks with fresh Air fill.  
What's Great mix not with mean. I would have none  
To him a Pillar raise of Common Stone.  
Birth, Riches, Honours, Parts, and Worldly State,  
Are gifts to many Men dispensed by Fate.  
Give me the man, Usurper's fear and dread,  
That him must court, and use, yet wish him dead.  
Now, now thy Skill, thou Daughter of the Sphere,  
Here's one great Stone his Pillar for to rear.  
From Towns 'tis not uncommon to be sent,  
Or Shires, (so many are) to Parliament.  
But Is the Man of Three Names also chose,  
For Noll to ask: What eminence this shows?  
Noll was too wise to dread mean, common Foes.  
When late Usurping Powers were tumbling down,  
How many then returned to help the Crown?  
Great Charles restore, that he might all Command:  
The common Act of almost the whole Land.  
But where's the few, who owned him in Exile,  
When Cromwel's Iron Rod ruled all the Isle?  
Yet some there were, and Thousands too perchance,  
That Loved him, tho' (Exiled) he lived in France.  
This many boast. But where's the Manof Sense,  
Who him preserved by his Intelligence?  
Who dared to own, tho' secretly, his Cause,  
For which he must by the usurper's Laws  
Assuredly have died, had it been known,  
And for the King's Life saved have lost his own?  
But two Stones more this Pillar up to raise  
May serve, a lasting Trophy to his praise.  
By parts, and Virtue, from Gentility,  
To be raised up unto Nobility,  
Is not unusual, or a thing so rare,  
But that in Story Instances there are.  
But for a Subject to have on him thrown,  
From King and Country's Enemies, and his own,  
The utmost of their Spleen, Wrath, Malice, Rage,  
How rare? scarce such an Instance in an Age.  
How great's that Man, whose very Enemies  
Would lavish for his Life so great a prize,  
As Credit, Honour, Bodies, Souls, Estate,  
So he might fall a Victim to their hate?  
And why such hate to the Great Shaftsbury?  
'Tis plain, they are afraid our Liberty  
They shall not be enabled to destroy,  
As long ' as Charles, and He their Lives Enjoy.   

One great Stone more can we but now procure,  
'Twill be enough; and if of Signature  
Royal, so much the better still. Come, Fame,  
Search thy Records, turn unto Shaftsbury's Name.  
knowst not where ' 'tis? Search one of th' highest Rooms  
Within thy Temple, 'mongst the Great men's dooms.  
There, there! Turn o'er the Leaves of that great Book,  
And for the Name in Capital Letters look.  
Hast found it? Well! What stands there on Record?  
What's the report thou mad'st of the King's Word?  
What did Great Charles say of this Noble Lord?  
Speak boldly: Shaftsbury Me out would bring,  
When I am into Trouble brought. What thing  
Can greater be, than thus t'oblige a King?  
Are these the very words? I'm sure the sense  
Is not mistake, if true th'Intelligence.  
Fly then, ye Slanderers, from Pulpit, Court,  
From Church, from State, thither no more resort.  
Go to, go to, ye Statesmen, that pretend  
The Government (but Tinker-like) to mend.  
One hole to stop, but two, ten, twenty make;  
Who'll this for Policy, Craft or Prudence take?  
To praise your little selves, some scribbling Pen  
Gold Over can hire, and dispraise greater Men.  
Much of that Authors Rate, who lately writ  
Of Absalon, and Achitophel's great wit.  
How easy 'tis; nor is't a thing so rare,  
For Poets to cry up, when they compare  
A Pigmy Mushroom to a great Man's Name;  
And that's the Poet's, not his Hero's Fame.  
He, who can bring Eclipses on the Stage,  
His Muse can suit to this, and the last Age,  
Can his Play's Epilogues so dexterous make,  
As for his Prologues some may them mistake:  
And with more readiness his Prologues turn  
To Epilogues, than for's Religion burn.  
How easily these Hero's of his Pen,  
Of Mushrooms may he fancy into Men?  
The sooner, if by Sonnets he did more,  
Than Pious Priests could ever do before,  
And to Religion turned his own dear Whore.  
So rare an Art, perchance, might fill his Mind  
With Thoughts unfitting, much above his Kind;  
And make him think, 'twas easy for his Verse  
Heroes to raise, and whom he pleased depress.  
He, who out of the Quagmire of his Brain,  
Can start up David's Harp to Charles' Wain;  
With how great Ease, even as the Maggot works,  
He may Christians fancy Pagans, Jews, or Turks?  
His Hackney-Muse for some great Dame might pass,  
Would we but view her Face in the false Glass  
Of his own Fancy: But since she road Post,  
Old Noll, because Victorious, to accost;  
And still perhaps, for Gold, would court his Ghost.  
What can we think her but a Prostitute,  
Who doth to change herself so often suit?  
No wonder then, that she doth represent  
Men from themselves, and Truth quite different.  
So in the Jaundice, oft things Yellow show,  
And from false Optics, Species false do flow.  
But when State-storms shall wipe these Colours off,  
How mean she'll look, beneath each Footboys Scoff?  
Then Priest-craft might the Poet please again;  
Instead of Rhyming Plays, the Country-Swain  
Doctrine to teach and use, with Application,  
Enough to ravish the whole Rhyming Nation.  
Then might the Bays become Canonical,  
And Laurel grow upon the Churches Wall.  
How pretty would it be, to see Apollo  
To hasten thither, and his long Train follow  
Of Poets, Poetasters, and the Muses?  
How would they hearken to the Poet's Uses?  
To see fair Chloris, and the lovely Philis,  
The Shepherd Damon, the sweet Amaryllis,  
With her Amintor, come in hand and hand,  
And to the preaching Poet listening stand?  
How rare would this be? Oh, the blessed Time,  
To hear the Bells Poetic Music chime!  
And then the Sermon too might be in Rhyme.  
To see the Garlands hanging, and the Wreaths,  
The Pulpit stuck with Bays, from whence he breathes  
Soft gentle Whispers on the Rhimers under;  
And then the Cushion Thumps, and so does thunder  
In sharp Reproofs, Corrects their Poetry,  
Shows where their mounting fancy soars too high,  
And where their humble muse too low doth fly;  
And then (like Learned Preacher) makes Digression  
With little wit, less shame, and no Discretion;  
Our great Men's Lives to satyrize pretends,  
And so with railing, 'stead of Blessing ends.  
How soon would then drink-Water Poets eat  
Parnassus, and unto his Sermon Run?  
How well this Priest would suit unto his Nun;  
Should he take that time to preach up the Pope,  
And Christian Bells? but then beware the Rope.  
For such bold pranks would hardly scape the Laws.  
" Nought then would serve to prop his tottering cause.  
His Holy Water, though drawn from the stream  
That gently flows from the feigned Hipparene;  
Would not the devil-a-Beadle keep away  
Nor thunder from the Laurel nor from Bay  
The Lightning: while the Amorous David lives,  
And to Religion's Laws full vigour gives.  
Whilst Noble Shaftsbury stands Armour proof,  
Let Wether rise, or winds blow ne'er so rough.  
So solid is his Truth, his Loyalty,  
It needs no Art its worth to magnify,  
Muchless can Hackney-Pens it Vilify.  
What thinkest now, Fame? where some great Architect  
Shall we procure, this Pillar to Erect?  
The grand Materials thou seest ready there,  
Where's then the Master-Builder it to rear?  
But now, I think; we need not so much care  
For Tools or Workmen; the Stones ready are.  
What matter is't, tho' they be roughly hewn?  
The solid firmness will be better shown.  
The Work commends th' Artificer, not the Stone.  
That pleases most, which is most natural:  
These Stones than cast together, as they fall,  
So let them lie, they cannot fall amiss:  
That Truth is best, which plain, and artless, is.  
Who  a lasting Trophy would erect,  
Materials good, and sound, he doth expect:  
Not Tinsel ware, guilt o'er, when nought lies under,  
But base vile trash; this ne'er will make a wonder.  
Famed Artless Stonehenge on the Wiltshire-plains,  
Is more admired among the Western Swains,  
Than the carved Heads, however so natural,  
Which they at Christmas see in Landlords Hall.  
Unto the Learned likewise I appeal,  
Whether of Nature this doth not reveal  
More, and of wonder, than Mausolus' Tomb,  
Or Egypt's Pyramids. I'll stand their Doom.  
Were cried-up Dryden Judge, I need not care.  
Here's not vile stuff, nor Counterfeited ware,  
Used, this Triumphant Pillar for to rear.  
Such leave to him, who with false weights of late,  
The Medal weighed, that when he would create  
Some guilded Fop into a Man of State;  
He may have where-withal the doughty piece  
To deck, and so fetch home the Golden Fleece.  
What matter is't how little Truth be writ,  
So that there be the Varnish of some wit?  
And yellow Boys have sound paid for it.  
These charmers make his Spirit of Poetry come;  
So Peterpences can Bless, or Curse, from Rome.  
Small Honesty, less Truth, and little wit  
For some men's Fame will make a Poet fit,  
Out of no worth great praises to create,  
And then an Hero make, not made by Fate;  
Deed great enough for Poet Lawreate.  
But if in Helicon these be the Laws  
Apollo makes, who would espouse his Cause?  
Who but a true Conformist in all ways,  
To what is uppermost, through all his days.  
Let no man envy then the Poet's Bays;  
Who, that he might not a Dissenter prove,  
Seems by his Acts resolved to fall in Love  
With this lose Age's Vices, Whoring, Drinking,  
Lewd Railing, Scribbling much, and little thinking,  
With Huffing, Roaring, Ranting, Damning, Sinking.  
But let him like his fancied Frogs croak on,  
And 'stead of Medals, writ Sedition;  
Until, by his own croaking sound, and ta'en,  
He live a Slave to some proud Tory Crane,  
And for him then small Panegyrics frame.  
So now to's Frog-like croaking leave him, Fame,  
(The generous Eagle scorns so mean a Game,)  
And let's return to our great Man of Name:  
To whom this Pillar, of choice Stones prepared,  
To future Ages lasting thou hast reared.  
'Tis Marble true, that stands both Wind and Wether,  
Tho Rain, Hail, Snow, in Storms come all together.  
Now, Fame, thy utmost aid I do Implore,  
To fill each Isle, each Creek, each Nook, each Shore,  
With Shaftsbury's great Name. What canst thou more?  
O'er Hills, o'er Dales, o'er Desert Plains it sound,  
And when it shall have passed the whole World round,  
Let it's loud Echo back to us rebound.   

His Seconds, Howard, Grey, and Cav'ndish Name,  
And not forget some other Nobles Fame,  
Kent, Essex, Wharton, Lovelace, Buckingham,  
With Salisbury, and other Famous Lords,  
Whose Names and Merits swell up thy Records:  
Famed Patriots, not in late Poets sense,  
" As those who would by Law supplant their Prince;  
But such, whose wishes are to have Charles Great,  
That He might ever fill his Father's Seat  
With as great Lustre, Majesty and Honour,  
As fit it is to ask of the Great Donor.   

Hold now, retire to fetch more breath; and then  
Sound forth our Commons, true, Old English Men,  
Who would not sell their Country's Right for Gold,  
Their names, their worth, their number should be told;  
Couldst thou but promise me thy breath would hold:  
However sound in gen'ral their Renown;  
They are well known in Country, and in Town.   

In the next place, to wish who can forbear,  
The praise of Old, and of New Shrieves to hear,  
In London famed Triumphant? Sound this clear.  
Famed Bethel, Cornish, Pilkington, and Shute;  
Men of Great Souls, great Worth, and great Repute:  
Whom Favour could not bribe, nor fear compel,  
Their Privilege to betray, nor Birthright sell;  
The Glories of our English Israel;  
Who in the Breach, 'gainst all Opposers, stand  
The City's Bulwark, Safeguard of the Land,  
Under Our Faith's Defender, whom we find  
His Subjects to protect by Law inclined?  
Who as their own, espouse their Country's Cause,  
And would not Juries pack, to wrest the Laws?  
Tho' Hackney-Pens should Innocence defame,  
False Plots against good Patriots could Frame,  
And Irish Evidence would Swear the same;  
Yet these brave Men would highly scorn to Join,  
Against Just Right, and second their design;  
Tho' other Powers against them should Combine;  
They fear not great men's Threats, nor Mulct, nor Fine.  
Let nemies reproach, ill Tongues revile,  
By basest Acts, by Bribes, by Fraud and Guile,  
Condemn the Innocent, the Guilty quit,  
And make Law speak, Just as they would have it,  
Then ring the Bells, and Huzza-Healths drink round,  
Undaunted Shrieves shall always stand their ground,  
And be, in spite of Malice, Honest found.  
The Country shall them laud, the City Sing  
Of their high praise: how Loyal to their King,  
How great, how good, how faithful to the State?  
See, Fame, that thou to all do this relate.  
Lift up thy Voice, and thy whole force unite,  
Sound, and resound their praise with all thy might.  
Let all the Echo of thy Trumpet hear,  
In London, and all Places far and near,  
That to their Merit all may Trophies rear.  
Another blast make of Great London's Glory,  
So Famed in Ancient and in Modern Story:  
London, that Planet fixed, which doth dispense  
All o'er the Nation its grand Influence.  
But pass not o'er the good Lord Mayor Show;  
For some were good, and some were bad, we know.  
Good men's great Deeds sound forth, as faithful, true  
'Slight such, whose Actions say, they slighted you.   

Hold here. Refrain. Take breath, and so return  
To the great Thynn, for whom we now must moum.  
Thy Trumpet veil in Cypress, as 'tis due,  
And put on Mourning Weeds of sable Hue.  
But first let's hear thee make a doleful Tone,  
Most lively to express a dying Groan,  
The City sighs, Friends cry, and Country's moan.  
Hold there, and stop. What Marble can forbear  
For Thynn's untimely Death to drop a tear?  
Unto his Memory Thousands are to small  
A Tribute to be paid: Let's pay him all.  
Hold, hold; lest that the Sluices of our Eyes  
Pulled up, so great a Deluge should arise,  
The Cataracts being open, as to drown  
All places near, in Country, and in Town;  
So great his Merit was, such his Renown.  
Or grief renewed, our hearts should faster bleed,  
Than he, who suffered, or, who did the deed.  
In Mourning clad, see that thou next refound  
In Heaven, in Earth, and Regions under ground,  
Great Thynn's sad Murder, in a mournful tone,  
Enough to make the World's Foundation groan.  
Above, below, and in each dead Man's Cell,  
Of Thynn's fate let thy Trumpets Echo tell.  
Now here leave off a space, to get more breath,  
That thou may'st sound more loud the great Thynn's Death  
But then involve in dark obscurity  
The Actors of this direful Tragedy:  
Let their's be the perpetual Infamy.  
Of these men's horrid Names no mention make,  
Let them sink deep, as Led, in Lethe Lake.  
Let their Memorials fret like cankered rust,  
And perish in the Earth's oblivious dust.  
That fatal shot, by which great Thynn did die,  
May ever serve to blast their Memory.  
When these base strangers to his Coach drew near,  
How little did he his own Murder fear?  
Of such a treacherous Act who thought to hear?  
Three Men to come well armed, what valiant skill  
Showed it one single Man, unarmed, to kill?  
But such we find was the designed intent,  
To shoot, to kill, to fly, 'twas this was meant:  
For this were these vile Murderers hired and sent.  
And with too great success alas—  
Who is't can choose but weep? But now refrain  
We must, and from our griefs some respite gain,  
These Murderers to seek. Here sound Thynn's Friend,  
Great Monmouth, who proved so unto his end.  
Unto his Diligence sound praises due,  
The Murder to Revenge. Friendship most true,  
A dying Friend's cursed Murderers to pursue!  
Just his Resentments, Laudable his Zeal,  
Those to detect, who friendships common-weal  
Strove to destroy; who would a Sacrifice  
Of all that's good, make to their Avarice.  
Stop here a while, and next sound forth the sense,  
We all should have, of a just Providence.  
That when themselves secure the Murderers thought;  
They were found out, and unto Justice brought.  
Next Carols loudly sound to Charles the good,  
So careful to Revenge his Subject's blood;  
He would not favour grant, nor pardon give,  
But was resolved, that they should Die, or Live,  
As Law required, as Justice did Command:  
So may Great Charles for ever Rule the Land.  
A little pause; and then to all Men sound,  
What punishment these base offenders found.  
How the three Actors in this Tragedy,  
Were doomed to Death, and by the Rope did die.  
As for the Principal, he's not thought clear,  
Tho' some him quitted. Sound this far and near.  
What must thy next blast be? Stay, take some breath;  
How doleful is't to think of great Thynn's Death?  
But sadder than still to hear the doleful sound  
The great Thynn's Corpse is putting under ground.  
However order keep. Publish his Doth,  
Thynn, Thynn, Thynn, sound thrice, and so take breath.  
Thynn's Dead, and to be buried. Doleful story.  
What's now become of all this great Man's Glory?  
His sad Fate tell's us, all is Transitory.  
Next sound the Funeral Pomp, sad Obsequies,  
(Badges as great of grief as Elegies)  
The Streamers, Scutch'ons, and black Mourners throng,  
With silence how profound all past along,  
The Mournful Grandeure, and the solemn State,  
Wherein the Corpse (as was decreed by Fate)  
Was carried to the Abbey. Next resound,  
How great Thynn's Corpse they laid in Sacred Ground  
Then make one blast of the great Monument,  
Which, we do trust, it is his Friend's intent  
In Westminster soon to erect a shrine  
Fit to contain Thynn's Relics most Divine.  
While we do hope, from Earth is fled his Soul,  
His better part, and far above the Pole  
Being mounted, happy is, and fully blest,  
From Toil Grief, Trouble, Eternally to rest,  
Thus I direct thee for Thynn's Elegy,  
To sound his just praise to Eternity.  
Next I direct Thee Fame, thy Voice to raise,  
And Trumpet forth those English Worthies praise,  
Whose Names so precious are in these our days.  
Throughout their Lives may Honour them attend,  
And their Immortal Glory know no end.  
Mine is the wish, thou Daughter of the Sphere  
Thine is the Part to sound them far and near.  
Sum up their praises all in one long blast,  
Ten Hundred Thousand Ages for to last,  
And sound them forth? while I Thynn's Mournful Hearse:  
(The most that I can do) deck with this Verse.   
Here Lies Great Thynn, Gentile in Birth, no Lord,  
Yet more by us, than some such Names, Adored.  
His Country ask, if you would know his Life;  
If of his Death, go, ask his unkind Wife.  
FINIS.