ELEGIES On the much Lamented Death of the Honourable and Worthy Patriot, FRANCIS PIEREPONT, Esq. Third Son of the Right Honourable ROBERT, EARL OF KINGSTON, Who died at Nottingham the 30 th'. day of january, 1657/8.  
Printed in the Year 1659.   


TO THE HONOURABLE THE LADY Alisamon Pierepont.  
MADAM,  
WHen Debtors all have brought their hasty Crop,  
You well may wonder at my tedious stop:  
I'm angry at myself, and think to pay,  
But strait an inward whisper bids me stay.  
'Tis conscience tells me that I own too much;  
Great Debts are slow, and mine I'm sure is such.  
This Tortoise pace is properly my own,  
Who in this kind can show no currant coin.  
Nature lent me not one propitious Muse,  
And since I had the Schools farewel, I use  
With Poets at no time to hold commerce:  
'Tis indignation now, that dictates Verse.  
What may seem sharp, let then imputed be  
To that unruly Passion, not to me.  
What's dull and flat, you may call truly mine;  
That is the mark which proves it genuine.  
If ought be thought, beyond the Moon; know I  
A Star for subject have, that's pierced the sky.  
Then take them, Madam, read, weigh, and excuse;  
If others snarl, and censure, say but thus,  
The Author tempts his Stars beyond their light,  
To offer up a Duty in my sight,  
Who knows his obligations, and must say,  
All falls fare short of what He ought to pay.  
O. P.   

MEMORIAE VIRI ILLUSTRIS FRANCISCI PIEREPONT, Nobilitate, doctrinâ, pietate, suavitate-morum, & fortunâ florenti.  
O Nulli proavis & nobilitate secunde!  
Sed placida cunctis humilitate minor,  
I sursum, magno dextram conjunge Magistro,  
Quo major nullus humiliorque fuit.  
Qui potuit miro summus licet incremento  
Humilitate suum nobilitare decus.  
Te Domini mites animos, moresque secutum  
Haud dubie Domini gloria dia beat.  
Summo virtutis ejus admiratori apposuit Ludovicus Molinaeus, Historiarum Professor.   

Upon the sensible loss of the Honourable FRANCIS PIEREPONT, Esq. who departed hence Jan. 30th. 1657.  

BLUsh! Blush remorseless Parcae! Was not your Names  
Antiphrasis confirmed enough, till Fame's  
Sad Trumpet tells the World, a Potentate,  
A Pillar of the Church, a Prop of State  
Is wholly sunk? Forced by what fatal Must,  
Cut you at once the thread of Great, Good, Just?  
This speaks your envy to Mankind, for we  
Can draw by Him Virtues Epitome.  
List; worst of the three Daughters of the Night;  
I must proclaim thy everlasting spite.  
The hast robbed me of a Noble, Learned Friend,  
With whom no precious hour I e'er could spend,  
But some increase of Knowledge in me wrought,  
Some favour heaped, or else some Virtue taught.  
For would I what was vain and idle fly?  
'Twas then enough to keep him company.  
Was Good my thirst? His Soul did it display  
By a most gentle, and familiar way:  
And in His noble body thus enshrined,  
Nobility itself hath far outshined.  
He sucked no Sophisms from the Schools, to raise  
Sins Darklanthorn, our purblind Reason's praise  
(That Ignis fatuus, which 'twixt Good and Bad,  
Cursed Mortals in a mist hath always led.)  
Above the Soul's essential Faculty,  
That bright, first-breathed Lamp of Innocency:  
But did eclipse the Badge of humane fall  
With Science purely Intellectual,  
Which owned God's Type, and in His Cask of Clay  
Enjoyed the Virgin Light of its first day.  
His private Alms he always strove to smother,  
One hand in them was stranger to its Brother:  
His public Deed's but a Record to show  
What Governors of Hospitals should do;  
Improve the Patrimony of the Poor,  
Not pocket up their Rents, but give them more.  
He taught, not bound His Offspring Charity,  
Who then's herself when in full Liberty.  
Would Rich men then in Pierepoint's footsteps tread,  
The poor need not to ask or , or bread.  
He could Astraea's Sword directly wield,  
Knew whom to punish with it, whom to shield.  
The Balance He 'twixt all could evenly poise,  
To charm their discord, and their jarring noise.  
He loved the ancient Scripture-Hierarchy,  
The Ruling-Elder with's Presbytery:  
But when high Northern blasts by th' root had torn  
Those ever-virid Yews, and almost born  
The tottering Temple down; He helped to shroud  
Their naked Members under Jonah's Gourd.  
And i'th' spite of Critics, He'd rather bear  
A Solecism in Church, (Lay-Presbyter)  
Then see it, Monsterlike, without a Head.   

But now He's Dead! that Pious man is Dead!  
Dead did I say? Oh false Opinion!  
Pure Gold's not subject to corruption.  
The skilful Artist to delude the eye,  
Can, by a mixture of crude Mercury,  
Turn it to dust; and with as easy sleight,  
By Vulcan's help, cast it again more bright:  
But though he sweat, puff, blow, and try his all,  
He finds that body Homogeneal.  
Call then the Sons of Art, they'll thus the Process read  
In proper terms:  
This now ennobled Led  
A vessel's of Almighty-Chymistry.  
The Body separate from its Soul, which we  
Saw locked with Hermes seal from mortals eyes,  
Great Piereponts body, now Fermenting lies  
In Nature's prouder womb, where't shortly must  
By Satur's cold be fixed in noble dust:  
Whence when the fiery Trial it hath run  
'Twill rise more glorious than the morning Sun,  
To reinvest its widdow-soul from ground,  
Called up byth' last shrill Trumpets joyful sound:  
And jointly Both new linked inseparably,  
Present their claim to Immortality.  
Then style't not Death, which the first step must be  
To lift us up to our Eternity.   

Here's comfort, Madam, be not á la mort,  
Your longer stay casts you not one day short.  
Your Husband should go first, but in this wheel  
You and we all tread closely on his heel.   
O. Pottlintun.   

An Elegy expostulating Deaths arrest upon my Honourable, dear, and noble Friend, Mr. Francis Pierrepoint Esq,  

Avaunt, grim Sergeant, with thy grisly Face,  
Be gone, I'll break thy bald pate, and thy glass  
If th' interest here; this is no common ground  
Thou Rogue, thou treadest on, no, it will be found,  
The Lord of th' soil thou seek'st for is of Fame  
Above Arrest; know'st any of the name  
Of Pierrepont Debtors? 'tis a name we know  
For Wealth, for Learning, and for Wisdom too  
The Nation boasts of; (besides high descent  
Which others have, which all the other want.)  
Such as have seen the Vatican at Rome, 
* Lord marquis.  
* Mr William Pierepont.  
* Mr. Fran. Pierepont.   
Say Pierrepont lives the Vatican at Holme.  
States who fetched Wisdom from the men of Greece,  
Confess one Pierrepont than the seven more wise.  
Whilst all of all sorts do attest this truth,  
Second to none, is third Brother to both:  
And darest thou arrest him? He can retain  
The greatest scholar, and the wisest man  
(Advocates of his own house) to plead his cause  
Besides his Innocence's and our just Laws.  
Thus for my Friend, expostulating I  
(Maugre my threats) was made me this reply,  
Pale death with equal foot attends the door  
Of Palaces and Cottages full poor,  
By statute Law there's an appointed day  
When rich as poor Dame Nature's debt must pay.  
The great, the good, the just, the wise, the high,  
Princes and Pierreponts too, they all must die.  
And must he die then? rather is he dead  
Was there no Proxy to appear in's stead?  
Might not one poor Debt be forgiven him,  
Who many a poor man's Debt had oft forgiven?  
'Tis paid, 'tis paid. Then Reader pass not by  
But pay a Tear, if not an Elegy  
As tributary to his noble Hearse,  
Whose name will stand in Prose as well as Verse:  
And needs no Poet to proclaim him good  
In words rather expressed, then understood.  
Whilst ●ho him understood knew him a man  
Meek, not Morose, though Presbyterian,  
Had only such been trusted with that key  
Good men had all been for Presbytery;  
Though vast in parts, and Patrimony rather,  
HE appeared a giving, than a gifted Brother,  
And yet his gifts were high enough to reach  
As far to judge, as any man's to preach.   

Grace crowned his gifts; glory now crownes his graces:  
Heaven with supplies fill up such vacant places.   
Sic cecinit Lachrymen; Sic Lachrymans precatur. G. Pigot.   

Upon the much lamented Death of the Honourable FRANCIS PIEREPONT Esq,  
EAch Debtor has been called his deuce to bring,  
Of just acknowledgements an Offering  
To make upon the sad and mournful Urn  
Of this Beloved Saint, shall others mourn,  
Much less concerned than I? I silent stand,  
Whom you when living might of right command,  
To whom I ought of Love, and service more,  
Then if my All was sold would pay that score.  
Dame Nature's Debt, or yours, I know not whether  
The greater, but like to be cleared together  
So great a sum requires a longer day,  
I now the Interest alone can pay.  
But why so long, ere that comes in my Muse?  
Oh! blame me not, hark to my just Excuse:  
My Plumes have been so steeped in tears, that I  
Can not till now get wing, neither so high  
As others can I soar; I've only breath  
To crawl upon the ground, and chide with Death,  
Who hath bereft me, and not me alone,  
But even the Church, and Commonwealth of one,  
Whose parts and virtues will eclipsed be,  
If my dull pen set forth his Elegy.  
I'll only hint, what in a larger story.  
More fully may be spoke of Piereponts glory.  
Nature being lavish to them with art did strive,  
Which longest should his name preserve alive.  
Herald's he left his birth to tell, did scorn  
That, as below a person Heaven borne.  
Heroick Acts not words, spoke his Descent,  
His Friendship real was 'bove Compliment,  
His noble spirit decked with humility,  
His humble soul enriched with Majesty,  
His Justice gave to every one his own,  
His Wisdom saved his. His Charity was sown  
In each fit soil. His Piety was free,  
From common errors, or State policy.  
Pious and politic, rare in our State,  
These in a Statesman should concenterate.  
Hold Muse, the Field is large, shouldst over run  
Thyself, canst thou add Lustre to the Sun?  
Darken it thou dost, its time now to retire  
Sigh out thy remnant days, observe, admire  
What cannot by the loftiest stile b'exprest,  
Labour to imitate, let's not disturb the rest.  
Of this dear soul, with thy Celestial Graces  
●le repone te in Heavens embraces.  
Colonel White:   

Upon the much lamented Death of the Honourable Francis Pierrepont Esq,  
Well may I be ashamed and blush that in  
This Worthies praises I have silent been,  
When others trumpets sound so loud, that I  
Might (though unfit to speak) an Echo be;  
But grief that's great vents slowly, first it will  
Utter itself in briny tears, which still  
The Pen may steep in, that strives to express  
What 'tis to want so great a happiness,  
As I and more enjoyed, whilst the Sun shone clear  
Now (alas!) set in this our Hemisphere.  
Pardon then Reader (when 'tis so great worth)  
If my dull Muse fall short in setting forth.  
In such a public cause, it is I see,  
Hard to speak full, as hard to silent be.  
O! how my grief renews, while each fresh thought  
Of him, (clothed with a sigh heart-deep,) breaks out  
In broken Language, that the World may tell  
My loss, but only they that feel't can spell  
My meaning out, but lest the torrent should  
Too soon dry up, I cannot but behold,  
How the Wound bleeds afresh in's consorts eyes,  
Whilst she think's on her dearest's Obsequies;  
As the widowed Dove deprived of her Mate  
To grieve is all her joy, to mourn her State:  
Her tears her daily bread are, as if he  
(Who in one moment ceased for to be)  
Was by th' all wise creator, (who in vain  
Does nought) each minute given and taken again  
Her loss so great, as he that doth it view,  
May think what Poets feign, might here prove true;  
With Grief one turned quite into a stone:  
Nature would yield, indeed, 'tis grace alone  
Makes this a fiction; yet the sword cuts deep,  
And when God strikes, than it is grace to weep:  
Excuse her passion then, because her head,  
Her joy, part of herself, her Husband's dead.  
Death only could that knot untie, where Love  
Informed two bodies with one soul, to prove  
There was not Friendship here, but unity.  
And he, though dead, lives in her memory,  
And still will live: His name's not writ i'th' sand:  
A nobler Tomb enshrines him, whose command  
o'er each rebellious passion showed how far  
He did excel what common Mortals are.  
Though high, yet humble, high in parts, not pride;  
His power great, his pity ne'er denied,  
The poor man's suit, who ere had cause to say  
He came complaining, that went sad away?  
Learned in what was worth his study; and that  
His chief delight was to communicate.  
Thus virtue, that in's greener years did lie  
Sown in his heart, grew to maturity;  
Till's Harvest came, when he full ripe, from us  
Was take'n and laid amongst what's precious  
In Gods peculiar store house, where he stays  
Waiting to see those long expected days,  
When what death parts, shall reunite, and then  
No night that joy will overcloud again.  
George Fisher.   

On the lamented Death of the truly Honourable Francis Pierepont Esq.  
TO thy dear memory, blessed Soul! I pay  
This humble tribute; though in such a way  
As rather doth proclaim my want of skill,  
(That ne'er set foot on high Parnassus' hill,)  
Than thy great merit. Grief knows not the art  
To break that silence which might break an heart.  
My deep Resentments of thy noble Love,  
And faithful friendship, I so oft did prove,  
With all those Heavenly virtues did inspire  
Thy generous breast, with more than common fire  
I feign would utter, and thereby engage  
The cold attempts of a declining age,  
Which may admire thy Candour but despair  
To match that copy thou hast drawn so fair:  
Whom not our words, as thy own worth, commends  
Dear to thy God, thy Country, and thy Friends.  
But why do I in vain strive to rehearse  
Thy praises in the ligatures of Verse?  
I'll leave that work most worthy to be done  
By those in words that not in numbers run,  
Whose task doth lead them in a stile more free,  
T'instruct the world how much it lost in thee.  
In whose example it might plainly read  
Their Doctrine; and find out the way will lead  
To be both great and good; whole life could teach  
What men should do, or what themselves did preach.  
Vere Harcour●   

To the never dying Memory of that thrice Noble person and patriot, the Honourable Francis Pitrepont Esq Who departed this Life at Nottingham the 30th. day of January, 1658.  
IT's somewhat to be Nobly borne, and much  
I'inherit thousands by the year; what such  
A Birth, and birthright speaks, i'th' world appears  
By the homage paid on all hands unto Peers,  
And their Coequals; whom all men adore,  
As supreme powers: ●nd to say no more,  
Such civil Adoration is their Due,  
Which bids that monstrous Parity Adieu,  
That All-confounding Monster, whose lean jaws  
Gape wide to swallow both estates and Laws.  
Long may the Grandieur of this Nation be  
Stocked with such Gentry and Nobility,  
As share the glory of their An'cestries,  
And carry it on to their posterities.  
But yet all this at highest speaks but low,  
A worldly glory at the best; a show  
Of earthly influences, which altogether  
Cannot exceed the Line of this life: neither  
Add one cubit to a better. See them  
Nothinged in death to us, us so to them.  
'tis sad when great ones have no other birth  
T' ennoble them, than what they have from th' earth;  
Better unborn, than not be borne again;  
The new birth is the noblest: there's a vein  
Of blood runs in the heart of the Beleiver  
Bespeaks him Heavenly borne; and never  
Doth that Birth fail. So borne doth never die,  
But hath in death, Life t' all eternity.  
How glorious then must he be, to whose Hearse  
We sadly pay the Tribute of this Verse?  
Whose Noble Lineage, Great Estate, and all  
Contentments flowing from them, he could call  
Things on this side true Happiness. Elsewhere  
He sought, and found that Happiness which ne'er  
Shall end or fade; and whose Foundation  
Th' eternal Spirit laid in Regeneration.  
True Saving-grace, the Diamond in the Ring,  
Shined bright in his sweet Nature: Every thing  
Had such a gracious lustre in Him, as  
The Good appeared still with the Great, and was  
Above it rather. His Humility  
Exalted him. Greater you could not see  
Lodged in a Noble breast. His spirit might  
Be read in's habit; void of Pride, and quite  
Another thing than vain. Without ostent  
Both; for the one was as the other meant.  
That holy heat of Love, which in his breast  
Faith had enkindled, He with warmth expressed  
In's, dear affections to God's Ordinances,  
His Ministers and People. His observances  
Of holy Duties, private and personal,  
Graced with his walking answerable, were all  
Fair evidences at the least of his  
Sincerity, ne'er to fall short of bliss.  
Bring forth the person, rich, poor, old, or young  
Can justly say, He ever did him wrong.  
Methinks I see the Country round about  
In a bemoaning Posture, groaning out  
Their sighs; with this condoling Sympathy,  
We have lost our Patriot; and he's missed already.  
Methinks I hear the City making moan  
One to another, our best Neighbour's gone.  
The Ministry especially; we have lost  
A Stay, a Prop, a Patron, and almost  
Ourselves in losing Him; who was indeed  
Our Friend, and still we found him so at need.  
A Friend to Truth and Peace, but no divider,  
That healed our Breaches, never made them wider.  
How full of Bowels to the Poor? What day  
Passed without works of Mercy to them? Nay  
Scarce any Meal, but at his Gates he fed  
Whole troops of hungry souls with daily bread.  
When Winters cold, or blustrings made their stay  
At's Gates less comfortable; he would say  
Let in the Poor, and serve 'um. If he saw  
Any among them naked, he would draw  
Out his compassions to them, and command  
 to be put upon them: His own hand,  
Rather than fail, would do it. How the knel  
These rang at's Death out-groaned the Passing-bell.  
To none an enemy, but to those whose sin  
Proclaimed them to be so to God: Wherein  
He could not hold, but with an holy zeal  
Broke forth, and sometimes ring an angry Peal.  
An innocent in doing aught was evil,  
A very bungler in the works o'th' Devil.  
A soul fitted for Heaven, where glorious Grace  
Triumphs with him in's ever-mansion place.  
His dearest Consort than may not return  
Her comforts back again upon his Urn  
With showers of Tears which still dissolve afresh  
With thought or mention of his Name: Much less  
Nothing herself with grief. A greater Honour  
Cannot in this life be conferred upon Her  
Then this of Hers, that she did once possess  
All in her dearest save endless Happiness.  
John Viner, of Westm.   


In obitum Nobilissimi ac verè cordati viri Francisci Pierepont, Armigeri, etc.  
PLurima jam strages agrum confecerat orbem,  
Nunc & edax multo funere pinguis humus,  
Exemplo quatiente animos, cum nuncia fati  
Tristis, ad exitium tota parata fores,  
Pulsaret faciles non immortalis Amici,  
Supremam Domino claudere jussa diem.  
Prodit huic Genius, volucris custodia vita,  
Ac cupit intrantis sistere posse gradum.  
Non patet haec (inquit) sceleratae janua turba:  
Improbus haud nostras ausus adire domos.  
Non hic contemni se laesa potentia coeli  
Questa est indignis exagitata modis.  
Hîc malè confictum nec Religionis amorem  
Impietas prae se ferre superba solet.  
Hîc nemo socium vix cautum, pessimus arte,  
Prodidit, intactam dissimulando fidem.  
Pauperis oppressi non hinc penetralia clamor  
Vindicis assuevit sollicitare Dei.  
Nullius hîc famam mendaci lividus ore  
Polluit indoctus censor honesta loqui.  
Nulla caperatam faedat nubecula frontem,  
Si fortè alloquiis auris amica vacat.  
Non musis invisa domus, non grata socordi:  
Compositos juvenes non tulit iste locus:  
Nec sunt haec Domini crudelis inhospita tecta,  
Prompta sed officio gratia fratris adest.  
Ergo alio concede, tuis nunc parce sagittis,  
Laethalis senibus findat arundo latus,  
Aut quibus indignas animas sua corpora gestant;  
Hîc virtus, Pictas, nobilitatis bonos.  
Hunc vinum posci●●●●le●, hunc uxor; amici;  
Hunc cives, dives, pauper ubique jacens,  
Quàm voluit Christi nova nupta puerpera membrum,  
Laetetur secum, quodque simul doleat;  
Vota nihil prosunt; lachrymae nihil; impigra telum  
Mors jacit, & medium guttur utrinque ferit.  
Per jugulos humor funesto spargitur aestu  
Noxius, allisi pectoris ima gravans:  
Donec pars melior, sedes pertaesa priores,  
Ac gaudens coelo liberiore frui;  
Dum nequit ulteriùs molem sufferre cadentem,  
Quae, malè conceptis ignibus usta, tumet;  
Incola carceribus displosi corporis ardens  
Emicat, angelicis associanda choris.  
Jam fatis defuncte, Deo qui charus, ab alto  
Subjectam faelix despice victor humum;  
Ac tutos sponsi thalamos ingresse boati,  
Convivae niveâ cingito veste latus.  
Caelicolúmque pie primâ te classe repone,  
Dum subit infernas impia turba domos.   

The same in English.  
GReat was the havoc Death had made,  
Whilst every where men dread a shade:  
The famished ground was then full fed  
With a rich feast of bodies dead;  
What time that breathless Post of Fate  
Knocks at our friends attentive gate,  
With hasty summons to invite  
The man to bid the World good-night.  
The watch, that had the guard that day,  
Prevents his speed, and bids him stay;  
Then holding parley, know (said he)  
From lewd companions we are free.  
No horrid crimes this house doth hid;  
Nor is that Heaven-assaulting Pride,  
Which vainly scorns the powers above,  
Charged here; nor the dissembled love  
Of pure Religion made a paint  
To wash and falsify a Saint.  
Nor may a Judas here commend,  
Kiss and betray his fearless Friend.  
The oppressed Poor's vindictive cries  
Do not from hence to heaven arise.  
Detracting envy here must raise  
No damps to poison others praise.  
No sullen cloud cast o'er the face  
Obscures the entertainers grace.  
Which did the Muses so far take,  
As made them frequent visits make;  
And bless the place from drowsy Fools,  
That fill the seats in Bacchus' Schools:  
Yet hospitable kindness feasts  
The civil ever-welcome guests.  
Then pass us by, and aim thy darts  
At withered and out-dated hearts.  
Or let thine arrows find out those  
Whose brutish corpse like Souls enclose!  
Must Virtue, Grace, and noble Birth,  
Descend into sepulchral earth?  
And the dear consort of his life  
Be now a Widow, not a Wife?  
And must that stock be now cut down,  
Whose branches are so fairly grown?  
Let theirs, let Friends, and Neighbours tears  
Both rich and poor prolong his years!  
How feign would Christ's black comely Bride  
This flower might still uncroped abide;  
That they might smile and droop together,  
Or in Serene or Cloudy weather!  
Tears have no force, nor wishes power  
To intercept the fatal hour.  
Death's deaf to all, soon strikes a note  
That sounds harsh from his wounded throat.  
Now the fell humour doth infest  
The troubled region of his breast,  
So long, till the diviner Form,  
Not able to ride out the storm,  
Fain in safe harbour would retire,  
And quit the Bark, which all on fire  
Is soon blown up, and forced to Land  
Her Pilot on the Ethereal strand.  
Unbodyed Saint now safely rest,  
From the foul world's black tempests blest:  
And in the Bridegroom's closet dress  
Thyself with Robes, that may confess  
A richer glory and more white  
Than his that doth eclipse the light!  
With crowned Elders than repose  
Thy pious self; while graceless foes  
Sail down the Stream, the Port forsake,  
And perish in th' Inferal Lake.  
S. Brunsil.    


In obitum celeberrimi viri Francisci Pierepont Armigeri, Carmen funebre.  
O Si vel pietas, vitae candórve moverent  
Supremos Divos, Tartareasve domos!  
Si summum Ingenium, studiumque notabile cursum  
Fatorum potuit sistere, vivus adhuc,  
Et gra●us vivis, mortis contempserat iram  
Pierepont, verus Nobilitatis honos.  
Sed durae nimium Parcae nec talia curant;  
Fatorum rabiem sistere nemo queat,   

Thus Englished.  

O That these links of Noble Birth, high Parts,  
Candor that gave him interest in all hearts;  
Bounty enlarged, unsoyled integrity,  
Well-tempered zeal, wel-fixed piety  
Had made a chain t'have tied th'Immortal guest,  
His heaven-born soul to th' Mansion of his breast!   

Then the much loved Pierepont still should live,  
By's own Embalming self-preservative;  
We should not then sit down by weeping cross,  
Computing his great worth, and our great loss:  
This's all we say to make the reckoning even,  
He though thus good, was not too good for heaven.   
Laurence Palmer.    

On the Death of that Honourable and worthy Patriot, FRANCIS PIEREPONT, Esq. Sic flevit Z. C.  
IF to be deeply wise, and honest too;  
If to know well to speak, and well to do;  
If to be learned, and the learned's friend;  
If much in Alms, nothing in Pride to spend;  
If to grow rich on his own Patrimony,  
Without the loss, or grief, or curse of any;  
If to profess Religion, and withal  
Not to be dangerous, or schismatical;  
If to be noble at th' old Herald's rate,  
And humbler far than those o'th' mushroom's date;  
If to be both in love and blood most near  
To the great Aesculapius, Dorchester;  
If to be Parent, Master, Husband, all,  
As each relations rule doth strictly call;  
If to attain that heavenly art, to end  
And umpire strifes, and yet lose neither friend;  
If these may be esteemed a good man's glory,  
They were constellated in Pierepont's story:  
And if these lost at once can make the world  
Wisely consider her last sand is running;  
('Cause such a prop and pillar down is hurled)  
We need no Sedgwick t' tell us [Doomesday's coming.]  
Zach. Cauderey.   

On the death of the Honourable Francis Pierepont Esq. Third Son of the Right Honourable, Robert Earl of Kingston.  
BUt is he dead? can I believe  
That he should die, and we should live?  
Methinks we may the knot untie,  
Better to live, fit to die.  
Death I see doth wisely choose  
The Gold, but doth the dross refuse.  
If each place had had its right,  
Thou long since hadst bids good-night:  
But now thou'rt gone, in doubt are we,  
Whether to joy, or grieve for thee.  
Our loss is great, greater thy gain,  
Our comfort doth exceed our pain:  
He that writes thy sad Elegy,  
Shows more love to himself, then thee.  
Blessed soul! I can no more relate  
Thy life past than thy present state:  
My Pen can only blot the story  
Of thy life, and of thy glory.  
Our all's unwelcome courtesy,  
At best, but wel-meant injury.  
Long may thine live, and forward grow  
In Grace, and Goodness, for to show  
The world, that as they bear thy name,  
They are heirs also of thy Fame.  
Sam. Pickring.   

Upon the praemature and much lamented death of of the Honourable Francis Pierrepont, Esq. deceased January 30, 1657.  
AH! Why so fast, great Sir? the soul that was but sent  
A while ago, so soon to quit its Tenement,  
And leaves, is sad and strange to us; such sudden flight  
Doth cloud our day, and turn it to a darksome night;  
And thus it needs must do, for though some Stars appear,  
Yet when the Sun is set, it's night i'th' Haemisphere:  
And so it is with us, for since our sad deprival  
Of thyself, where is thy Compeer, or thy Rival?  
If to thy birth we cast our eyes, thou wast of them  
Whom well we may call Surcles, shot from noble stem,  
In glistering beams of Honour, thou didst brightly shine,  
And virtues Pearly Chain, to deck thee, it was thine.  
With all the gifts and richest ornaments of nature  
Thou wast stored, which might adorn and bless a creature:  
The several parts of happiness which scattered be  
In others, all concentred were, and met in thee.  
Then why so fast away, since to make up thy bliss  
All things did thus concur? O sure the cause was this,  
The little Commonwealth of man, like greater States,  
Hath some certain periods set, and hidden fates,  
Heaven's statute-Law stands unreverst, that all must die;  
But how, or where, or when, we have no certainty.  
Sam Cottes, of Colic.   

Upon the much lamented death of the Honourable Francis Pierrepont, Esq.  

WHen Sun is set, the Stars by their faint light,  
Serve only for to show us that 'tis night.  
Change but the Scene, 'tis we, who now attend,  
The doleful Funerals of this noble friend.  
Whose presence made it day with us, we knew  
No night, till he bade us and th'world adieu.  
Surviving friends cannot (though joined) repair  
Our loss, only tell us how poor we are.  
Strangers that live at distance can no more  
Conceive of it, than we ourselves before  
It did befall us, still so senseless does  
Enjoyment make us of what's precious:  
But now quicksighted sorrow hasts t'indite  
His Epitaph, and dictates thus to write.   

Here lies the glory of his kind,  
The sweet composure of whose mind  
Won all that knew him, such it was,  
So mild, in it, as in a glass,  
Others, who would behold, might see  
Not what they are, but aught to be.  
Whom Learning had its Patron (sad  
That we can only say it had.)  
In whom impartial Justice knew  
To distribute to each his due.  
Happy in reconciling those,  
Whom pride, and passion had made foes.  
A constant hearer of the Word:  
Though great, he owned a higher Lord.  
Whose zeal and prudence you might see,  
In his well-governed Family.   

Stay Reader, all's not here expressed,  
But silent grief sighs out the rest.   
Richard Grant.   

On the much lamented death of the truly Honourable Francis Pierepont, Esq.  
IS mourning grown a fashion? and a Hearse  
Become the common subject of a Verse?  
Are th'Muses all close Mourners? and are Tears  
The only Pearls which they of late do wear,  
And drop for Beads over their Graves, to whom  
In Pilgrimage Poetic feet do come?  
No wonder then, great Sir, if at your Shrine  
The Muses should turn Vo'tries, and combine,  
There to lament the loss which they sustain  
By your sad death; whose sacred Urn contains  
Those precious Relics, which may justly call  
For their attendance at your Funeral.  
Mahomet's Tomb may unfrequented lie,  
Whilst yours is visited by passers by;  
O'er which to drop our Tears in Verse will be,  
Devotion now, instead of Poetry.  
Doth virtue now prove fatal? Is't a sign  
A Star is falling, when it doth outshine  
It's bright Colleagues? doth a more glorious light  
Only portend a sad approaching Night?  
Do Pearls dissolve the soon? and they die  
Fastest, who best deserve to multiply  
Their days among us? Do the highest Spheres  
Finish their course in the least term of years?  
Or have the greatest Orbs, as well's the least,  
The Earth their Centre and the place of rest?  
Did these things seem so strange to us, that you,  
Great Sir, are fain to die to prove them true?  
But if our knowledge at no meaner rate,  
Can purchsed be out of the hands of fate:  
Than by your loss, we'd rather much remain  
Ignorant still, than at such cost obtain  
A demonstration. Can none else be,  
To us, a pattern of mortality?  
But he whose life was so much prized by those,  
Who value men by real worth, not shows;  
And can distinguish by converse with one,  
Right watered Diamonds, from a Bristol Stone.  
Such those knew you to be, who knew you best,  
Whose worth was greater than the vulgar test  
Can reach to comprehend; they only knew  
So much as to admire, 'twas not one view,  
Or two, or more, made by a vulgar eye,  
Would serve to take your elevation by.  
You loved not to expose yourself too much  
To common view, that you reserved for such,  
As could discern where the distinction lies  
Between pretences and true Piety.  
You scorned to prostitute Religion to  
The lusts of men, as now too many do,  
Whose consciences are weather-wise, and go  
Round with the quarter where the wind doth blow.  
Your blood received a nobler tincture from  
Your great endowments, then by what did come  
Down from your Ancestors; whose virtues too  
Had the same Channel with their blood to you.  
Next to your noble Brother, whose great worth,  
Have set a Copy to be transcribed forth  
By all great Persons; they may learn by you  
How to be Noble, Wise, and Learned too.  
Edward Stillingfleet, Fellow of St. John's Coll. Cambr.   

On the much lamented death, etc.  
MY coalblack Muse presents, giveth fire  
Just in my bosom, found'st retire  
To levity. More zealous thence  
With sense of loss, and loss of sense  
Proceeds to tell how that of late  
(Such was her passion) Church and State  
Had lost a light. So she refuses  
To be profane amongst the Muses.  
Such influences Subjects grave,  
Upon a Poet's vein may have,  
Especially when they are noble dust,  
Religious, Charitable, Just,  
Learned and Politic, such compositions,  
Without tautologies and repititions,  
Can ne'er be pressed; the Book of Life  
Is able to decide the strife.  
O horrid graves, ye can retain  
But what's your own, no Pierreponts brain.  
I summon every heart and hand  
Within the bounds of Holy Land  
T'unite their forces, let them know  
've lost a leader, and that now  
The Church, since she is grown more old,  
Must learn to go without a hold.  
Arthur Squire.   

On the memrry of the honourable Francis Pierrepont Esq. (third Son to the right Honourable Robert late Earl of Kingston) who exchanged this life for immortality, January 30. 1657.  

IF any ask the reason, why so late  
My Muse a mournful song doth meditate,  
I'll answer at the first, she was struck dumb  
With petrifying stupor: Let her come  
To recollect herself, her sighs and tears  
Will amply show the high respect she bears  
To enshrined virtue and Nobility,  
Derived higher than Nature's Pedigree.  
Hence is it that brokenly she Versifies:  
(Words in deep sorrow ca●●'t be heard for cries.)  
Copartnership alleviates sufferings;  
From sympathy a much less trouble springs:  
But here such losers are both Church and State,  
They scarce suffice each to lament her fate,  
When such as thou, great soul, are snatched away,  
And so both robbed on the same dismal day.  
So that if we lament a Senator  
Most sage and faithful, or a Warrior  
Steeled with true valour: While we condole  
The maimed Republic, the Church (as if our soul  
Were too much soaked in Politics) cries out,  
Alas! How is it that you look about  
With careless minds? Is't nothing that I want  
When such a pillar's shrunk? who was not scant  
In any point, whereby to introduce  
Religion's power into his households use.  
●or only acting in a narrow Sphere,  
Comes forth in public, fit to act there.  
Doctrine (methinks) and Discipline contend,  
Which have in Pierepont lost the greater friend:  
Uncertain, which most, truth's complexion,  
Or orders symmetry took his affection.   

Which truly noble Candour, we in vain  
May look and wish for, not call back again;  
Nay rarely find in any Mortal breast,  
Henceed comes to pass our friend is gone to rest.  
An Ostracism ejects him out o'th' World,  
Which can no longer bear virtue installed  
In state majestic; but soon tenders up  
To Heaven, the overflowing of its cup.   
John Tuckney. C. C. J.   

Upon the Death of the Honourable Francis Pierepont, Esq. etc.  
SHall I be forced to dip my Pen  
In tears, and scribble mortal men?  
Who being mortal, do but nibble  
At highest things, and therefore scribble.  
If any thing such subjects might  
As these teach mortals how to write,  
Make them more perfect, and confess  
Such copies never could do less:  
But here's the judgement, most men hate  
Such a Text-hand to imitate.  
I have heard great Sirs vainly boast  
Of Riches, Honours, and their host;  
I've seen that man of merit sit  
In Rome, and biting on his bit  
In state, as if by Axiom true  
He would prove Paradise as due,  
Poor Majesty; compared to some  
Who knew all those no life to come.  
I have known the learned Rout so puffed  
When they (as wind) have knowledge snuffed,  
Who in their Rhapsodies have been  
To the third Heaven near a kin;  
Yet when that pale-faced hag did lower,  
And summon them to flit their bower,  
Can not dispute; No death to die,  
He died to live, this was the cry  
Of him whose language yet doth warble  
Through the cruel, spiteful Marble  
(As you pass by, hark how it breaks  
Your hearts, when he being dead, yet speaks.  
His honour doth invite a stand,  
And every Passenger command  
To know himself. Let no man spurn,  
Though ne'er so Noble, at his Urn,  
Except they have a mind to dim  
Their Honours by dishonouring him.  
And while they do his corpse infest,  
Like silly birds defile their nest.  
But he who thought all this a bubble  
T' have only birth, began to double,  
The same with Learning and her charms,  
Which well became a Talbots Arms,  
And finding fruitful Helians Font,  
He sucked it, like a Pierepont.  
All Coats of Arms so thick, so old,  
Without this lining, are but cold.  
His moral virtues do present  
To us a richer monument;  
Prudence herself she did abhor,  
Not to make him a Senator,  
Love to his Country made him stand  
Obedient to her strict command:  
He might have chus'd, but that the beauty,  
Which doth complexion such a duty,  
Soon moved his temper; 'twas his food  
To have occasion to do good,  
Without requital, and if a crime  
Not to grow richer by the time;  
I blame him that he did so halt,  
Let this be put in for a fault;  
But above all that which did throw  
The greatest lustre on his brow,  
That which did crown his temples round,  
And heaved his soul above the ground,  
It was the image of his God,  
To some a countenance, some a rod  
That shone in him, let Church, let State,  
Let family, Arts all bear the date,  
Since that they lost him. Such a day  
(Say Nottingham) here did they lay  
His careful head, and such a night  
(O dismal!) rend him from our sight.  
And when you have bedewed his hearse  
With many a doleful, blear-eyed verse:  
Return, and as you softly walk  
Confess your grief, your stones will talk.  
If you say nothing, and conclude  
'Twas you, not they that were so rude.   
FINIS