AN ELEGY, Against Occasion Requires UPON THE Earl of Shaftsbury. Calculated for the Meridion of Eighty One.  

AT the West-End of th' Universal Frame,  
A Place there lies, which some a Land mis-name;  
An Excrement of World, called Natures Sink,  
A Mass of undrained mire, quag, bog, and stink.  
Ireland Yclept, When th' All-creating WORD  
Great Nature's Architect, and Orders Lord  
From Nothing spoke out All, and all around  
With Form, Light, Beauty, and perfection Ground;  
This Spot alone never heard th' Almighty found  
This heap of Undigested Earth! a Place,  
Which of old Chaos wears th' Original Face!  
As if the Out-cast of the Works of Heaven;  
IT had scarce one days Creation out of Seven.   

This Country's by a sort of Natives Man'd,  
With Brains, as much unfurnished as their Land;  
But yet, what e'er they want in Wit and Sense  
Is made up in their TRUTH and INNOCENCE  
Such Innocence born in so pure an Air,  
Their very Ground will nought that's Poisonous bear  
Since it was washed with the last Massacre.  
A Massacre, ROME's Memorable toil,  
Which like the Plague, stopped by o'erflowing Nile  
Purged all Envenomed Locusts from their soil.   

With a full Pack of this untainted Brood,  
Is Hunted Shaftsbury, to Death pursued.  
All nobly sworn to hang the Heretic Dog,  
An Oath's not more, than their own Natural Bogg,  
o'er which, the nimble Torie safely runs  
Whilst the more flow paced dastard stick's and drown's.  
Yes, Pope and Hell for his Damnation call,  
For he knows Rome, and he deserves to Fall!  
Thy Greatness, Rome, by Mystic steps Ascends,  
The Blind and Ignorant are thy best Friends:  
Reason and truth to Thee are Foes and Spies,  
Then Great infallibility, be wise,  
And safely Cut off Heads, to put out Eyes.  
Favours in Palaces, let no man boast,  
Where but to See, and Know, is to be Lost.  
So in the Great Augustus' Court of old,  
Such Honour did the darling Ovid hold,  
Long on his Brows the Royal Laurels hung,  
Whilst he soft Airs, to flattered Caesar sung,  
Till by a prying Eye undone, he's sent  
Damned for a look, t' Eternal Banishment:   

Yes, in thy Chains, Great Overbury lie,  
Rome, is not Rome, till Fear and Dangers die:  
To Preserve Nations, Right, Religion, Kings,  
Are for Unhallowed hands, two Sacred things.  
In such a Cause 'tis Fatal to embark,  
Like the bold Jew that propped the falling Ark,  
With an unlicenc'd Arm he durst approach,  
And tho' to Save, yet it was Death to touch.  
Go blasted then, and branded to thy Doom,  
With no less Stains, then hating Rome,  
Supplanting France, and Saveing Christendom.    
FINIS.  

London, Printed for Ab. Green, 1681.