ELEGY, Occasioned by the Death of The Reverend Mr. Samuel Smith, LATE ORDINARY of NEWGATE. Who departed this Life on the 28th. Day of August 1698. Aged 72 Years.  

WHAT, shall a Man so justly famous Dye,  
And no one yet to write his Elegy?  
No threadbare Author Squeeze a doleful Tale  
Out of a Penny Brick, and pint of Ale,  
To tell the wondering World that Smith is Dead,  
And just like other People in his Bed.  
Ye Meager Bards who high in Garrets dwell,  
Near Jewin street, and drink at Crouders Well  
Whose every moment's fertile work produces  
Waste. Paper for the Cooks and Grocer's uses.  
A while suspend your other News, and give  
This Man a Verse that He again may Live,  
And from Your Muse, receive his Breath that's fled  
To Preach a Sermon after he's been Dead.  
But see the fondling scribblers rather choose,  
To dwell upon their dear Familiar News,  
And keep to forging Blazeing Stars, or tell  
How Felons hanged, and much lamented fell.  
These are the Themes which others like, but I  
Will Sing of him, who taught the rest to Die,  
Forgive, Dead Priest, if I not well express  
Thy worth, or make thy Well-known Merits less,  
If this my Pen, should not perform its part,  
In giving holy Sam his due desert.  
For if those Men whom Sinners hate, are good,  
And Sinners hate those not by Sin subdued,  
Thou surely mightst thy Goodness chiefly boast,  
For of all Mortals thou wast hated most.  
Witness the many Dying Folks, who here  
Would even so much as take thy proffered Prayer,  
And tho' for want of Holy Men distressed  
Would Die Repentless, not by thee Confessed.  
How often has thy Counsel been refused,  
And Thou without Absolving fee abused?  
When Criminals thy Knowledge would disgrace,  
And dared to send for Learning in thy Place.  
But Heaven at last has heard the Prisoners Prayers  
And took Thee from this World's attending Gares;  
Aged in Years, and Worn with Grief, to see  
Thy Counsel loughed at, as they loughed at Thee.  
And let the Silent Graye thy Body take,  
Offenceless now, because it cannot Speak.    

The EPITAPH.  

Under this stone here lies a Priest  
Whose Praying, nor his Preaching  
Could never Edify the least,  
Tho' He was always Teaching.  
Others his good advice could lead  
With calmness to the Gallows:  
But chose Himself to die in's Bed,  
Not Hang amongst such Fellows.    

LONDON, Printed 〈◊〉 and Sold by J. Read near Fleetstreet. 1698.