AN ELEGI On the Death of the Most Reverend Father in God, GILBERT Late Archbishop of CANTERBURY Primate, and Metropolitan of all ENGLAND, etc. Who Deceased the 9th. of this Instant November 1677.  

OH horrid Death! how didst thou Man invade?  
Or how without Creation wast thou made?  
Still for thy Crimes we can no Justice get,  
But all our Glory in the Grave does set,  
Neglected, Worms our pampered Bodies tear,  
And in soft murmurs quarrel for their share:  
In silent darkness we are wasted soon,  
And Death no better is for what is done.  
Prodigious Thief! that could in one sad hour,  
Rob Virtues Garland of its choicest Flower!  
Was there no more to feast thy Tragic eye,  
But CANTERBURY through the Shades must fly?  
Thy Malice now can injure us no more,  
Then Winds do ruined Abbeys where they roar.  
SHELDON is dead! that fatal whisper sounds  
Dreadful toth' Ears, as to the Heart are wounds:  
And to the wise more easless Terror brings,  
Then Whales or Comets do to sickly Kings.  
Under Great CHARLES he was the Christians hope,  
He baffled Sectaries, and stilled the Pope;  
Of whose Devotion, far more care has been  
Of Temple's Beauty, then of Rites within;  
And like a Taper on the Altar, He  
Wasted Himself, by letting others see:  
So Gallant, Generous, and Noble too;  
His Charity did Charity outdo.  
He never asked the needy Questions o'er,  
But rather gave'em ere they did Implore.  
To Strangers, Kind, Courteous to every Man;  
To Noble Friends a faithful Jonathan:  
His Kindred's Glory, and his Countre'ies Lig●●  
A Pious Wonder in his Prince's sight.  
In all his Actions he so Justice prized,  
He seemed a Paradise Epitomised;  
A sweet Euphrates, still watering all  
That we may Virtuous or Religious call.  
But now he's vanished from our dropping eyes.  
And left the World to be his Sacrifice:  
Yet still his Body does remain below,  
Which (as his Soul) did highly merit too  
From holy Bodies we receive our good,  
But where the Soul lives is not understood.  
In Pinks and Roses ●●e rich odours smell  
Yet mind not whereabout in them they d●●●●  
Then to his Grave kind Mourners Homage 〈◊〉  
Since it encloseth the Celestial Clay:  
Cast down frail Men your pensive eyes, and 〈◊〉  
The Sacred Relic with your Tears be w●●  
It is more honour to deplore his Fate,  
Then to be seated in a Chair of State.  
And now pure Saint look from thy glorio  
Exhale! the Anxious Mists that in sad 〈…〉  
Crowned with fresh joys of Angels; ta 〈…〉  
Fold up thy Arms, and shrink into Jove 〈…〉  
In that bright Mansion thou wilt safe ab●●●  
There is no Clouds that can thy Glory h●●● 〈…〉  
We'll all attend thee when Fames Trump 〈…〉  
And Souls do to their scattered Bodies go.   
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for John Smith Bookseller in Great Queen-street, 1677. 102.