AN ELEGY Upon that Great Minister of State ANTHONY Earl of Shaftsbury.  

I.  
ARE all Quills dead? or be they buried deep  
In black mouthed Lethe's bottomless abyss?  
How come our Poets, that were wont to keep  
Sorrows sad Vigils strictly, so remiss?  
Are they grown dull or drowsy? Can soft sleep  
Charm them at such a needful time, as this?  
Or has dumb grief found out a newer fashion  
To character her thoughts, and  her passion,  
Than eye-bedawbing Tears, and printed lamentation?   

II.  
GUsh forth all eyes, and when your floods be spent  
Borrow new tides from passions Oratory;  
Take streams on trust, until your floodgates vent  
The Common stock, and weep an Allegory;  
If hearts turn stones, make very stones relent,  
And help to bear the burden of thy story:  
O, here's a Subject that shall force and tear  
The Portals of an Adamantine ear;  
Yet sooner break a heart, perchance, than broach a tear.   

III.  
HOw great was he? for's richly furnished breast,  
Was a fair Temple; and His heart a shrine,  
Guarded with tropps of Angels, where did rest  
A glory nine times greater than the Nine,  
His Soul was filled with Heaven, and full possessed  
With heavenly Raptures; He was much Divine:  
He was a harmony, where every part  
Was sung by graces, so composed by art,  
It roused up every ear, it ravished every heart.   

iv  
KNowledge that often puffs the spongy brain,  
Gave Him the treasure of a lowly breast;  
Wisdom, that once abused, turns trap and train,  
Built in His gallant heart the Turtles nest;  
Riches, that cloth the brow with proud disdain,  
Made Him appear far lesser, than the least;  
He had true knowledge, wisdom, wealth, in which  
HE enjoyed His God, His glory was His pitch;  
True knowledge made Him Wise, true Wisdom made Him Rich.   

V  
NObles, let not your emulous stomaches swell  
To hear perfection crowned: There may accrue  
Some honour to your names: If you excel,  
Jove's Bird hath fruitful wings, which daily move  
More sprightly Quills than ours; die you as well,  
(Heaven grant ye may) they'll do no less for you:  
Till then expect it not, know half your glory  
Shines at your death; but dead, they will restore ye  
From your forgotten dust, and write your perfect story.   

VI  
MAY this rare pattern dwell before your eye,  
When time shall please t' unclasp your fleshly Cage;  
His holy death will teach ye all to die,  
And scorn the malice of infernal Rage;  
He died at his full time, and know ye why?  
He was a Rule proposed to Youth, to Age;  
He was a Light, that glorified yours days?  
Obscured, alone, by our inferior praise;  
The virtue of the world was but His Periphrase.   

VII.  
FAme blow thy Trump, and see if Envy durst  
Presume to snarl, or vent her frothy gall.  
Fame blow aloud: Let Envy snarl her worst;  
Do; let her fret, and fume, and foam, and fall  
Stark mad: Blow louder, till the Bedlam burst,  
And stink; and taint her news-corrupting Hall.  
Blow fame and spare not; If some base-bred tongue  
That wants a name to lose, should chance to wrong  
Thy honoured Trumpets breath, then make thy blast more strong.   

VIII.  
O But this Light is out; what wakeful eye  
E'er marked the progress of the Queen of Light,  
Robbed with full glory in her Austrian sky,  
Until at length in her young noon of night,  
A swarth tempestuous Cloud doth rise, and rise,  
And hides her lustre from our darkened sight:  
Even so too early death (that has no ears  
Open to suits) in our scarce noon of years,  
Dashed out our light, and left the tempest in our tears.   

IX.  
REtract that word, false Quill: O let mine eyes  
Redeem that language with a thousand tears:  
Our Shaftsbury's not dead: How passion lies!  
How ill that sound does relish in these ears!  
Can he be dead, whose conquering Soul defies  
The bands of death; and worse than death, the fears?  
No, no, he sits enthroned, and smiles to see  
Our childish Passions; he triumphs, while we  
In sorrow, blaze his death, that's death and sorrow free.   

X.  
Word's call in words! O from this fruitful Theme,  
As from a Spring, floods issue forth; and meet,  
And swell into a Sea; Stream joins with stream:  
Our weary numbers have regained new feet,  
And bring in stuff more fit to load a Ream,  
Than to be lodged within a slender sheet:  
The thirsty Soul, whose trembling fingers touch  
The swelling Bowl, may soon transgress, and such  
That ne'er can speak enough, may easily speak too much.   

XI.  
YET one word more, and then my Quill and I  
Will woo Apollo, and beg leave to play:  
Youth learn to live; and Noblemen, to die;  
This heav'n-fled Saint hath scored ye, both, the way;  
Your Rule's above, but your Example's by;  
Heaven sets not Earth such Copies every day.  
His virtues be your guide; They lie before ye?  
So shall ye add more honour to her story,  
And gain yourselves a Crown; and gain his Crown more Glory.    

THE EPITAPH.  
JUstice, True Splendour, Hospitality,  
Friendship, kind Love, being resolved to die.  
In these lewd Times, have chosen here to have  
With Pious, Just, Great Shaftsbury their Grave;  
Them cherished he so much, so much did grace,  
That they on Earth would choose none other Place.   

〈…〉 at the Black-Raven in ●●e P●●l●●y ●683.