IN HONO● OF THE RIGHT worshipful DOCTOVR ROBERT pink, doctor of divinity, And Warden of New college in OXFORD. Printed in the year, 1648. On the much lamented death of the Right worshipful doctor pink Warden of New college in Oxon. COme, drop a tear from some relenting eye, That I may weep, or sigh an Elegy. tears of so high-Concernment, Accents raise, Of Longer Durance, then the Poëts bays. He that can pen a sigh, and writ a tear, Deserves to be a Poët-Laureat here. Whoso with-Inke, not tears, indites one Verse, Is but a Poë aster at this hearse. Come then, ye Muses, in a Black-Disguise, And bring whole Helicon within your eyes. Empty your Treasures, and unload your store; Your best known friend will never know you more. Attend, ye Graces, do your Homage too, add Grace to him, that was a Grace to You. But o! he's gone! Nature, and Wit, and Art, No other Mansion had but in his Heart. All Christian-Virtues too, which he knew best. Had severall-Thrones appointed in his Breast. But that All-Hee, and all these too are lost, red this in him alone, that All engrossed. Would you then know how kind and good he was? go, red this in the weeping Orphan's Face. Or how devout to works of Charity? go, be resolved by the poor Mans eye. Nor was he in Divinity the least Of our grave-Pauls: He may be well the best; Whose words, when you some Scripture doubts would know, Might well have passed for Text and Comment too. Just such was he. In his inspired-eye, You might have red exact Divinity. Nor was his End unlike unto his Life, His Life and Death were at a sacred-strife, Which should excel in goodness: His last voice Might well Enthrone him in Eternall-Joyes. For how can he, but ever Blessed bee, That made's Last-Words a Benedicite? Sic lachrymavit, J. H. On the Death of the Reverend ROBERT pink Doctor of Divinity, Warden of New-Colledge in Oxford. O Let me sigh and burst! my heart's too great To be contained within a Cabinet brimful with sorrows pregnant in my breast, Some Pegasus to stricke a spring at least, Like that of Helicon may flow in Verse And weepeng Elegies about his hearse, Are we designed for ruin i● our fate drawn out inevitably desperate, Destruction threatened long before his fall, Now rides in Triumph at this funeral, enjoys the Tyrants wish, glories that shee In one hath murdered a Society. For are wee living yet, shall it be said The Body walks about without an Head? At best wee are but Bruits for it is clear Our Reason and our Iudgement's butted here, And that advantage from our souls shall bee That wee have sense to tell our misery, Hell-paines are most in losses and wee know Our own as great as can be here below, To loose a Le●rned and an Eminent man Puts us beside or studies when wee can pled for our ease that all our industry, Our thoughts, our Learnig, with ourselves they die. To loose a President of such entire And honest Principles, makes us inquire Whether all goodness is not banished hence And wee alone exempt from Providence, Too loose a Doctor of our Church whose life Was a continued Sermon without Strife, Or Faction, true to God, and Church and King, Would make Us fear a downfall: when wee bring Examples of whole States ran to decay When such Palladiums were snatched away. Yet to draw nearer when wee look upon Our Academies late distraction, Whats aim to shatter and disjoint the whole And then consider how this public soul That did Unite and actuate, and lead Our University, is vanished. How will the Body fall a Sacrifice To Malice, sacrilege, and Avarice. Lastly to understand our own distress, Under what Prejudice and Tempests these Unhappy times wee lye, our Pilot dead Who with a skilful eye discovered The storm at distance knew to steer his course With such an even hand would break the force Of threatening Waves so that we past these yeares Of troubles most secure, but now our fears And terrors compass Us, as thunderstrooke Wee stand amazed, on one another look And know not what to trust too, where to lay Our Anchors, whose command we should obey, Give me a draft of Shipracks for 'tis sure Wee all must sink in th'storme or beg on th'shore. On the much lamented death of ROBERT pink, doctor of Divinity, & Warden of New college. WEre I all rheum, and made of tears, I could not drop one on this Hearse. He was a Dunce's enemy, And never could endure me. Were I a Wit I'd weep in Verse, And drench the Dropsi'd sun in tears. I'd make each Muses eye to run, Like a new sprung Helicon. You Schollers might methinks device, means to distil old tragedies, In griefs Alymbeck till there flows, From thence a Quintissence of woes. Then take the Spirits of them ●ll, And sprinkle o'er this Fune●all. Nothing but the soul of Woe, Can actuate a grief for You, What volleys of your sighs would well, Fill th' obits of your colonel. One that like a rock hath stood, curbed the storms, and checked the flood. Who for your sakes regarded not, Th'insulting soldier, or his shot; Who kept Apollo's Florets free, From th'clutch of rude Hostility; walked round the Battlements of wit, When barbarism stormed it. For when he was in th'Gatehouse lead, All Learning was imprisoned. By what he suffered there we know, What torments dwell in hell below. He drank his, tears and sorrows Lees; And ' ate the Bread of carefulness; Yet his Fancy was as clear, As if he fed on Sunbeames there. Being got from thence; for by the story, It was not Hell, but Purgatory; He kicked Rebellion out of town, pulled Ignorance and atheism down, He purged the schools of solecism, refined pedanticke barbarism. His silken Phrase made logic run, As smooth as calmed Helicon. But oh! he's gone, the welcome bee, dullness and stupidity. burn your books, or onely con, The Talmud or the Alkaron; study you may your hearts out; but This Anabaptist, Death, hath cut, All human Learning down at once, As if he had been bribed for th'nonce, By th'Agitatours, to do what, Yurberry and they could not. A greater blow there never came, From Poland or from Amsterdam. Let Boyes play on his name and cry, 'Tis pitty such a flower should die. I cannot think him dead that is, Transplanted into Paradise. Nor are we of his sweet bereaven, Since what we loose is gained by heaven. For though I love a posy well, I do not envy Gods the smell. On the Death of ROBERT pink Dr. of Divinity, and late Warden of New-Colledge. lo here the pride of Wicham's Garden dyes cropped to be made a flower in Paradise, As wee do bruise a root to put i'th Earth That it may sprout and gain a second birth, Thus is he laid in ground never to die But to spring up to all Eternity: Su●e as I live he's dead! w'have lost the man, N●y more w'have lost our all-who justly can Let down the Flood-gates of his big swollen eyes When he shall hear of such sad obsequies? But is he dead, Ile not believe it! froward fate Could never be so cursed to Anti-date The latter-day; Philosophy control and leave the drooping world without a soul. But oh! he's dead! dead on my life! Rude Death How durst thou be so bold to filch his breath That gave so many life? how knowst but he May hasten time to throw a dart at thee? How many things in black might we home fate Have freely seized and ne'er been murmured at, Such who devoutly chew the could upon Some new found fangle in Religion For seven yeares together, then scot free fall To tells at las● wee sh●ll have none at all. How well might these be spared; e'en let them die, Wee'l thank ill favou●'d Death for's courtesy. But oh! when virtue dyes! who can forbear That hath a tear to lend but give it there. And here lies one who when he lived possessed All engrossed virtue in his catholic breast, Whom every Grace did court to be her sphere, And every Muse had played her mansion there And sadly now unto thy sacred-tresse Bring in each eye a tear, each hand a Verse, he was[ believe me Reader for 'tis rare] One in whom all choice gifts implanted were Whose masculine Phrase and sovereign Speech was such, Tully might talk more but not speak so much, Whose every action had the noble end O● to advance desert or grace a friend. he was not gouty fingered who more free, More open handed to the poor than he If good works prove, that lived hence you may red The sad but certain cause 'tis pink is dead he was to good to live; Bee this pride With him all virtue lived, with him all died, FJNJS.