LOYALTY AND Nonconformity; OR, A Loyal Nonconformist decently interred. BEING An ELEGY ON The much lamented Death of M ris. G. E. Lately Deceased.  Per varios casus, Per tot discrimina rerum Tendimus— 
LONDON, Printed in the Year of our Saviours Incarnation, 1669, and of his Majesty's happy Restauration, the 9th.   

The Author's apologetic and Request to the Candid Reader.  

READER, here's no Lampoon for Court,  
Nor classic Gout to show thee sport;  
Nor yet Advice in lofty Rants,  
For this the Author says he wants:  
Or else he had not madly run,  
Thus without leave of's LITTLETON,  
T' increase the plague of vermin rhymes,  
bread by the heat o'th' comic Times:  
For nought can Fancy overawe,  
As do the loud Reports of Law.  
'Twas then pure duty to her hearse  
transformed his sighs and tears to Verse.  
If that he chance to leave his Text,  
And at's Return forget what's next;  
The worst that can be understood,  
Is, th' Poet's bad, and Sorrow good.  
Our loss( 'tis true) here forms a Sea  
( Not of 
(a) A late seditious Pamphlet so entitled.  Anglorum Lachrimae)  
Which seems t' usurp its bounds, and thence  
In frolic of Impertinence,  
Remoter subjects seize, with streams  
designed as deluge for all themes.  
But know Grief staggers, and grows sick,  
even at the sight of rhetoric;  
Nay, Quarrels fashionable Arts,  
Whose Rules would sprucifie its parts:  
Though it now swell, itis private treads  
Through Caverns, may enrich the Meads:  
And this Extravagance alas!  
Prove motion but to purge its mass.  
Nor are Excursions strange, since we  
Excrementitious humours see,  
From high Divines above our reach,  
Break forth into their learned preach:  
Hair to adorn themselves, or heat  
Makes nails for Fan. but seldom sweat.  
Nay Death itself, to this sad work,  
Has rambled from his Candia-Turk;  
And left that more Christian Employ,  
To try conclusions on our joy;  
Yea, all may seem ( Reader) i'th sense  
Of thine affairs, Impertinence;  
And that thy Fancy perhaps be  
As good diversion for me.  
Dost think this Poem exactly fine?  
Thou needst forgiveness, and hast mine:  
Or, dost thou deem it worthy blame?  
In justice then give me the same.  
And that thy candour have relief,  
Impute faults to unruly Grief;  
As to officious frisking Zeal,  
Men do those of the Publick-weal.  
Treat this thy Neighbour as thine own;  
Unsoul it not with baleful frown:  
Nor in disdain doom it to die,  
Because not strong-limb'd Poetry.  
Thou hast not rage for such a part,  
No, Reader, no, who ere thou art,  
If not oth Gang who run down Schism,  
Yet pitch us into Quakerism;  
Those RATIONALS ( forsooth) we see  
New modeling Divinity;  
Who resolve all to Ethick Light,  
And Canonize the STAGARITE:  
Or of them who are past all sense,  
INQUISITORS for Conscience;  
Those foundlings of themselves and Wine,  
Of the Sic Volo Discipline;  
That reach our Souls, if we neglect  
To run i'th Liv'ry of their Sect.  
But if of these thou'rt shrewd and cursed,  
I hope no good, nor fear thy worst.  
Bend then thy brow, and I'll my knee,  
That it may please the deity,  
Our KING, our LORDS, and COMMONS may  
Guide in this climb our Night and Day:  
As the Sun, Moon, and Starry throng  
Do th' Universe, and full so long;  
To snuff our Church-Lights, and take care,  
Dark-Lanthorns no more ENGLAND scar.    

The Elegy.  

A Beacon'd Heaven, or a Trembling Earth,  
Sinks down our looks to Plagues, to War, and Dearth;  
Neptune can't sport his Waves, to Tides, or roar;  
But 'tis to Land some princes Death on shore.  
( Man's fears need not paint pale) a Greenwich 
(b) The strange Fish taken near Greenwich in August last.  Gramp,  
Starts Conscience, as would the doomsday damp;  
When slimy Graves yawning, blend stench with Hell,  
And no air breathed but what's oth Damned's yell.  
Fond Mortal, does thy Courage thus strike Sail,  
When this Star strokes his Beard, that waggs his Tail,  
When Winds break Goal, or when there strays a Fish,  
Prodigious only that it fits no Dish?  
And dost not feel her die? Pretend to sense!  
Yet think for to survive her influence?  
Though Goodness groan as th' anguish'd entrails will  
Of some amazed Thunder-cloven Hill:  
Though Joy be ravished hence, and born on high  
By th' Tempest of our Universal sigh:  
Yet still dread Portents? when( worse than presage)  
Her Death's the very ruin of the Age.  
Thus distant Clouds of dust the Fort confounded  
With 'Larum; while alas! from their own ground  
Black Mines of Fate dispatch up all at once;  
In a reversed shower of Men and Stones;  
And in such horrid hast, there's not alive  
Knows whether Soul or Body first arrive.  
So our loss may( do but consult our tears)  
Uncenter this Globe, and Dis-pole the spheres:  
For Nature finds dire horror force its way  
Through all her Veins; and well kind Nature may:  
Since Ghostly Bigots do with far less cause,  
Raise the Militia of our SOV'RAIGN's Laws;  
Troop up to Arms, the penal Acts, march on,  
Beleaguer CHARLES for Proclamation.  
Not those brave tempered Souls, who judge it meet,  
With our Great Rome-Confounding STILLINGFLEET,  
To fortify and guard exposed Frontiers:  
But these, that must have Inland-Towns made fires;  
And rude, to gratify their pride alone,  
Expect our PRINCE should trudge and see it done.  
Tempestuous BOREALE-WILD would call  
Such BECKETS, yea the Kingdoms Funeral:  
And rail, as Curates do bestow fell knocks  
On Nonconformists from the prating Box,  
When Sall'ing from the Postern of some Text  
These LEVITE 
(c) The Venetian General in Candia, so renowned for his frequent Sallies upon the Beleaguerers.  Montbruns bring them prisoners next.  
But 'tis enough, our cause of grief in right  
Is more, than theirs of Vengeance and spite.  
Why, man, the times are broken, pack up, go try  
How thou canst traffic with Eternity:  
Or else convey thyself to brighter dayes;  
Plant in some Cen'try gilded with like rays,  
For she is Set, The puling light that streams  
Is but Refraction from her farewell beams.  
virtues resigned their splendours, that our sky  
( Like CHAOS) turns to Terror, and we die.  
Ah Death! could I be thine; This only Verse  
Should make's Immortal, and discharge the hearse.  
Thou most unfathomable Sot, that could  
Gusle our Channel full of Brandy blood:  
While Pests( to relish thy carouse) on shore,  
From wretched Mankind cater'd thousands more.  
Thou that since sin produced thee, dost advance  
Our Earth some Leagues 'bove its first Ordinance,  
By human dust turned into Mounts and Hills,  
That heavenly Bodies fall to making Wills;  
And partend Souls peep through th' invaded Skies,  
Preparing their own final Elegies.  
Could not all these sufficiently provide?  
Not the past Woes, our War, our Plague, our H—  
But thy vast Gorge, thine avaricious Maw  
Devours what was our Gospel and our Law!  
Must we then lose the Decalogue and Creed,  
That thy base Pensionary Worms may feed?  
Yet who'd not laugh?( were not t' intend a smile  
profaneness in the most corrected style)  
Expect Meales? when her Body was so wore  
And so extracted into Soul before,  
even to translation; that we have in Urn  
But bones for to secure us her return:  
Us that must droop, at length we die, and then  
Still droop,( according to Great ORIGEN)  
till Charnels rattle, That dead as alive  
From age to age successively we grieve.  
Not as did deceased Cromwels Court of yore;  
When Walls mourned, and the Drapers mourned much more.  
But 〈◇〉, at so true a rate  
With Emphasis, Grief in its Zenith state.  
As when 
(d) Bartholomew Tide, 1662.  expiring Sermons were aloud  
pronounced, to the no less expiring Crowd;  
And the Divines took farewell of their ears  
In a sad contest of discourse and tears;  
We saw the distressed People as they sate;  
Lost in a silent Wilderness of fate:  
Then( like unto the dreadful crack and moan  
Of the dissolving World) burst into groan:  
That echo trilling fled the Vaulted Isles,  
Till wooed by Organs, and such pious wil●ss:  
Thus we lament without dispute or pause,  
In a vast grief, next nothing but its cause;  
A Grief, whose sighs commanded by our Love,  
Might line with Sable all the Orbs above.  
For she now glittering in their Tissue rays,  
Our old distinction's lost of Nights and Dayes;  
Nay, Twilight does attend her, that all's Night:  
The Sun and's train have since but acted Light;  
As though she were from the Empyrial Throne  
Sent Hostage down, and now recalled and gone.  
Mortals concerned, no less resign to fears,  
Than should the last Trump's Thunder rend their ears:  
For who shall live, if she must die? Or can  
Hope saucily for piety in man?  
She had( though parties hoard it in their nooks)  
( Me thoughts) a lovely Heaven in her looks:  
Such, 'twere completely( did ye all combine)  
Salvation for you Painters, to design.  
Perfection dwindles, and subscribes her famed,  
Your Colours then must crimson into shane:  
Or else your palates with Ambition high,  
Will nauseate all but what's as pale as she.  
She had true read and white, yea( what was more)  
Her Soul spread and appeared through every poor.  
Some certain unaccountable bright Ray  
rendered her face more Glorious than gay.  
There modesty, and a majestic Awe  
Divided both their Empire and their Law;  
There Native Worship did, as lewdest crimes,  
Scorn the fantastic Gywgawes of the times.  
What though she thought our public Prayers are  
Too Common to be either rich or rare:  
That Ceremonies were by first intent,  
A-la-mode Temple, and Church-Complement;  
To Humble-servant heaven, Madam the Moon,  
I'th' Sacred Cringe of Cardinal PEROON.  
Though bread when Young to Dance, it ill appears  
Our Church should practise Steps at these grave years.  
What though she thought this, & much more, yet she  
honoured her KING, not with hired Loyalty,  
For devout thousands, or less holy Cents,  
For Liege ecclesiastic suffering Rents;  
But with Religious awe, nay past control  
She knew so Good a Prince deserved her Soul.  
That did our noise and din of CHURCH DIVINE,  
Prove but mere Alias for good Lease and Fine:  
Or Excommunications found no worse,  
Than tricks to choose JACOBUS out o'th' Purse.  
Yet was her Duty to her Prince sans strife  
Entwisted closely with her Line of Life.  
Though some grace Drunk'ness, praise, and set to sale  
The ILIADS of their Loyalty's in Ale;  
Health all the Clergy, and to help that wing,  
Jade and spurgal, No BISHOP, and NO KING:  
Her Conscience yet and ' legiance were the same  
A Pyramid of one resined flamme,  
A serious dread: though some( with envious lye  
And Non obstante to true Modesty)  
engross all Faith; yet shall Parsons droll,  
See them but TITH-PIGG'● well, as much for Nol.  
The duties of both Tables were her Meals;  
The crumbs( did Merits save) might feed whole Weals.  
Church Indigent small Officers don't pray  
More for their christenings, Burials, Tithe or Pay,  
Than she did for our CHARLES: Who may he so  
Live long as his Eternal famed must do;  
Must do, while there shall last what Men call Days,  
Or Air to mould one syllable of Praise!  
In some, their Passions( like the savage Brood  
Of Goths or Huns) invade, then waste their Blood,  
And desolate their Looks; while flaming Ire  
shows in their Eyes the Countrey's left on Fire:  
Here they turned Reason, and could( though full bent)  
Parl with their Objects, all in Argument  
Of Privy Council to her Soul, but just,  
In giving Senses Cinque-Ports to their Trust;  
Who guarded them both against Storm and Price,  
Both Force and Fraud: The City-Avarice,  
Court-Luxury must at great distance ride,  
With so-so clergies Laziness and Pride:  
Her Passions could determine these to be  
Absurd, as Method in an Elegy.  
And though 'vice strutted herein splendid Train,  
She looked down on it with an high disdain:  
Like his, that doth a silenced Preacher see,  
From the TEN'RIFF-Pike of his Deanery.  
Would you describe then virtues all at once?  
Pronounce her Name, as FRANCIS did his France.  
As DECENTLY IN ORDER's haled amain,  
All sized Ceremonies to maintain.  
And so may Soph, or such small ERGO Pun  
Prove North-west passage, the Philos'pher's ston,  
even what you please( Sir) be it proof or Song,  
So Statutes do but Jus Divine his Tongue.  
Would you see Heathen Chief-Good christened, and  
ethics serve under Sacred Writ's command,  
Their School-points justly now become our own,  
Made Denizens in our Religion:  
'Twas here, and every moral Virtue hence,  
choose a new Genus, and new Difference.  
She found these human Lustres had before  
But twinkled in raw undigested Oar;  
dispersed and branched in speculative Veins  
Through all the SOUTHERN Schoolmen's Sun-burnt brains,  
And therefore coined them into practic pence,  
Now currant through all Marts of Conscience.  
She grieved to think they should for Ages lye  
confined within 〈◇〉 and 〈◇〉,  
employed to make for Schools, until of late,  
Their Fire-works, Squibs and Crackers for their prate;  
To enhance Church-men, and keep Lay Souls low,  
The fitter to be wheedled to the to.  
These useful Notions, we now rescued see  
From their irrefragable slavery;  
And brought to CHRISTENDOM from all their fear,  
Their angelic, seraphic, ALGIER.  
She did design,( still her Example strives)  
To rest these in their rights unto our lives;  
To Discipline our Converse, work us that  
Which Set-fac'd Monks made but Religious chat.  
Yet story tells us, that in Church and Schools  
Reformers always were Recorded Fools.  
No Treason Heir apparent to the Rope;  
No villainy that ever lodged with Pope;  
But jesuits, yea the thin Priests laid on  
Those of the AUGUSTAN CONFESSION:  
So was their dawning overcast, and we  
Observe the brave ROYAL SOCIETY  
Run the same fate, for young pert Sophomoors  
Gown Hec's learnedly kick them out of doors:  
And swagg'ring( each a System by his side)  
Must up and on Great CHARLES the Founder ride.  
Though their hearts dread, a Toleration may  
Let Presb. loose 'mong those Livings where they prey.  
Yet ' las! these squabble not for Tithes, nor rage,  
Nor Rival with them, for a Parsonage:  
But the cause is, these saucily do keep  
Discourse with Nature, and perplex their Sleep.  
So when she morals tuned to Sacred Lyre,  
The brisk Diocesan Shield-bearing Squire  
Smells Faction:( which by this time all men see  
Is ( Anglicè) She thinks not as do we)  
When training them to divine mien and grace,  
She Aegypt's Learning dressed in CANA'N's Phrase;  
There( cries this dapper Sancho) Croaks the Cant.  
Perhaps so too, nor will this Younker want;  
Only her Accent might from Scripture stray  
Into the Talk, and Younkers from a Play.  
For Common Sir Johns doff their Sacred gear,  
( No shane to the spruce-witted COVENT Peer)  
And steal on Saturdays( 'TIS well KNOWN SINCE)  
To hire th' House Action for their Eighteen pence.  
Does this Preach next of Vengeance and Death?  
'Tis 
(e) An Actor.  BATTERTON in Pulpitacts 
(f) In the Tragedy so called.  macbeth:  
Or that with Arms a kembo, blustering look,  
Damn Puritans, or laugh them down by Book;  
There's 
(g) An Actor.  Lacy with his 
(h) In the Comedy called Bartholomew Fair, wherein the Puritan is rendered no less ridiculous, than the Author profane.  Fair, and thus all day  
We fools hear hectored out a Sermon-Play.  
Alas! the APOSTLES Cant, shakespeare and BEN  
( hang Scripture Phrase!) were far more gallant men.  
These are comformities true marks; Let's moan,  
Since Atheism creeps into preaching tone;  
GOD's style grown base, that our Church-Doctors  
He 
(i) The Continuation of the Friendly Debate, p. 1.  Nonconforms, who through mercy's well.  
But SHE is dead; 'twere better they went hence  
comforming in their modern COVENT sense.  
For say the Poor, Mean Alms from a Divine  
That girdles while there's extant Wench or Wine.  
Though some there be good, as the best Cloak Sect,  
Yet still the roused Kingdom will suspect,  
Their intrest's that of coin; their Churches fears  
Of Schism to be, no purchase for their Heirs;  
No wonder then the Poor( that forlorn driven)  
Who reaped a constant Harvest from her Love,  
In Uproars should with Curse-surrounding cries  
Impeach grim Death, and damn the Destinies.  
That Coward Death! who dares not yet advance,  
As by foft force of a well-manag'd glance  
Loves Boy does,( who attacks us in our prime,  
I'th' rage and fury of our valiant time:  
When man'd with Spirits from our hearts and brains,  
And liquid Aetna's trenching round our veins)  
But sneaks till Age have wormed a breach, and then  
The Villain wriggles into th' lives of men:  
Else shall he lurking spy, when some dire Sin,  
Or Traitor Humour shall invite him in.  
Well Death, I know thou'lt be revenged on me,  
And to thy Trophies add this elegy.  
Blast then my blooming youth, and with pale hate  
Remit me to the Earth, my ancient state.  
Yet if the more Ingenuous L'ESTRANGE,  
Who seized Books, but gave's own News in Exchanges,  
Shall counterwork thy Spite, this Threnick may  
Pursue thee to thine own Hic Jacet Day.  
If to the Printing Ink he grant in brief,  
Of this sad Paper, but a Term of life,  
It may tell Time's rear, how thine Hour-glass stands,  
filled up with Wrongs, in number like its Sands.  
Are thy late Conquests settled, without fear  
A Resurrection make impressions there?  
That in a bounding fierce career for more,  
Thou blockst up( as dependencies) the Poor;  
Who must fall in, as would( if Candia fails)  
Th' Aegean-galaxy, those seeds of Isles.  
My Country Hills Heav'n-reard for stately Scenes,  
And Landmarks to each Houses vast Demeans;  
Ye that delight, shaking your Clouds, to bow,  
And view Fields, scramble for the drops below,  
Ye saw, ye saw this dead, and so stood by,  
As if with Death, of the Conspiracy.  
Though China worship Hills, thought ye therefore  
( She dead) we should your Highnesses adore?  
Ye that were PROTESTANTS( Record assures)  
Ere ever Austin saw and murdered yours,  
Hate this Doulia-cheat; Twas then to be  
Sharers with heaven in her Society:  
Else ye, whom Nature placed to interpose  
Twixt us, our Roman and our Saxon soes,  
To keep us BRITAINS still unconquered so  
As is our Tongue, had screen'd us from this Wo.  
No more, dear Hills, The critics swear in Town  
We welshmen do as slily praise our own;  
As oft they hear some Scoundrel Priestly Elves  
Extol the Mother-Church, but mean themselves.  
'Tis chemic WO, extracted Fate, the dread  
Of Nature, Horror full embodied:  
For here Death in a Sea-sight-fury so  
Contracts his Arm, as for one final blow:  
That notice from the World's divining Soul  
( Like missive ruin) pierces through the Whole;  
And we so tremble, as the Wrath and Rage  
Of all Times were consigned o'er to this Age.  
The present Loss by which this WO doth tract  
Our Beings, checquers all our Joys with Black;  
And spurns down Mirth, as 
* Mr. Pr.  old Crop kicks each State,  
Or our new 
† Dr. Pa.  Friendly Master of 

De— bait.  
Make bait.    
That Kirker( now turned Wit) see the Fates smile,  
Still ' frights the Peace and Genius of this Isle.  
He bustling( that we thinks Conversion true)  
O're-acts his Part, Anticipates his Cue;  
Nay, falls to's Boutfeau Game, to vex our Weal;  
And in his former good old causing Zeal,  
Would slip our Parliament, unhood our Court,  
To raise himself some Persecuting Sport:  
Yea, fits his Lines, as near as Papist can  
For the FRENCH huguenot Meridian.  
Ensure him but his 
(k) To be A. B. C.  Lambeth hopes, and then  
He'l blow the dying Embers once again.  
He rails by Craft at Government, because  
His Phaetontick pride reins not the Laws;  
That by the flamme he'd make, might but be shown  
( Good lack!) that Mighty Reason of his own:  
Which does with the Art mimic of our Stage,  
Give three Disputes their Exits in one page..  
What can't Imperious Ipse dixit do,  
When't apes Creation phrase, LET IT BE SO?  
He blows a Blast, th'Assembly 
(l) The Presbyterians.  falls; He writes,  
Down goes the 
(m) The independents.  Savoy, & out all the 
(n) The Sectaries.  Lights.  
Had's Pen but skirmish'd Visier and Bashaws,  
BEAVFORT might have survived the CRETAN Cause.  
He 
(o) A Lawtearm for murdering ones self.  felo dese's his poor baffled Friend,  
( Foul Church-play from 
(p) The Friendly Debate, p. 1.  Good morrow to the end)  
Who pinioned, runs the gauntlet( it is feared)  
Through tattered bands of Arguments cashiered;  
stragglers through musty Books, like STATUTE ROGUES,  
Till quartered in his pretty Dialogues.  
Ye duller Levites, if his Plot but hit,  
He'l find you all with neat 
(q) Covent-Garden.  Piazza Wit.  
Is 
(r) The old plea for Diocesan Episcopacy, but of late abandoned.  Jus Divinum cowed, and cannot win?  
Here are stout Calumnies, then throw them in.  
Does paltry Reason tyre? Here's Droll that can  
With Jaw-bone service hip and thigh the Fan.  
What horned dilemmas ( those Rams) could not storm,  
This Engine of the Atheists must perform.  
What though the Publican Collectors say,  
These better do the KING's TAX LAWS obey,  
Than does our Magpie tribe; yet make them smoke  
With other ACTS, or Pocket-pistol Joak.  
Teiz the Church-Ecchoes hoarse; then to your wish,  
tower and speak Delphos o'er an Alehouse dish.  
But( now I think on't) th' hero may in's next  
( For I have seen him combat with his Text)  
Beat up thy Quarters, Muse, with Learned Wit,  
And Noncon. pressed up for what he thinks fit;  
Retreat then timely, for thou art but one  
To Him, his Minister, and his Noncon.  
But his DEBATE injures no less my rhyme  
Than all, since here Digressions turn to Crime.  
'Twere sacrilege t' embezel from this theme  
The meanest thought, though napping towards dream;  
Were I not bound to intercept, when some  
Would dog her very Soul beyond the tomb:  
That Soul which scorned these finnical Divines  
Should make CHARLES tug at th'oars of their designs.  
They panting, club their Reasons all at once,  
For the quick service of the Churches Dons:  
Who treat the topics, and a Guard must raise,  
While these pert Masters do contribute phrase.  
Then the van-currier Treatise flies abroad,  
To meet our PARLIAMENT upon the Road:  
Out thus the Book struts, teemed in anxious pains,  
By a Cabal of far more heads than brains.  
Then my Lord's Chaplains play for Votes bo-peep;  
( So they have Pigs, the Devil take the Sheep)  
How do they sputter! How these JEHU's drive,  
To keep their whooted crazy cause alive!  
To and again, as by a Jury cast,  
They tumble in a Lord-have-mercy-hast,  
And ring out Disobedience: though we saw  
They little mind it in their Suits at Law;  
Yet basely cokes into their sole intent  
Those terms of LOYALTY and GOVERNMENT.  
That generous Soul! she grieved they should pel-mel  
Impiously sacrifice three Kingdoms Weal  
To Popery's grim Manes without end;  
( For CHURCHMENS Pride will never condescend)  
Since in appearance, by their baughty prate,  
The Church makes a mere Cully of the State.  
She closed with practise then, yet smiled to see  
These Grandees hover in the theory:  
Tampring with bloody notions, yea outright  
Court for Auxiliary the jesuit;  
And all this,( if we may believe the Town)  
To shore up, not RELIGION, but their Own.  
She retired therefore, lest their LORDLY Cause,  
Though ill trained, might be curassier'd in Laws;  
And practised Piety in that short space,  
As though t' atone Wrath for all human Race;  
As though her Works Effluviums were to be  
From the great Body of theology;  
That her Example uncontrolled stands,  
As the best Gloss on the Divine Commands.  
We Preaching swap for Language,( yet perforce 
† The Romance so called.  CASSANDRA has ten times more neat discourse:  
One Scene of DRYDEN springs more noble fire,  
Than all our Antinoncon graveling ire.)  
Or, 'tis distinction'd out in graver whine,  
The mixed Purl-Liquor Thomas did Aq-uine,  
When's barret'ring huge ENS RATIONIS-Sconce  
Made GUELPHS and GIBELLINES of Pro's and Cons.  
Our Harrangues do from 
(t) Romance phrase.  deep Resentment rise,  
Or they 
(u) Schoolterms.  formaliter are otherwise.  
Her Life was no Cue-Preachment, but might be  
Quoted for practical divinity.  
It lay not in terse words, the semi-hug,  
The managed head, 
(w) The Pulpit mode of some few pert, crowing witted, clinch Preachmen among the Junior Masters.  St. MARYs shoulder shrug;  
Nor in young Presb's Neck-Handkercher; nor well  
I'th' Yaun devout and Gape of Doctor F—  
But such as vig'rously was faith and dead,  
A certain Orthodox sound practic Creed.  
Her Actions( now enshrined) were so fair,  
They did even proselyte the ambient Air.  
The furious Rabble wish their Hull and Sail  
Might off into the Depths with the same Gale.  
Yea they who Priest-inspir'd lay for offence  
In ambush to snap up her Conscience,  
All vote Her GOOD, who doubtless took no joy  
To see them damned to such a bad employ:  
To shark their living from Man's Blood( God wot)  
While sober Prayers must clear their drunken Shot.  
Because on this condition person W—  
Dischalk'd their ancient Leigier Reckoning.  
Yet she forgave their Process upon tales;  
From which hot-headed freak God keep our Wales.  
Those her Remains, that in the Grave are found,  
Beyond all Canons consecrate the Ground:  
As Porter-Angels, who o'er Sea and Strand  
Loretto backed, had bring's the Holy-Land.  
Her Soul's disposed above all sighs and tears,  
towards the rebuilding of the ruined spheres;  
Those Constellations to repair in hast,  
Where the late Blazing-Stars committed waste:  
Or being active, 'tis promoted hence,  
For to succeed some tired Intelligence:  
That still th'Orbs to their tunes may dance in Chores,  
Around, Around this hollow Globe of ours.  
But Seas have straits, and must to these comform,  
No less than to the Hectorism of Storm:  
even so have we, or wee'd erect and raise  
Large Institutes on her et caetera's;  
And praise, as do the Set of men in black,  
Ply Patrons with Eternity of clack.  
The shore and Ne plus to this doleful Song,  
Is that I dare not trust our false-grown tongue;  
Not poor, but base, it such deceits affords,  
That words cheat sense, and Letters cheat them words:  
It changes, fawns, turns coat, all in a trice,  
As though 'twere nibbling at a bnfice.  
Not a 
(x) No Fury like a mercenary Renegado.  malicious cavilling of late,  
But Church-men call( forsooth) FRIENDLY DEBATE.  
A here and there I have thee; Thus the Priest  
Text huffing-big, cried Bellarmine thou liest.  
Thus, in our Laws with fierce and doughty strokes,  
Our John a Styles runs down their John a Noaks:  
For 'tis decreed in high Romantick rage,  
Our Knight fell giants, though in's PILGRIMAGE.  
Well, since our very Language 'haps to be  
debauched and Rogu'd by Pulpit-Errantry;  
And ENGLISH turns to Sin,( blessed Soul) 'tis time  
For thee to part, and me to end this rhyme.    

The Epitaph.  

HEre lies her Dust, that breathing did contain  
True Goodness, more than Interest can feign.  
What her Parts were, her Graces who not knows,  
Our Verse refers him to her Neighbours Prose:  
Which( like famed) flutters round this Tomb, & says  
They'l diet all their Children with her praise:  
That after-ages shall no less inquire  
Who's here, than for the source of Londons Fire.   
FINIS.   

ERRATA.  

PAg. 4. line 2. red, The Poet's. lin. 6. r. In frolics.  
P. 5. line last save two, r. STAGYRITE.  
P. 6. l. 5. Put a Comma after these.  
P. 7. l. 3. deal Comma after Waves.  
P. 8. l. 11. deal Comma after Arms. lin. 20. put a Comma after such.  
P. 10. l. 19. r. Empyreal.  
P. 12. l. 1. r. shall these Parsons. l. 16. A Semicolon after Argument. l. 18. An Apostropha over s in Sense's.  
P. 14. l. 25. r. ( 'Tis well-known sense) l. 30 Interrog. point after Book?  
P. 16. l. 12. An Apostropha over s in House's. l. 25. put a Comma after still.  
P. 19. l. 19. r. cokes in to.