Natura Lugens: OR, AN ELEGY On the Death of the Honourable ROBERT boil, Esq; Who left this Life December the 30th. 1691.  

REtired from Business, in a Dark Alcove,  
As I sat reading of Seraphic Love;  
In every Page of which, in every Line,  
Immortal Wit, and Weighty Judgement shine:  
Me thought, a Voice past softly by and said,  
Drop, drop a Tear, for Learned boil is Dead.  
Amazed, in haste, I from my Cell withdrew,  
And quickly found the sad Prediction True:  
For Common Losses Common Griefs suffice,  
But Sorrow here prepares a Sacrifice,  
Whole Hecatombs of Tears should offered be,  
As Pious Incense to his Memory:  
boil, whom the Learned World, with Justice, own,  
Was Nature's once beloved, adopted Son.  
The most Judicious boil is now no more,  
Who did such strange Phaenomena's explore,  
Like a Coy Virgin, or a Modest Bride,  
Who what she would conceal does closely hide;  
In such a Humour did Dame Nature seem,  
And was reserved to all the World but him,  
She Knew his Worth, and freely did reveal  
As much as can be known by Human Skill;  
Although the mighty Knowledge he engrossed,  
It was not by Dull Speculation lost:  
But as his Soul was Large, and Great his Mind,  
So what he Knew was Known to all Mankind;  
From Nature's Mines with Labour dug the Oar,  
While we with Pleasure viewed the wondrous Store:  
With his Rich Works we might enrich our Sense,  
And be Philosophers at small Expense.  
But justly we, Great boil, thy Fate deplore,  
Much we might know, but now must know no more,  
Th' Exchequer's shut, and since our Fate is such,  
Be thankful that by thee we know so much.  
But oh! what Pen is worthy to rehearse,  
In lasting Prose, or much more lasting Verse?  
His Pious Zeal, to the First Moving Cause,  
Which gave to Nature those Eternal Laws;  
For ever still in Second Causes he,  
Allowed an overruling Deity:  
Let Young Philosophers Direct, and Please  
Themselves with Nature's Hidden Qualities,  
Till they a better Light than Nature's gain,  
Their Thoughts are Fruitless, and their Search is vain.   

Seraphic Soul, how justly mayst thou now  
With Pity look on grovelling us below?  
Who know but yet in part, for which we see  
The Veil of Glory drawn between us and thee;  
Whilst thy sublime, pure and unbodied Mind,  
Now dwells in Love and Knowledge unconfined.   

With Envy we thy Glory do not see,  
But only wish to Live and Dye like thee;  
Noble by Birth, yet Humble too thou wert,  
Without Design, and Modest without Art,  
Learned without Pride, and Pious not for Show  
(Where in another do those Virtues grow?)  
But yet, alas! with strange Prophetic Fear  
(Thou Truly Christian Great Philosopher)  
We judge, when such Great Souls as thine retire,  
Nature herself will suddenly expire.   

EPITAPH.  
REader, beneath this Marble Pile,  
Is laid the Dust of Learned BOIL;  
A Word will fill the Mouth of Fame,  
While Worth and Learning have a Name:  
Let others Court Opinions breath,  
By stately Monuments of Death;  
Without a Tomb his Fame is safe,  
His Name alone's an Epitaph.    

LONDON: Printed for John Tailor at the Ship in St. Paul's Church Yard, MDCXCII.