UPON THE Earl of Ossory, Who Died of a FEVER▪ july 30. 1680.  

TO THE DUCHESS of ORMOND.  
MADAM,  

YOur Son's true worth whom we Lament as Dead  
Has drawn these Verses from my Heart, not Head;  
They are a plain true Narrative of what  
All men allow, no feigning what was not;  
I never thought you pleased with flattering Fictions,  
Nor that such stuff was proper in Afflictions:  
I seldom Rhyme, though there be seasons when  
The grav'st and holiest have so used their Pen,  
Who only Writes on such as OSSORY,  
Perhaps needned Write twice more before they Dy.    

I.  
THE best sized Pillar of the fairest Pile;  
That has of late been built on Ireland's Isle  
Is fallen; some were to short, others too long  
Some are too old, and others much too young.   

II.  
His numerous Name being like a Town too wide  
To be well manned, or fully fortified:  
He was their Citadel within, their Mote  
Without, their force which on the Sea did float;  
At Land their Army, nothing being more  
Ready to fight upon the Sea or Shore.   

III.  
He didn't grasp Commands to scrape up Gold▪  
When he was Chief, all Offices were sold  
'Tis true; for what d' you thing? for Skill in Arms,  
For Vigilance and Courage, those only Charms  
Wrought on his Soul; He that could pay good store  
Of Sterling-merit, needed pay no more.   

IV.  
Who knew him well, could not believe that ever  
He meant to Die thus tamely of a FEVER;  
The Fates did disappoint him; it was their Check  
He had not died upon a Blood-smeared Deck,  
Or Storming, fell down from a scalding Ladder,  
First by Granades rend, or what is sadder.  
Some Royal Ship his Coffin should have been.  
Stranded in Fight where tall Rocks might be seen  
To show the Seafaring Crew; where OSSORY  
Fought for the Laws, and for the KING did Dy.   

V.  
What must we Weep? No, let no Muses whine,  
Nor Verse be wet with Metaphorick Brine;  
His Name's not Dead, who stands enshrined with Glory,  
Embalmed by Fame, with Monuments and Story:  
Cannons go weep out Flames, Culverins go cry  
And roar, from every Ship and Battery,  
That OSSORY's gone! gone, whither? to scare Jove's Thunder,  
And try what Powers can make him Fear or Wonder.   

VI  
Should his Friends mourn? when this is his Condition.  
Or rather piously envy's fruition?  
No, mourn poor Suitors! who want his helpful word,  
Mourn more you KING's that did deserve his Sword.   

VII.  
Rather than weep fret, that the KING, the Nation  
Ireland, his House, and th' whole Confederation  
Of worthy Men, his Children and his Wife  
Were all trappanned and cozened of his Life:  
For He (who Fire and Ball was proof) with Ice  
Was Burnt, and with a Peach, shot in a trice.   

VIII.  
What did you mean, you blind Fantastic Fates,  
Thus to exert your envy, peeks and hates?  
Were ye asleep at Mons, why didn't ye there  
Kill him, or try if you could make him Fear?  
Or tear him with the Belgic Lion's Claws?  
Or with Death's treble Tooth (Fire, Sword, Sea) Jaws.   

IX.  
Why Sister Furies! you had been less cruel  
T'have let him fall in some punctilious Duel,  
Whilst he was spelling in the A B C  
Of Honour, and before the World did see  
And read the Volumes▪ which his Sword had writ,  
Without the help of fourb or fripon wit.  
Y'have done your worst, Him whom you could not beat  
Ye treacherously have poisoned by a Cheat.   

X.  
More james will miss him, than one or two,  
When they have great and dangerous work to do:  
Since he has fought enough; Let the next Prize  
Be played by others; thus th'Heavens just and wise  
(That he might but look on and not engage)  
Have called him up, to see't from their own Stage.   

XI.  
Now Tack about (poor Muse) 'Tis time to turn,  
We do but rant, to say we will not mourn:  
'tis true, some giddy Sceptics may rejoice,  
But so to do is not in good men's choice;  
There will be Mourners, though the most sincere  
May neither Musselins, Creap, nor long black wear.   

XII.  
Look wistly in men's faces, and you'll spy  
Pitts in their Cheeks, and hollows in their Eye,  
Red in the Lids, and underneath them Blue,  
Sallow and pale will be the Nations Hue:  
Men of brisk stomach will their food refuse,  
And not a few immoderate Wine dis-use.  
Now sleepless Heads will tell the Clocks all Night,  
And slumbering often startle in a fright;  
Wh●t broken Dreams and Fancies will possess  
Concerned minds? what Vapours will oppress  
The Hypocondries of distempered Spleen?  
More than before for many years was seen.   

XIII.  
How many wronged wretches, poor and blind,  
Will grope in vain their Remedies to find?  
What will the Lame-maimed Seamen do? whose Chest  
Was Patron OSSORY's most munificent Breast.  
The sound instead of songs of Drink and Lass  
Will sing his Name at Helm (each his watch Glass)  
And on the Deck, fancy the starry Train  
They see, is OSSORY, up in Charles his Wain;  
But singing sigh, That OSSORY no more  
Shall mak'm fight at Sea, nor Drink a shore:  
What Lamentations will this Blow so sharp?  
'Cause tso be set upon the Irish Harp?   

XIV.  
All Hands to Work, let every faculty  
Come help to soften this Calamity.  
Come you Divines! more than deserve the fair  
Preferments you have had, beat not the Air  
In Pulpits, but let your Inspired Arts  
Preach Balsams to the bruised Ormond-Hearts,  
Enlarge on job, and branch on every Head.  
That David spoke when Ba'shba's Son was Dead.   

XV.  
Where are the Optics I have often had!  
That could reduce a shape, though ne'er so bade  
Deformed and ugly, to a handsome hue?  
Help now to make things hideous and true;  
Look fair though false, make Ormond's House believe  
They may their OSSORY and their Son retrieve.  
Give of those Optic Instruments, to each  
Of his Name one, to valiant Soldiers reach  
One a piece more, and then (for fear of failure)  
Give two a piece to every fight Sailer;  
Thus by Refractions, and contrived reflections  
Delude his Friend and temper their Affections.   

XVI.  
Palliate this Sore, some Aesculapian Hand!  
Till dozeing time can Cicatrize it, and  
Beget new Hopes, until new measures be taken,  
And old designs off from your minds he shaken.   

XVII.  
Now, tell me (heavens Favourite) when shall I  
Leave off to mourn? when? not till thou die:  
You are in Paradise, we know right well  
You have already conquered Death and Hell;  
Send me a Passport from the place of Bliss,  
And let me your exalted feet go kiss.  
So shall your shining Face all my Tears dry,  
Like Summer-sun, O let me go, I'll die.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for La. Curtis. 1680.