MINERVA's Check to the Author, Attempting to write an 
VIVIT POST-FUNERA VIRTUS   blazon or coat of arms ELEGY Upon the Right Honourable and much to be Lamented ROGER First Earl of ORRERY, Who departed this Life at CASTLE-MARTER in the County of CORK in IRELAND, 16 Octobris Anno 1679.  
THat News hath Wings, we every day do find,  
And Ill doth ever leave the best behind:  

Admire not then the death of ORRERY,  
Renowned all's days, should in a moment fly,  
Both far and near the World to terrify.   

At Cork, at Dublin, London, and at Paris  
Too sooned arrives, and ROME, but there ne'er tarries,  
Till at both Indies, or where e'er more far is.   
'Mongst the World's Treasuries, it there declare,  
Than any theirs, a Pearl more rich, more rare  
W' have lost; thus ranging all the World about,  
Finds many zealous mournful Poets out:  
But still I thought the Muse's triple Trine,  
And Learned Crew concerned, must have design  
Some Eagles Quill should make the worthy Pen,  
To write their Dictates on the best of Men;  
But chanced to view a mournful Elegy  
Upon his Death, enough to stupefy  
The Reader, whilst the Poet did invite  
Each Poetaster on him Distiches t' write.  
This Author took I for good warrant to it,  
To be as bold as any Errand Poet:  
But quick as Thought Minerva said in haste,  
Hold, hold, poor man! done't Time and Paper waste;  
He was my Foster Child, 'twas my good hap  
The Babe to dandle first upon my Lap,  
Who kindly took my Breasts, and throve so well,  
That in the Liberal Arts he did excel.  
Thy groveling Fancy, and too low pitched Eye,  
Cannot reach up unto the Poet's Sky:  
Be not like those that to shoot up are-bold,  
At what their dazzled sense cannot behold:  
Thine hand to th' Stars thou may'st extend as well,  
As ORRERY's due praise conceive, or tell:  
His Noble Birth, Life, Death, is a fit Story,  
Reserved to Crown some Poet laureate's Glory:  
His Dust is Sacred, therefore do not dare  
The Muse's Darling, and the Grace's Dear,  
With thy rude Rhimes, devoid of Time and Measure,  
Once to profane, (a Sacred Poet's Treasure.)  
I blessed him young thus 'bove thy reach, and stature,  
Besides what Mars bestowed on's Noble Nature.  
Thou fain wouldst tell how th' Graces still invite him  
Their Guest, when Mars doth cease t' excite him  
Brighter in Arms, than's Arts erewhile to shine,  
In God's and's King's cause still defending thine.  
His care to breed brave Horses thou wouldst write,  
In Peace for Pleasure, and in War for fight:  
Thou fain wouldst talk on ' s victory at Knockny Clarshy,  
And give him (next to God) the God-a-mercy;  
While thousands yet alive would with thee say,  
His Prowess (under God) obtained that Day.  
But what is this to all that he hath done,  
To th' Towns and Castles he by force hath won?  
Thou'dst find an endless Task on 't, to declare  
His Peaceful Virtues, or 's exploits in War.  
In general terms I know thou'dst praise thus far,  
Prudent in Counsel, prosperous in War:  
But home to speak his praise, and to descend  
Unto particulars, there were no end.  
Singly admire his prudence in the thing,  
So well contrived that did restore the King,  
Whose constant Loyalty since th' Restoration  
'S a worthy pattern to th' unstable Nation.  
Thou kenst not of the Knots, or the Meanders  
Of State-Intrigues, displayed 'mongst bold Commanders.  
Then lay thy Pen by, don't i'th' least Eclipse  
A General's Glory by thy Pen, or Lips.  

Let England, Scotland, Ireland, mourning say,  
For threescore years and more enjoyed have they,  
In ORRERY an Atlas, lost this day.   
His death's a loss unparallelled, the King  
A grave wise Counsellor, and most loving  
Subject hath lost, the Church a Gracious Son,  
The Realm a Peer, yea, and a Peerless one;  
The Court a Pillar, th' Army a Commander  
Of high Conduct, as was great Alexander;  
The Country's loss as great yea greater rather,  
In ORRERY is lost a most dear Father.  
The hast company enough, who, than to mourn,  
Can't other glory add unto his Urn.  
I tell thee still thou needest not, canst not write  
Great ORRERY's due praise, who Shines too bright  
His Sacred Poems now but in the Press,  
Will speak his noble praise in fairer dress:  
His Wit and Worth were 'bove thy Ken or Story,  
Who therefore's wrapped into immortal Glory.  
But 'cause thou hadst a mind to do thy best,  
Thou, with his Coat of Arms, a Mourner rest.  
Thou art forewarned (she said.) Now farewell Friend.  
So ere I had begun, I made an END.  
T. B.   

LONDON: Printed for Rowland Reynolds, at the Middle-Exchange in the Strand. 1680.