AN ELEGY Upon the MARQUIS of DORCHESTER, And EARL of KINGSTON, etc.  
6. May. 1681:  

IF to some Silent Tomb we laid our Ear,  
Fancy might such Oraculous Whispers hear;  
Must Souls with Bodies die? must Virtue rust?  
And Honour perish in a bed of dust?  
If of Nine Muses Eight were fallen asleep,  
One might stand Sentry, and the Capitol keep;  
'Tis I that One, weep o'er a Learned Hearse;  
Some will my Duty praise, tho' not my Verse.   

Farewell Great DORCHESTER born to Inherit  
Thy Father's large Estate, but larger Spirit:  
Who fatally by his Own Party slain,  
Was by Your Loyalty revived again.  
'Twas You maintained his dying Cause and Breath,  
Eluding all the Fallacies of Death:  
Doubly possessed his Merit and Estate,  
By right of Primogeniture and Fate.   

But now the Kingdom with strange Whirlwinds tossed,  
And fatal Naseby after Triumph lost;  
The King (Saintlike) into Temptation led,  
From professed Foes, to Friends less Faithful fled.  
Oxford is close begirt, Stout hearts grow tender,  
And Loyal Pulses beat for a Surrender.  
Then did our Marquis, (to his High Renown)  
Bravely advise still to defend the Town?  
If Heaven pleased, for His Majesty's Future good,  
Worthy the Ransom of more Lives and Blood.  
You were its greatest Ornament and Grace;  
Loved best, because best understood the Place.  
You comprehended in Epitome,  
The Learning of that great Academy.   

Alstedian thoughts are narrow and confined,  
Compared to the Vast Circle of your mind;  
Which, like that First Intelligence above,  
Did all Inferior Orbs contain and move.  
Philosophy here, (both Moral and Divine)  
Did with the Lustre of all Grace's shine;  
Here Law did in its Inner-Temple dwell,  
With Mathematics to a Miracle.  
Here Optics shined, here Jacob's powerful Wand  
Did all the Armies of the Stars Command:  
Surveyed both Globes, and wisely took from thence  
Just Measures for his High Magnificence.  
Whereas some, (clogged with Earth and Ignorance)  
Can ill adjust their own Inheritance.  
T'improve the barren Theory of these,  
In steps great Galen and Hypocrates,  
You judged (tho' Envy might its Poison dart)  
There could be no disparagement in Art.  
Your Charitable Dodonean door  
Sent Echoes to the Prayers of the Poor.  
Your well-spread Table still for Guests did call,  
Was Charities great Burse and Hospital.  
Those Guests (amidst Philosophy and meat)  
(More Ear than Appetite) forgot to eat.   

But these Perfections (Glorious in their Sphere)  
May make us Famous, not Immortal here.  
Both Small and Great, Learned and Unlearned must  
Submit their Talents to be weighed in dust.   

Now DORCHESTER, Great DORCHESTER is dead,  
And all his Parts laid Levelly with his Head.  
But though his Years summed up the Age of man,  
Largely extended to a Giant's Span;  
It might some Circumstances interpose  
(Like latter Frosts) and kill a drooping Rose.   

This Turtle missed his dearest KATHERINE,  
As Good, as Great; and only not the QVEEN;  
Divorced by Death from his most Saintlike Wife,  
His Palsyed Soul allowed but half a Life.   

Then you that wonder at his Matchless Parts,  
Acknowledge Love above the Power of Arts.   By JO. CROUCH, once his Domestic Servant.  

LONDON Printed and are to be Sold by Walter Davis.