AN ELEGY Humbly offered to the Memory of the Reverend Father in God Doctor Humphrey Henchman, Late BISHOP of LONDON, Who Departed this Life the 8th of October 1675.  

Stand off, you Common Vouchers for the Dead,  
Whose Muse, like Worms, on Carcases is fed;  
Who oft Assess your Mercenary Eyes  
To pay forced Tears at unknown Obsequies.  
Profane not in Dull Rhymes this Reverend Hearse,  
Nor clogged with your Set Forms of Tattered Verse.  
Let Sacred Wit Embalm His Memory,  
And Anthems speak him to Posterity:  
Whilst all the Raptures in his Praise distil  
Not from Parnassus, but from Zion Hill.  
Great Pious Prelate! who can Echo forth  
In any measure, thy Transcendent Worth?  
How justly we could wish (oh might it be!)  
A Second Donne to write thy Elegy.  
Yet, though we cannot speak Thee to the full,  
'Tis Irreligious to be wholly Dull:  
Then give us leave our Sorrows to express,  
Although in Words that do but make Thee Less:  
When Public Losses happen, 'tis but fit,  
Each man should testify his sense of it:  
Our Mother Church (by boisterous Factions torn,  
Whose deeper Scars She has not yet outworn)  
One of her Eldest Sons has lost this day,  
A Light that shone with a Celestial Ray;  
Whose Presence small pretended Lights did shun,  
As Glimmering Stars vanish before the Sun,  
And can we weaker Children but Bemoan  
Our Israel's Horsemen and her Chariots gone?  
A man of a true Christian temper, Fit  
To Feed the Flock, and also Govern it;  
From Superstition, and from Schism free,  
Gentle, yet Just to his Authority.  
His Moral Virtues did such splendour yield,  
Pagan's would Altars to less Merit build:  
Where yearly burning Rich Sabean Gums,  
The Curling Odours of their Hecatombs,  
Should reach his Soul in Heaven; But we must pay  
No such Oblations; But a purer way  
Of Imitation, whilst we panting tend  
To Live like Him, and make as blest an End.  
His Faith was still pregnant with Charity,  
And his Religion taught him Loyalty;  
His very Looks were Sacred; And In's Face  
Primitive Zeal retained its ancient Grace;  
A sweet, yet awful Presence, where we see  
A General Council in Epito me;  
A Well-poized Judgement, with stupendious parts,  
Storehouse of Tongues, and Magazine of Arts;  
Another Austin for Sublimer Sense,  
A chrysostom for Sacred Eloquence:  
Long had he here, with all Good men's Applause,  
Dispensed his Master's Oracles and Laws.  
But now his Work is finished, his Race run,  
And he receives the Crown that he hath won;  
And when his Lord shall come at the last Day,  
He'll be his Henchman, and prepare the Way.    

EPITAPH.  

Waiting the Resurrection of the Just,  
Here lies Deposited the precious Dust  
Of a Grave Prelate of so Clear a Fame,  
Even Schismatics in Him could find no Blame;  
London, bewails his loss, whilst Heaven in Love  
Translates him to the Hierarchy above.   
FINIS.