AN ELEGY On that Worthy and Famous ACTOR, Mr. CHARLES HART, Who departed this Life Thursday August the 18th. 1683.  
31. Aug. 1683.  


CAn HART be dead, and yet neglected lie,  
Like vulgar Trophies of Mortality,  
Nor have His Name shrined in an Elegy?   
Hence Modern Wits, Apollo's Bastard-brood;  
If not for Him, mourn your Ingratitude.  
You oft have Verse on meaner Subjects made;  
None should give Presents, and leave Debts unpaid.  

Unthankful Tribe! how can ye silent be,  
And let His Fame earth with his Corpse, when He  
Gave both your Works and You Eternity.   
Thus lighted Tapers round their Flames do cast,  
And but for Others Good, Themselves they waste.   

Pardon, bright Saint, if now my weaker Verse  
Appear in sighing o'er Thy Glorious Hearse,  
To chide bold Death, and our vast Loss bewail;  
Our Loss, which nought on Earth can countervail:  
For where's a Name like HART, that has the Power,  
Can force all eyes t'a Tributary Shower?  
Whose Sins begot no Libels, whom the Poor  
For Benefit, the Rich for Worth adore;  
Who lived a Phoenix, who Himself denied,  
And to warm Passion a cold Martyr died.  
Sure He's not dead? Such were His looks, when He  
Would counterfeit a Death in Tragedy.  
But, ah! He's gone too sure; Cold is His Brow,  
And th' busy Pulse for ever's idle now;  
His Tongue, which late such Melody did arm,  
As could to Ecstasy the Hearers charm;  
Whose Sweetness (as we thought) might Fate o'er come,  
And make him change his Rigour, now is dumb.  
Silent as Sleep He lies, His latest Breath  
Lives Epilogue spoke, and all is still as Death.   

Farewell! Thou Darling of Melpomene;  
The Best but Imitate, None Equal Thee;  
With Thee the Glory of the Stage is fled,  
The Hero, Lover, both with HART lie dead:  
Of whom all speak, when of His Parts they tell,  
Not as of May, out some great Miracle.  
Such Power He had o'er the Spectators gained,  
As forced a Real Passion from a Feloned.  
For when they saw AMINTOR bleed, straight all  
The House, for every Drop, a Tear let fall;  
And when ARBACES wept, by sympathy,  
A flowing Tide of Woe gushed from each Eye.  
Then, when he would our easy Griefs beguile,  
Or CELADON or PEREZ made us smile:  
Thus our Affections He or Raised or Laid,  
Mirth, Grief and Love by wondrous Art He swayed.   


Let no detracting Tongue dare wound His Fame,  
Nor the Precise 'gainst Actors more exclaim,  
HART has restored their Credit, graced their Name,   
His Life the Stage instructed, and now dead,  
We're taught by Him the World's gay Stage to tread.  
Oh happy me! in such a Time brought forth,  
As to behold such Goodness, and such Worth.  
All that was Excellent we in Him might see,  
Servant to Justice, and strict Honesty:  
So Pure each Scene of's Life was, scarce we can  
Find Vice enough, to say He was but Man.  
His unexampled Virtues have no end,  
He was a Loyal Subject, Faithful Friend:  

Man's Favourite, and th' Almighty's was He too,  
Each hour His Alms and Prayers did Heaven pursue,  
Secured of which bright Mansion, hence he flew.    

And now, should I aspire each Grace to Praise,  
A Work t'astonish Wonder I must raise  
But oh, blessed Soul! since great our Loss appears,  
Permit me bathe Thy Memory in Tears;  
For Thy surviving Fame can never die,  
Consigned to nothing but Eternity.  

While Thy blessed Life & Death to th' Best give Laws,  
And each this certain Truth from Envy draws,  
HART ne'er made Exit yet without Applause.     

Printed by Nath. Thompson, at the Entrance into the Old-Spring, Garden near Charing-Cross, 1682.