AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF Thomas Merry, Esq Of St. Ann's Lane, who died on St. Bartholomew's Day, 1682.  
A sorry thing a jeer on him & the Whigs 29. Aug. 1682.  

'TWas night; the Comet in the Welkin glared,  
And with great Eyes the greater Bear outstared,  
When Tom convoked his friends: The Noble Peer 
Earl of Shaftsbury   
With Tap in Side, the Salamanca Seer 
Dr Oates   

In his Geneva Cassack, 
* Meal-Tub. 〈◊〉  Colonel  
With Cobs, with Scabs, with Cloak, with Sword most fell,  
And little Hunt appeared to make his Will.    

Squire Tom his Body from his Bed did raise,  
Spitting in Faces, splutters such words as these.   

Fellow Reformers, ye do all well know,  
I am as very a Rogue as any of you;  
Yet shall die in my bed; a Fate I fear,  
Attends not all my Friends; my gentler Star  
(Its more than I deserved) doth kindly snatch  
My guilty Neck far from the Claws of Catch.  
Now seeing I must cease to draw my Breath,  
Some of my Worldly Goods I thus bequeath.   

Imprimis Velvet Coat from hence shall pass,  
Bedecked with Buttons of the purest Brass,  

To Coffeehouse of Dick, where carefully  
It is to hang a Monument of me,  
As Rogues are trust up in Effigy.    

When, Valiant Chetwyn, I did break thy head,  
My small Bambooe did stand me in great stead;  
Most worthy Friends this noble Stick convey,  
And apud Ludlow have it kept for Ay.   

My Silver Pepper-Box which without jest,  
Instead of Pepper once contained a Priest,  
Before from Pagan Papist I it stole,  
Dear Doctor take; make Sermons for my Soul:  
In pure and undefiled Lingua Franca,  
At the University of Salamanca.  
And when the date of thy famed life shall end,  
(Which will not be like mine I doubt my Friend)  
I give John Catch of Turn-mill Street Esquire,  
Two pounds (I hope he'll do what I desire)  
My Learned Doctor for thy future praise,  
To Cloth the Triple Tree in Sable Bays.  
Item I give unto thy Niece one Dildo,  
As well as Hastings which her business will do.  
And to thy Brace of Brothers (hopeful Plants)  
The Devil by these presents gives and grants,  
To Steer and Glaze old Charon's Barge, to carry  
Stout Swearers over Styx in a good Wherry:  
To thee and to these Heroes of thy Race,  
OLD NIC in Hell for ever grants a Place.   

To thee my Colonel (a Pepper-Box,  
Is no convenient Medicine for the Pox)  
I give my Arms and Armour, which I Scowered  
For th' Oxford Job; Oh! they are all since Towered:  
I quite forgot myself; I can't give those:  
Into thy hands I do commit my Spouse,  
Whose Life I saved, yet ne'er read Aristotle,  

* His Conjuration at Westminster.  By Piss, by two Old Women, and one Bottle:  
She is as Blithe, as Brisk and Debonair,  
As she thou hast of Danish Race and Hair.  
And tho' Dear Friend, I left thee in the Lurch,  
At Tower of 
* In the Bailiffs hands.  Bum behind St. Clement's Church,  
What for myself I fitted, I'll dispense  
To thee, a Cord, which cost me just three pence.   

Thou my loved Lawyer, my best Proselyte, 
Mr Hunt.   
‛ E'er since my dreadful Shoe thy breech did smite.  
See that same Shoe be Hung in House of Coffee,  
Called Amsterdam, as a Remembrance of me.  
The Shoe, which through thy Bum by secret art,  
Conveyed Rebellious maxims to thy Heart.  
And made thee, what lay in thy Power, to deface,  
The Government and Church in thy lewd PREFACE.   

To thee, sweet Will, the Guardian of a Door,  
Where Lords went in and out in days of Yore.  
Successor to my Place, not Parts, to thee,  
I leave my Discontent and Bawdry.  
Thou trusty Page to Franc. Smith's Noble Peer,  
Vote-Finder for Two Sheriffs at Westminster;  
May thy Wise Head keep its adjunctive Ears,  
Till Winter pour down Snow upon thy Hairs.   

Then stepped in cruel Death, and without stay,  
Though Weavers Priest stood by, steals Tom away. 
Dr Oats.    

And art thou gone, brave Tom? Thou Shorthand speaker,  
Of Treason and false News, thou Bawdy breaker;  
Of smutty Jests, thou Penny-Post o'th' Town,  
Thou nonsense Splutterer; man of more renown  
Than Old Tom Coriat; thy name in Story,  
Shall ever be Superior to John Dory.  
Cloth the Queen's Arms, Cloth Harry and his Bush,  
Cloth th' Three-legged Mare at Tyburn in Black Plush.  
Let Amsterdam and Dick profoundly howl,  
And mourn in Coffee, Black as was Tom's Soul.  
'Tis time indeed for them to sigh and moan,  
Since trusty Mercury is dead and gone.   

Let all the Weeping Sisters make a Cry,  
From Aldersgate, even unto 
* Half-Moon.  Bloomsbury.  
To rouse thee up, thou Prophet of the Pond,  
That thou, and thy Helpmeet may out of hand,  
With showers of Tears ' o'erflow your Watery Eyes,  
And in a deluge drown your Pudding-Pies.  
Then holy Canter, Sire of the great Seer,  
Of Salamanca, let thy Voice sound clear.  
From sacred Tub, let all thy Nymphs arise,  
From Duckingpond to Echo Tom's just praise.  
For Tom at Whoring, and at Plotting too,  
Was not inferior, sage Sir, to you.    

EPITAPH.  

For Carolina Tom embarked  
Goods worth One Thousand Pound;  
He died of FEAR; and since is Crept  
To Carolina under Ground.    
FINIS.