An ELEGY On the Right Honourable Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury, Who died on the 21st of January 1683▪  

THe Busy Statesmen who by Toils unblessed  
Torment themselves to give their Country Rest▪  
Those public Great First movers of the State,  
Who almost turn the Mighty Wheels of Fate,  
Roul the vast Stone like Sysyphus in vain;  
Whilst Deaths last Call ends a whole Ages Pain▪  
The Graves long Rubicon must all pass o'er,  
Whence launching Caesar's can return no more   

Farewell, Great Shaftsbury! Times Sith can stretch  
Where Malice, Sword, and Axes ne'er could reach.  
Thy Life, great Statesman, stood in Fate so high,  
That thou by nought but heavens own Hand couldst die.  
Yes, Heaven alone compiles thy Funeral-Urn:  
Less than the Sun the Phoenix shall not burn.   

What did wise Solon, or Lycurgus do?  
Lycurgus' died, like Thee, an Exile too.  
And whilst proud Belgia thy Bones Entombs,  
And triumphs at the Glory it assumes,  
Belgia, who in thy Fate has now done more  
Than all her Trumpets or Opdams could before.  
Belgia has vanquished more in thy one Grave,  
Than all the Wounds her Thunder ever gave.  

Sleep than thou Activ'st of Mankind. Oh make  
Thy last low Bed, and Death's long Requiem take;  
Thou who whilst living keptest the World awake.   
Oh may thy Funeral-Rites walk that large round,  
Till to thy Western-shore thy loss resound;  
Till Carolina shall in Mourning stand,  
With all the Cypress of a Vvidowed Land.  
Let Fools and Knaves through their false Optics find  
Thy Spots, and be to all thy Brightness blind.  
Let Envy all her monstrous Forms suggest,  
And lodge the Raven in the Eagles Nest.  
Let 'em rail on, and vent their hurtless Gall,  
Whilst Shaftsbury's Renown surmounts 'em all.  
From his clear Fame the dissolved Clouds shall throw,  
And leave the Earthly Vapours all below.  
Yes, Mighty Man, lay thy great Relics down,  
Thou Idol of the crowd, Dread of the Crown;  
Shaftsbury in popular Arts and Hearts so learned  
As with his Weight the Scale of Nations turned:  
To him the Kingdom's Genius bended low;  
The Thrones best Friend, or formidablest Foe.   

If the best Gifts which the kind Stars dispense,  
The highest Prodigies of Wit and Sense,  
For Immortality Foundations lay;  
No Greater Soul e'er lodged in Walls of Clay.  
Swiftly his restless Orb of Fire went round,  
And light and warmth we from his Influence found.  
His kindest Rays and temperater Heat  
The Protestants still-favoured Climates met:  
There his best Aspect smiled; whilst Rome alone  
Felt all the Fury of his Torrid Zone.   

This was the Cause did such great Foes engage  
With such keen Malice, and such Mortal Rage.  
For this so high the Roman Vengeance boils  
With Fires more hot that their old Smithfield-piles.  
But Heavens kind Call has all their Engines crossed,  
Heaven that has lodged thee on that safer Coast,  
Whence thou look'st down and seest thy Mighty Hunters lost.    

EPITAPH.  

UNder this Stone does Sleeping lie  
All that was Earth of Shaftsbury.  
But Funeral-Tears and Weeping Eyes  
Infallibillity denies.  
Whilst his wished Death's enough to be  
The Subject of a Jubilee.  
A more sworn Foe to Roman Pride  
Not Hannibal himself e'er died.  
For which his Deathless Fame below,  
His Soul above— His Soul— Ah, no!  
From heavens locked out too sure, if they  
Who succeed Peter keep the Key.  
Doomed to Hell's hottest burning Seas,  
If the Pope's Curse can do the Feat.  
If Papel Rage and Roman Spite  
For any but themselves Hell-fire can light.    

An ELEGY On the Death of (the much to be lamented) Anthony K▪ of Poland▪  

THe busy Toney who by Toil unblessed  
Torments himself, to break his Country's Rest;  
Who, ceasing to be Engineer of State,  
Turned Rogue, yet could not turn the Wheels of Fate:  
Like Sysyphus, he rowls his Stone in vain;  
Death plucks his Tap, and ends his PLOTS and Pain.  
The Graves long Pampus Rebels must pass o'er;  
Thence restless Rascals can return no more.   

Wretch of 3 Names farewell! Thy Death's kind stretch,  
Secures Thee from the Sword and Axes reach;  
Thy Life, Old Tricker, stood in Fate so high,  
That Hangman's hand was fit to make Thee die;  
Yes, Hangman only frames Thy Funeral Urn:  
Less man than Hangman Traitors shall not burn.   

What did Old Solon and Lycurgus do?  
They went to Amsterdam, and died too.  
Whilst Belgic Boor Thee and Thy Tap Entombs,  
And triumphs in the Brandy he assumes;  
Boor, who (in burying Thee) hath done much more,  
Than Trump or Opdam, who were dead before;  
Boor, with bright Spade, does more in Thy one Grave,  
Than in all Graves that his bright Spade e'er gave.  

Trick on, trick on, thou Will-with'-Wisp! now make  
New Broils in Hell, and never Requiem take,  
With Plots and Popery keep the Devil awake.   
May Thy tormented Ghost walk a large round,  
And its deserved Punishment resound,  
Till Carolina shall agasted stand,  
Mourning Kid-napper, who supplied her Land:  
Let partial Whigs, through their false Optics, find  
Thy Worth, and ever be, like Thee, half blind.  
Let Factious Varlets monstrous forms suggest;  
Such Ravens shall never croak i' th' Eagles Nest:  
Rail on, fanatics, vent your envious Gall,  
Your Toney's Tapping Arts have spoiled ye all;  
From Meetinghouse dissolved Tubs shall throw,  
And sneaking Tubster send to th' Room below:  
Yes, Mouse-trap-man, Thy rotten Loins lay down;  
Seducer of the Rabble, scorn o' th' Crown;  
In Treacherous Arts and Traitorous Hearts so learned,  
His weight all hands of Whimsey-boards still turned:  
To him Rebellion's Genius bended low;  
The Thrones Friend, when at th' Helm, when not, its Foe.   

If the worst gifts Malignant Stars dispense,  
If mis-applied strength of Wit and Sense,  
For lasting Infamy Foundations lay,  
No greater Kn●●● was ever clothed in Clay;  
His restless Orb of sham's went swiftly round,  
And none but Rascals his kind Influence found:  
His gentler Rays, and Life-creating heat,  
The Land of Whigs and Betty Morris met:  
Th' unthinking Crowd he courted, and alone  
He dreamt to domineer i' th' British Zone.   

But, lost in his own Maze, he doth engage,  
With eager Malice, and with lasting rage;  
His Brain more hot than Copper-kettle boils,  
In Shops of Cooks about Py-corner-Piles.  

But Hell's kind Call hath all his Consults crossed;  
Hell, that hath placed him on a fiery Coast;  
Through glass he peeps, and sees his Tricks and Trickers lost.     

EPITAPH.  

Under this Stone doth rotting lie  
All th' Devil has left of Shaftsbury:  
No Funeral Tears, nor weeping Eyes  
The melting Sisterhood denies;  
Whilst Mine-heer thinks his Death to be  
A joyful Brandy-Jubilee.  
A firmer Friend to PLOTS and Pride  
In Holland heretofore ne'er died;  
For which His Odious Name below,  
His Soul's above in Heaven. Oh no!  
It found no Lodging there, if He  
Speak Truth who always kept the Key:  
Adjudged to sit i' th' hottest Seat,  
The little Guest will do some Feat;  
And a fresh Fire in Hell will light,  
To entertain the wandering Salamanca-Wight.    

LONDON, Printed Anno Domini, MDCLXXXIII.