The Glory of Dying in WAR: WITH A particular Application to the Death OF THE Late EARL of SANDWICH.  

Blessed Sandwich! Earth's envy! Heaven's delight!  
Whom the Gods honoured to die in Fight!  
A Glory far beyond the power of Verse;  
Only, for Mars, and Cannons, to rehearse.  
'Tis Nature's pride; Virtue's reward; a Bliss  
Would make the Angels slight their happiness,  
And Court this Death; Maugre the blind mistake  
Of vulgar spirits, and those lean Souls, who make  
It terrible; choosing rather to go  
Ten years tormented with a Gouty Toe,  
Or war against a Cough, their loathing tongues  
Spitting the filth, out of their conquered lungs:  
Or else their Corpse, with Salves and Cerecloths please;  
Live rotten Monuments of their disease;  
And carry pale-faced Death about to show,  
Making a Grave, and stink, where e'er they go.   

Whilst thou, Great Sandwich, mad'st a Nobler choice,  
Not to be praised enough by humane voice.   

Who in defence of King and Country died,  
Have ever hitherto been Deified.  
The sharpest Teeth of Time could never scar  
The Glory of a man was killed i'th' War.  
If Advocates gain honour by a Cause  
Concerning Trespass in the Common-Laws;  
What merits he, who pleads with dint of Sword?  
And may be killed, or kill at every word:  
Who speaks with Lightning and with dreadful Thunder,  
Making the Earth to shake, all Mortals wonder:  
By whose success, Kingdoms or fall, or stand,  
Has the fortune of Princes in his hand;  
Nay, the worship of the Gods! nay, the lives  
Of ourselves, our servants, children and wives.   

In this Concern stout Sandwich bravely stood,  
Until he floated in a Sea of Blood:  
Repelled the fury of the Hogen Might;  
Shivered their Valour, banished 'em the Fight:  
And then to make his Victory complete,  
The Heavens stooped, and took him from the Fleet,  
Leaving his Body on the gentle Bed  
Of Neptune, where the Sea-gods honoured  
His Hearse, and with the Glories of the Main  
Conducted it to shore; when with a Train  
Of Honours it was met, and in great State  
Placed amongst the Gods o'th' Second Rate.   

Thus whilst his Corpse insults with Royal love,  
His Soul is led in Triumph by Great Jove.  
Heaven and Earth do both conspire to build  
Trophies unto the man that dies i'th' Field.   

Now come, ye cursed Diseases, that have led  
Your Captive Coward to his dying Bed;  
Show me what ease, what comfort you afford  
The Proselyte you gained from the Sword.  
'Tis true, you give a little time; for what?  
To make him feel his grief, or lie and rot:  
A Cap, a Doctor, and a tender Nurse;  
And so you plague his Body with his Purse:  
Ye put him on a Rack; he ne'er confessed,  
Nor yet by flatteries, your Death was best.   

Tell me, sick Clay, what Honour, what Renown  
It is to die upon a Bed of Down?   

No, no; the way to Glory doth not lie  
Through the pangs of a sad Malady:  
Not he who is a Slave to Death, and stands  
Ready to serve her Messengers Commands;  
Submits to every disease, and falls,  
When e'er a petty Cold, or Fever calls:  
That man's a man of life, and valour, can  
Bid Death stand off; and when he please, come on;  
That, for his Country's sake, dares single meet  
All the Death-Heads o'th' Hogen Mogen Fleet!  
Make Death serve him, in killing others, then  
Commands it to return to him again;  
And lift him from this doleful Vale of Tears,  
(Without the help of Sickness, or of Years)  
Unto Eternal Joy, and Bliss, and Glory,  
Where Angels love to Chant, and tell his Story.  
Thus did, thus lived, thus died, admired by all;  
SANDWICH the Great, and Valiant Admiral.    

London: Printed by J. C. 1672.