AN ELEGY Humbly offered to the Memory of that Matchless WIT, and Unparallelled Example of Sincere Penitency, THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN Earl of ROCHESTER, Who most Piously exchanged Earthly Honour for Never-fading Glory the 26th Day of July, 1680.  

NO more, wild Atheists! No more Deny  
That blessed Hope which makes us glad to Die;  
Dispute no more the Truth of that Great Day  
Shall free dead Mankind from their gloomy Clay.  

See here an Argument stops all your Lies  
The Mighty ROCHESTER a Convert Dies,  
He fell a Poet, but a Saint shall Rise.   
Then help us all ye Powers of Verse, and flow  
Into his Praise all that Himself could do:  
For who can write without him? or dares try  
To speak his Worth? Unless his Ghost were nigh;  
Where, when our Flames do languish we retire  
To his Great Genius, and thence take new Fire.  
Whose lofty Numbers gently slid away  
Like Crystal waters, smooth and deep as They;  
Though some low Men by others Verse are Raised  
(Fools living that would, dead, be Praised:)  
To Celebrate his Marble he needs none,  
His Name outlives both Epitaph and Stone.  
Excess of Wit alone his Fame did spoil,  
So Lamps extinguished are by too much Oil;  
And since he's gone, we groveling Trifles Crawl  
About the World, which but confirms his Fall;  
As when retiring Sol blinds us with Night,  
Each petty Star peeps forth to brag stolen Light.  
Yet not his Muse do we so much admire,  
As those rare sparks of true Celestial Fire  
That warmed his Breast when Nature's Heats decayed,  
And Death-cold Horrors did each Limb Invade:  
Then did a sudden Beam of Light Divine  
Inspire his Soul, his Faculties Refine,  
And from Parnassus drew his fixed Eye  
To Pigsah-Mount, and saving Calvary;   

The Bubbling Froth that wanton Fancy raised  
(Which for Extravagance was only Praised)  
Is soon beat down by this more Glorious Flame,  
Whence strait a Noble true Elixir came;  
This Solomon for Wit and Pleasures too  
Bids Vanity of Vanities adieu.  
And having tasted all the sweets are Hurled  
O'er Youthful minds by a deluding World;  
Gins to Descant on Eternal Themes,  
And then saw Visions, that before dreamed Dreams:  
He finds Religion is no forged Law  
For cunning Knaves to keep dull Fools in Awe;  
That Future State, and the Dread Judgement Day,  
And Heaven and Hell (what e'er our Drols may say)  
Are serious things. Nor did this Knowledge scare  
Or fright him to wild Deserts of Despair;  
But gently wrought, to show 'twas from above  
Th' instructive Breathe of the Holy Dove;  
Taught him with humble Faith and Hope to fly  
For Balm to Gilead, and on Christ rely.  
Now with redoubled Sighs and Floods of Tears,  
He chides the Follies of his misspent years:  
Himself his loser Lines to Flames bequeathes,  
And Hobs' Creed with Detestation leaves;  
Warns all our Touthful Nobles, let's them know  
True Honour can from Virtue only flow:  

That Piety will give a lasting Crown  
When their Gay Titles All must tumble down,  
And dark Oblivion worldly Grandeur Drown.   
To hear him thus on Solemn Deathbed Preach,  
Did more than Forty languid Sermons Teach.  

The Angels clapped their Wings on that blessed Day  
Envied unworthy Earth his longer stay.  
And so in Triumph bore his Soul away.     

The EPITAPH.  

UNder this Tomb we do Inter  
The Ashes of Great ROCHESTER;  
Whose pointed Wit (his worst of Crimes)  
So Justly lashed our Foppish Times;  
Let none too Rigorous Censures fix  
Great Errors with great Parts will mix;  
How broad soe'er his Fault be shown,  
His Penitence as large was known.   

Forbear then!— and let you and I  
By him, at least, learn how to Die.   
SAMUEL HOLLAND.   

LONDON, Printed for the Author, MDCLXXX.